Chapter 7
KROG
I wake before dawn, suddenly alert.
The chamber is dark. The ward-light has dimmed to its lowest pulse, a slow blue throb that traces the veins in the stone.
I estimate that, in less than an hour, enforcers will pass through the iron gates that lead to my quarters.
They will pound on the front door, demanding entry so they can drag me and my mate to Recycling.
Layla is curled against my chest. Small and warm. Her breathing is slow and even, each exhale a soft tide against my collarbone. The bond hums between us, a golden tether I feel in my chest, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
Her scent is everywhere. On the furs, on my skin, in the air itself. Musk and salt and the lingering sweetness of our mating, layered thick as incense. But underneath it all—beneath the sex and the sweat and the familiar warmth of her—there is a new smell.
I inhale deeper, and my nostrils flare. The scent is faint. So faint that a lesser nose would miss it entirely. It is coming from her womb.
Going perfectly still, I extend all of my senses to this area, through skin and muscle and into the place where the scent originates.
There. A presence so slight it is barely a flutter.
The realization of what this is washes over me. Layla has conceived via the mate bond.
In a single night, my seed has been planted inside of her. Smaller than a grain of sand, no more than a cluster of cells dividing in the warmth and darkness of her womb. But alive and growing.
The Lottery exists for this very purpose: to create hybrid offspring that rebuilds our population. The rut did not exist in the old world, where we lived before the Veil tore and thrust some of us—all males—into the human world.
Since we did not know mate bonds were even possible with human females, the Bastion’s scholars and scientists had concluded that the rut was a biological process triggered by the genetic drive to avoid extinction.
The weekly drawings that bring dread to the human females was thought to be the only way to procreate in this dying world. But Layla’s condition proves there is another way to rebuild. Conception via a mate bond.
The beast is pleased by this conclusion, though it does not roar or snarl or claw at its restraints.
It kneels.
Bowing in reverence to the seed planted in Layla’s womb, to the spark of life forged in the last hours before Recycling.
This changes things. I can no longer allow the Council to send her into the Gray.
Extricating myself from my mate isn’t easy. Each shift of my weight is calculated to avoid disturbing the small body curled against me. Layla murmurs, a soft, wordless sound, and her hand reaches for me. Her fingers close on fur instead of skin. She frowns in her sleep but does not wake.
When I am free, I cross the chamber to dress.
The chest plate goes on first, heavy and familiar and still covered in blood, the weight of it settling across my shoulders.
Then my leather pants and the belt with the short blade that hangs from it.
Finally, my sword in its cross-body sheath and my boots.
The armor feels different today. Its usual purpose is protection during combat or patrol. Violence is the grim reality of keeping peace in the Bastion. This morning, however, I am not preparing for a physical fight, but armoring up for a political battle.
Looking back at Layla one final time, I see she is buried in the furs, barely visible. A curve of pale shoulder, a tangle of unruly hair, the slow rise and fall of breath. So small. So impossibly fragile. And carrying a new life.
Reluctantly, I leave her, adding a second lock to the iron gates, one coded directly to my biochemistry that is nearly impenetrable. The mechanism engages with a deep metallic thud. She is safe here, at least for now.
The corridors of the Bastion are empty at this hour. The ward-light pulses its slow blue rhythm through the stone, casting my shadow in long, distorted shapes against the walls. My boots strike the floor with a cadence that echoes ahead of me.
There are a few guards stationed here and there, and they flatten themselves against the stone without being told. Even stripped of rank, I am respected.
The Council’s living and meeting chambers are located at the heart of the Bastion in a soaring cathedral of polished stone, cold and sterile and designed to make everything that enters it feel insignificant.
To request an audience with the Council or one of its members, one must ring the bell outside the structure and wait to be recognized.
I have no intention of making a request.
My boot connects with the locked doors and the impact radiates through the entryway like thunder. The doors fly inward, slamming against the stone walls with a crack.
The four horned guards stationed inside draw their weapons, enchanted silver blades humming with deadly magic. They form a line between me and the formal meeting chamber, their faces blank, their stances defensive.
Stopping, I do not draw my blade. There is no need.
I stare at them. Not with the snarling fury they expect from an orc but with the calm, absolute stillness of a predator that has already decided the outcome of a confrontation. The beast within me rises, and though my body does not move, they sense the danger I present.
One guard’s blade wavers. A tremor runs through the enchanted silver.
Not from failing magic, but from the unsteady hand holding it.
He lowers his weapon, and one by one, the rest of the line backs down.
Not in retreat, but in surrender. They step aside, their enchanted blades dimming as if the magic itself recognizes that this is not a fight worth having.
“Summon Vareth,” I demand.
One of the guards bows his head. “Yes, Commander,” he says, then rushes off to do my bidding.
I walk past the others, entering the formal meeting chamber. Sensing movement, the dim lights brighten automatically.
During the day, there is an attendant stationed inside to greet visitors. At this hour, however, the chamber is empty.
Vareth quietly emerges from a side entrance. Even roused from sleep, there is not a thread out of place. He is wearing a robe of midnight blue. His silver hair is pulled neatly back while his Fae skin glows with a luminous pallor that is flawless, ageless, and utterly inhuman.
There are signs that his composure is superficial.
His eyes are narrowed to mere slits. His jaw is set so tight the tendons of his neck stand out like cords. And the delicate points of his ears are flushed at the tips, a tell I have learned to read as anger during political maneuvering.
He stops close enough to speak without raising his voice. "You dare force entry into Council chambers before dawn, summoning me like a common servant?" His fingers twitch at his sides. Barely perceptible. But I see it.
I do not bow or kneel. Instead, I plant my feet on the stone floor, hands on my hips. "Gather the others. I bring important information to share with the Council."
