Chapter 10 Vargath
VARGATH
The stone chamber feels like a cage tonight. My boots wear a path across the rough-hewn floor, back and forth between the narrow window and the iron-banded door. Each step echoes off walls that have witnessed too many sleepless nights, too many decisions that leave blood on my hands.
The fire in the hearth spits and crackles, each pop sharp as breaking bone.
The sound grates against my nerves until my fists clench without conscious thought, knuckles white beneath scarred skin.
The flames throw dancing shadows across the walls—shapes that shift and writhe like the whispers already spreading through Azhgar's halls.
A knock sounds once at the door. Brief, almost polite.
Then again, more insistent.
Then the door swings open without waiting for permission, because of course it does. Only one orc in this stronghold has the stones to ignore my privacy when my mood turns this dark.
Gargan fills the doorframe like he owns it, his thick shoulders blocking most of the corridor light.
The scar along his jaw catches the firelight as he grins, that familiar expression that says he knows exactly how much his presence irritates me right now.
His broken tusk gleams as he leans against the stone wall with studied casualness.
"You always pace when you're thinking of something stupid."
His voice carries that drawling tone he uses when he wants to needle me into talking.
I don't turn from the window, don't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging the accuracy of his observation.
The view beyond the glass shows nothing but snow-covered courtyards and the distant glow of forge fires.
"Not in the mood."
"Didn't ask."
The simple response sits between us like smoke.
Gargan shifts his weight against the wall, armor creaking softly with the movement.
He's still wearing his battle gear—leather and steel that's seen more fights than most orcs see in a lifetime.
The pragmatic choice, always ready for whatever violence the day might bring.
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the fire's restless crackling and the distant sound of wind howling through the stronghold's ancient bones.
I can feel his eyes on me, patient as a hunter waiting for prey to show itself.
He's good at this—at reading the tension in my shoulders, the way my jaw works when thoughts churn too fast to process.
"Everyone's whispering. About the human. About the child."
The words land like stones thrown into still water, ripples spreading outward until they touch every corner of my awareness. Of course they're whispering. Word spreads through Azhgar faster than plague, and this particular revelation carries enough scandal to feed the gossip mills for months.
"Let them."
My voice comes out low and cold, each word precise as a blade thrust. But Gargan doesn't flinch, doesn't retreat. He's heard me use that tone on enemies who ended up decorating the walls with their blood, yet he remains unmoved.
One scarred eyebrow lifts in that expression I've learned to hate over the years we've fought together. It's the look he gets when he thinks I'm being particularly dense about something obvious.
"Clever move, putting her in the temple. But you know they won't leave it alone. You need to end this before it burns bigger."
My head snaps up, the words hitting like a physical blow. End this. As if Seris and the child she carries are problems to be solved, threats to be eliminated. The suggestion sends heat racing through my veins, my hands curling into fists that could crush stone.
"You think I don't know that? You think the council feels the blood on their hands the way I do? I've buried warriors while they sat in warm chambers deciding which border to ignore next."
The words tear out of me with more force than I intended, carrying years of frustration and bitter experience. How many good orcs have died because the council preferred politics to action? How many battles have I fought while they debated the proper protocols for engaging the enemy?
Gargan's expression shifts, the mocking edge falling away to reveal something more serious beneath. He pushes off from the wall, his movements careful and deliberate.
"I'm not your enemy. I've stood beside you in worse. But this? You're risking everything."
The quiet honesty in his voice cuts deeper than any accusation could. Because he's right, and we both know it. Everything I've built, every alliance I've forged, every drop of respect I've earned through blood and steel—all of it hangs in the balance now.
I rake a hand down my face, feeling the rough texture of ritual scars beneath my palm. The marks remind me of oaths sworn and prices paid, of the discipline that's kept me alive through campaigns that claimed lesser orcs.
"It was one night."
The admission tastes like ash on my tongue. One night of weakness, of allowing instinct to override judgment. One night when I forgot that desire leads to destruction, that attachment breeds vulnerability.
Gargan's damaged tusk gleams as he considers this. "One night doesn't change the world… unless it does."
The tension between us feels like a blade balanced on its edge. Because sometimes that's exactly how the world shifts—not through grand gestures or epic battles, but through single moments when everything pivots on a choice made in darkness.
"I didn't plan this."
"Exactly. And if you don't start planning something now, they will. And she won't survive it."
