Chapter 14 Vargath
VARGATH
Itell myself it's tactical. Security measures. The human carries valuable intelligence about orc bloodlines—my bloodline—and leaving her unguarded would be strategically unsound.
The lie tastes bitter as week-old ale, but it gets me past Gargan's knowing smirks and through the temple corridors without admitting what actually drives my feet here each evening.
"More security rounds?" Maedra asks when I arrive with a bowl of thick stew and fresh bread wrapped in cloth. Her ancient eyes hold enough amusement to fill a war chest.
"The temple's isolation makes it vulnerable." I set the food on the small table, avoiding her gaze. "Regular patrols ensure no threats breach the perimeter."
"Ah yes. Very thorough patrols. Especially the ones that bring dinner."
Heat crawls up my neck. "She needs proper nutrition."
Seris emerges from the bathing chamber, hair damp and skin flushed from the warm water. Her belly has grown noticeably rounder since her arrival, straining against the loose temple robes Maedra found for her. The sight hits me like a mace to the chest.
"Security patrol?" Her eyebrow arches with skeptical humor. "How many armed threats typically require fresh bread as a countermeasure?"
"Hunger weakens defenses." The words sound ridiculous even to my own ears. "Malnourished targets invite predators."
"Predators." She settles into the rickety chair by the brazier with careful movements, one hand supporting her lower back. "Like council members who think pregnant humans should be 'quietly removed'?"
My jaw tightens. Word travels fast in Azhgar, apparently. "Those threats are being managed."
"By bringing me soup?"
"By ensuring you remain strong enough to survive whatever comes next."
She studies my face with those sharp green eyes that see too much. "And what comes next, exactly?"
I don't answer because I don't know. Instead, I unwrap the bread and tear off a piece, testing it for staleness. The crust crackles between my fingers—fresh from the kitchens, still warm.
"Eat," I command, setting the portion beside her bowl.
"Such charming dinner conversation." But she takes the bread anyway, tearing small pieces and eating them slowly. Her movements carry the careful deliberation of someone whose body no longer bends to her will.
Three days later, I arrive with an armload of thick furs and winter blankets. The excuse forms easily on my tongue—temperature regulation prevents illness, illness compromises security, compromised security endangers the stronghold.
Seris watches me spread the additional bedding with obvious amusement. "Expecting a blizzard indoors?"
"Stone walls conduct cold. Prolonged exposure causes fever, delirium." I smooth a particularly soft bearskin across her sleeping furs, remembering how she shivered that first night. "Medical complications create unnecessary risks."
"Unnecessary risks," she repeats thoughtfully. "Like the risk of actually caring about someone?"
My hands still on the fur. "This is practical."
"Of course it is."
The following week brings rain that turns the temple corridors damp and echoing. I find Seris struggling to prop her swollen feet on the chair's edge, her face tight with discomfort.
"Your circulation is compromised," I observe, noting how her ankles have thickened.
"Thank you for that medical assessment." She shifts restlessly, trying to find a way to ease the pressure. "Very reassuring."
I leave without explanation and return an hour later carrying something wrapped in oiled leather. Inside rests a small wooden stool, carved from solid oak and sanded smooth. Simple construction, but the proportions are perfect for elevating her feet to heart level.
Seris stares at the stool like it might bite her. "Did you make this?"
"Wood carving maintains hand dexterity. Essential for weapon maintenance." I position the stool at the optimal angle and distance. "Elevated limbs reduce swelling, prevent blood pooling."
She tests the height cautiously, then sighs as the pressure in her legs eases. "More security measures?"
"Preventative medicine. Healthy prisoners require fewer guards."
"Prisoner?" Her voice sharpens dangerously.
"Protected asset," I correct quickly. "Strategic resource under defensive custody."
The smile that curves her lips holds entirely too much satisfaction. "Keep telling yourself that, warleader."
Gargan lounges against my doorframe like he owns the place, that infuriating smirk spreading across his scarred features when I return from the temple.
"You're building a nursery, not a defense."
"Get out." I shoulder past him, but he doesn't budge.
"Footstools? Extra furs? What's next—a rocking chair carved from sacred heartwood?"
My fist connects with his jaw before conscious thought intervenes. He staggers back, spitting blood, but the bastard keeps grinning.
"There's the warleader I know. Thought you'd gone soft."
"I said get out!"
He raises both hands in mock surrender. "Easy, brother. Just making an observation."
"Observe somewhere else."
Gargan wipes his split lip with the back of his hand. "You know what this looks like, right? What everyone's saying?"
"I don't care what—"
"That Vargath the Bloodthirsty has been domesticated by a pregnant human. That our warleader spends more time playing nursemaid than planning defenses."
Heat floods my vision. "One more word—"
"What? You'll hit me again?" His voice drops, serious now. "I've stood beside you through seven campaigns. Watched you gut dark elves without blinking. But this? This is different. This is dangerous."
I storm past him out into the corridor, his words chasing me like arrows. But instead of heading to the armory or the war room, my feet carry me to my private workshop—a cramped chamber behind the forge where I maintain my weapons.
The half-finished piece sits where I left it on the workbench. Soft pine, carved into the rough shape of a child's toy. A horse, maybe. Or a wolf. My hands move without permission, selecting a fine-grain file to smooth the edges.
The rhythm soothes something jagged in my chest. Each careful stroke reveals more of the creature's form—definitely a horse, with a flowing mane and delicate legs. Something gentle. Something innocent.
Something she might hold against her belly and smile about.
My hands still. The file trembles in my grip.
What am I doing? Warriors don't carve toys. Leaders don't waste hours perfecting the curve of a wooden mane for a child that might not even survive birth. Men like me don't—
The toy horse flies across the room, striking the stone wall with a sharp crack. One leg snaps off, clattering to the floor.
I follow it with my fists. Stone doesn't yield like flesh, but the impact sends lightning through my knuckles, up my arms. I hit it again. Again. Until my skin splits and blood spatters the gray blocks.
"Vargath?"
Zharra's voice cuts through the red haze. I turn, chest heaving, knuckles dripping.
She stands in the doorway wearing ceremonial robes instead of armor—deep green silk that emphasizes her height, her sharp features. The kind of woman who looks like she belongs beside a warleader. The kind the council expects to bear the next generation of Azhgar's elite.
"I heard shouting." Her gaze moves from my bloodied hands to the broken toy in the corner. Understanding flickers across her features, followed by something that might be pity. "Oh, Vargath."
"Don't."
She steps closer, voice gentle as poisoned honey. "This isn't you. This obsession with that human—it's beneath you. Beneath us."
"I said don't."
"Look at yourself. You're bleeding over a piece of wood. When did you become so..." She gestures vaguely. "Soft?"
I turn away, cradling my damaged hand. "Leave me alone."
"I can help you remember who you are. What you're meant for." Her fingers brush my shoulder, light as spider silk. "We have duties, Vargath. To the clan. To tradition. To each other."
The touch burns like acid. I shrug away from her, moving toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
I don't answer. Can't trust my voice not to crack.