"Request denied." Vareth’s lip curls. “Your authority has been stripped, Krog. And your time in the Bastion draws to an end."
“That is why I am here. My information pertains to all who live here." My voice does not rise. “Gather the others, Vareth. Now.”
For a long moment, the only sound is the hum of the wards. Then Vareth snaps his fingers and one of the guards enters the chamber.
“Wake the rest of the Council.” His voice is acid. “Tell them the condemned orc has something to say before being cast into the Wastes."
The guard leaves to do Vareth's bidding, and we wait, neither of us speaking or looking away.
The others arrive in stages through private entries, none of them looking pleased about being summoned at such an early hour.
The first to enter is Gryndor, who represents the Bastion's mythical beasts. He has a rumpled appearance bearing the dull sheen of deep rest.
Next is Wendel. Representing the cryptids and humanoids, he looks less rumpled yet more irritated.
The third to emerge is Mortis. His ancient, undead eyes—typical among vampires and ghouls—meet mine with a look that would make a lesser male cower.
On behalf of the demons and devils, Infernus arrives fourth, wrapped in shadows that swirl around him, partially concealing his physical form.
And the last Council member to arrive is Bruthar, a massive and horned creature that infuses the chamber with the angry energy typical among the animalistic beasts.
When they are all seated on the dais, Vareth joins them, taking his place as the Council's leader and representative of the Fae, mages, and other magic wielders.
"State your business, Krog," Wendel grumbles. The few orcs in the Bastion fall within his representation.
"He has no business here," Vareth practically shouts. "His claim on the human female was denied, and he refused to surrender her to us as ordered. This is nothing more than a tactic to delay his punishment."
"Yet you, Vareth, requested our council," Bruthar growls. "Let the orc speak."
I nod in acknowledgement and get to the point. "A mate bond has formed between myself and the human female. The gods have blessed our union by gifting us with conception. Layla carries my child."
My words are met with silence as the High Council grapples with my declaration. Gryndor's massive form goes rigid. Mortis leans forward, nostrils flaring. Even Infernus' shadows still, as if the darkness itself is listening.
"A mate bond?" Wendel's voice is sharp with disbelief. "With a human?"
"It cannot be done." Bruthar's horns catch the ward-light as he shakes his massive head. "The Lottery exists because bonding with humans is impossible."
Vareth's dark eyes bore into mine. "You lie to save your pet."
"I speak the truth," I say. "The Lottery exists because we believed it was the only way to ensure procreation. We were wrong."
Gryndor says, "If what you claim is true—"
"Then everything changes," Mortis finishes. "We still need the Lottery, of course, and our existing breeding protocols. But the possibility of mate bonds could change how we approach the Bastion's structure."
"Change it how?" Vareth asks.
"Adding family units where offspring are raised by a mother and father instead of in nurseries," I say.
"I do not believe it. Humans are too biologically different to create mate bonds with us," Infernus argues, the shadows around him swirling with increased speed.
"Yet the bond formed during my first mating with Layla. A golden tether between our hearts. Within hours, her body quickened from my seed." My words are confident, sure. "Even now, I feel her heartbeat as if it were my own. Feel the new life growing in her womb."
Wendel states the obvious. "The females chosen via the Lottery often take months to conceive."
I nod. "Because there is no bond."
Bruthar's hooves strike the stone as he stands and paces on the dais. "Instead of males and females living separate lives, we can build communities that resemble those in our old world."
"Krog and the female are scheduled for Recycling, which makes all of this moot," Vareth states, waving his hands. "Besides, this bond, if it exists, may be an anomaly."
"It does exist," I say. "The Bastion is designed to protect us from the Blight while building a hybrid race. To recycle a pregnant female carrying a viable hybrid offspring is to betray that very purpose."
Mortis speaks, his voice dry as old parchment. "He is not wrong."
"If the bond is real," Infernus adds, his doubt causing the shadows to coil tighter. "We need to be certain."
"I agree," Mortis says. "We should postpone Recycling for now, and keep this news quiet while our scholars and scientists investigate."
Vareth's composure cracks. Not much. A hairline fracture in the mask of Fae indifference. His eyes dart to the other Council members, and I watch him realize he is losing the vote before it is even called.
"This changes nothing," Vareth says, his voice tight. Controlled. "The orc makes claims without proof."
"Then bring a healer to examine my mate. Test her blood, scan her womb. Measure the spark of life that grows even as we speak. If I lie, then send us both to the Gray. We will not resist."
"But if he speaks truth," Mortis says, his ancient gaze fixed on Vareth, "the female is untouchable. She is no longer just a refugee accused of disrupting the Lottery. She carries the first hybrid offspring conceived in the Bastion from a mate bond."
"A vote," Wendel says. "All in favor of summoning the High Healer to verify Krog's claims?"
Five hands rise. Only Vareth's remain clenched, the knuckles white.
"It is decided." Gryndor's voice carries the weight of finality. "We will send for a Healer. "
Vareth stands, stepping down from the dais and approaching me.
"Hear me, Krog. If you are lying to save your pet, I will not recycle you.
" He leans forward, and the ward-light casts his face in sharp, blue-edged shadow.
"Instead, I will end your life with my own hands and send the female into the Wastes alone.
Without weapons, water, or the mercy of a quick death. "
I hold his gaze. And through the bond, I feel Layla stir in her sleep, safe in our quarters, unaware of the knife Vareth has just placed at both our throats.
"I have been called many things," I say, my voice quiet, "but a liar is not one of them."
Vareth's eyes narrow, but he says nothing more. He turns and sweeps from the chamber, his robes trailing behind him.
The other Council members file out in silence. Only Wendel pauses at the doorway. "For your sake, Krog, I hope the healer confirms your claims."
Then he is gone, and I am alone in the chamber with the weight of what I have set in motion.