I exhale harshly, the sound torn from my chest like a blade dragged across stone. The weight of Gargan's words presses down on me, heavier than armor, more suffocating than smoke from a burning village.
Without another word, I storm past him toward the door. My shoulder clips his as I pass, but he doesn't move to stop me. Smart. The mood I'm in, I might put him through the wall just for the satisfaction of hearing something break.
"Where are you going?"
His voice follows me into the corridor, but I don't answer.
Can't answer, because I don't know myself.
My feet carry me down the stone steps, past the guard posts where warriors nod respectfully and step aside.
Their eyes track my movement with the wariness of soldiers who recognize when their commander's control hangs by threads.
The cold hits like a physical blow when I step outside. Wind tears through the gaps in my armor, bites at exposed skin with teeth sharp as winter steel. Snow swirls around the courtyard in patterns that shift and dance like ghosts of the dead, and I pull my cloak tighter against the assault.
My boots crunch through packed snow as I move without conscious direction, following instincts I don't want to examine. The stronghold's ancient bones creak and groan around me—human foundations repurposed for orc needs, steel and stone married in ways the original builders never intended.
I find myself heading down toward the cracked foundation temple, that half-swallowed relic that burrows deep into Azhgar's oldest roots.
The structure predates everything else here, its stones worn smooth by centuries of weather and worship.
Smoke rises from its chimneys like prayers seeking gods who may have stopped listening long ago.
The entrance yawns before me, dark and welcoming as a tomb. I tell myself I'm just checking in. Just making sure she's still breathing. Just ensuring the council hasn't decided to solve their problem while I've been pacing circles in my chamber like a caged beast.
Just anything that doesn't involve admitting the truth.
Inside, braziers flicker along the walls, their flames casting dancing shadows that writhe across ancient murals.
The air tastes of old incense and older secrets, thick enough to coat my tongue with the weight of forgotten rituals.
My footsteps echo off stone worn smooth by generations of worshippers who believed the gods still cared about mortal struggles.
I reach her room and push open the door.
Empty.
The furs lie rumpled but cold, the brazier burned down to glowing embers. No sign of struggle, no blood on the stones—just absence where warmth should be. My chest tightens with something I refuse to name as panic.
"Where is she?"
The demand is a growl directed at Maedra's hunched figure near the far wall.
The old shaman doesn't look up from the blankets she folds with methodical precision, her gnarled fingers working the fabric into neat squares.
Steam rises from her skin like she's been standing too close to the fires, and the scent of herbs clings to her like a second skin.
"Where she needs to be."
Her voice carries that maddening quality all shamans seem to cultivate—cryptic as oracle bones, frustrating as riddles posed by dying enemies. She continues folding, each movement deliberate and unhurried.
"That's not an answer."
My hands curl into fists at my sides. The urge to grab her shoulders and shake sense from her ancient bones wars with the knowledge that Maedra commands more respect than half the council combined. She's forgotten more about the old ways than most orcs ever learn.
Finally, she meets my eyes. Hers hold depths I can't fathom, secrets layered like sediment in a riverbed. Her chin jerks toward the far hallway, the gesture economical as a blade thrust.
"Follow the warmth."
I move through the twisting corridors without another word, past faded murals that tell stories of gods and heroes, past silent firebowls that once blazed with sacred flames. The temple's bones whisper around me, ancient stones settling with sounds like distant thunder.
The air grows thicker as I walk, humid with steam and scented with something soft I can't identify. Herbs, maybe. Or soap made from oils that smell of distant summers. The temperature rises with each step until my armor feels like a furnace against my skin.
I round a corner and stop.
The door stands open. Steam pours gently from the room beyond, carrying warmth that wraps around me like an embrace I don't deserve. And there, framed in the doorway like a vision from dreams I've tried to forget, is Seris.
Her back faces me, skin gleaming in the firelight like polished amber. She stands waist-deep in the bathing basin, water lapping gently at the curve of her pregnant belly. Her dark hair falls in damp tendrils down her spine, catching the light from braziers that flicker around the chamber's edges.
She hums quietly, a melody I don't recognize but that seems to resonate in my bones. The sound wraps around me, peaceful and vulnerable and entirely unaware that death watches from the shadows of Azhgar's halls.
My heart pounds like war drums before battle, each beat echoing in my ears until it drowns out everything else. In this moment, with steam rising around her like incense and firelight painting her skin gold, I understand exactly what Gargan meant.
I'm going to make a stupid decision.