Chapter 24 Seris
SERIS
The darkness has weight here. It presses against my chest with each shallow breath, thick and damp like the inside of a grave. I've lost count of how many times I've traced the rough stone walls with trembling fingers, searching for weaknesses that don't exist.
My ankles burn where the iron shackles bite into skin. The chains allow me just enough movement to pace three steps in any direction—a cruel mockery of freedom. Every shift sends metal scraping against stone, a sound that's become the rhythm of my captivity.
The torch in the corridor beyond my cell gutters and spits, casting shadows that dance like demons across the walls. Sometimes I think I hear voices echoing from somewhere deeper in this maze of tunnels, but they fade before I can make out words.
Footsteps approach—heavy, deliberate. I press myself against the far wall, hands instinctively covering my belly as a figure appears in the doorway.
The orc wears a crude leather mask that covers everything but dark eyes that glitter with something unreadable. No words. Never any words. Just that awful, patient stare as he sets down a wooden bowl and a cup of what might charitably be called water.
I don't move toward the food. The bread is green with mold, the meat rancid enough to turn my stomach even from across the cell. But he watches me anyway, head tilted like he's studying some fascinating specimen.
"What do you want from me?"
Silence. Always silence.
"I'm nobody. Just a translator. I can't give you information about defenses or—"
He takes a step closer, and I see his hands. Thick fingers, scarred knuckles. Hands that could snap my neck without effort.
"Please." The word tastes like ash. "Whatever you're waiting for, I don't have it."
Those dark eyes shift to my belly, lingering there for long moments before returning to my face. Then he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with the smell of rotting food and my own fear.
I sink to the stone floor, pulling my knees up as much as my swollen stomach allows. The baby kicks weakly, as if protesting this place, this situation, this life I've dragged them into.
"I know," I whisper, stroking my belly. "I know you're hungry too."
Sleep comes fitfully, broken by the drip of water somewhere in the darkness and the constant ache in my back. But when it finally takes me, I dream.
I'm back in the temple, warm firelight dancing across familiar stone walls. Maedra sits across from me, her weathered hands wrapped around a cup of steaming tea. She looks exactly as she did in life—gray-green skin marked with ritual scars, eyes sharp with ancient wisdom.
"You're dead," I tell her, because dreams have their own logic.
"Death is just another room, child." She sips her tea, steam curling around her face like incense smoke. "The question is whether you have the key to leave this one."
"I don't understand."
She sets down her cup and leans forward, those knowing eyes fixed on mine. "Even stone breaks, child. But roots grow deeper."
"What does that mean?"
"You carry more than a baby. You carry possibility. Change. The old ways crumbling to make room for something new. They chain your body, but they cannot chain what grows within you."
I reach for her, desperate for comfort, for answers, but my fingers pass through smoke and shadow.
"Maedra, please—"
"Survive, Seris. For all of us."
I wake with tears streaming down my cheeks, her voice still echoing in the darkness. My hands find my belly, feeling the steady flutter of life beneath my ribs.
"We're going to survive," I whisper to the child nestled inside me, my voice hoarse but steady. "Somehow, little one. We're going to survive this."
The baby kicks once, as if in agreement, and I almost believe it might be true.
I drag my fingernail across the gritty stone floor, carving another shallow line next to the growing collection.
Seven marks now. Or is it eight? The days blur together in this tomb of dampness and shadow, but the ritual keeps me anchored.
Each scratch in the dust becomes proof that time still moves forward, that I still exist.
The baby shifts restlessly inside me, pressing against my ribs as if sharing my restlessness.
"I know, little one." My voice echoes back to me, hoarse from disuse. "You're getting impatient too, aren't you? Wondering when we'll see sunlight again."
Speaking aloud feels strange at first, but the sound of my own voice becomes a lifeline. Better than the alternative—the creeping silence that threatens to swallow my sanity whole.
From somewhere deeper in these tunnels comes the sound I've grown to dread: chains dragging across stone, followed by a low orcish mutter.
Other prisoners exist down here, shadows I never see but always hear.
Last night, someone screamed—a raw, desperate sound that cut through the darkness before being abruptly silenced.
"Don't listen to that," I whisper, hand smoothing over my belly. "We're going to be fine. Your father will come for us. He has to."
The baby kicks, a flutter of movement that makes me smile despite everything.
"Oh, you don't believe me? Well, you don't know him like I do. He's stubborn. Impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. Once he decides something matters..." I pause, remembering the weight of his hands on my skin, the reverence in his touch. "He doesn't let go."
Footsteps approach, but these aren't the heavy boots of my masked guard. These are lighter, more purposeful. The torch flames flicker as a familiar silhouette appears in the doorway.
Zharra.
She's traded her ceremonial armor for simple leathers, but her bearing remains regal, predatory. Those sharp features twist with barely contained fury as she studies me through the iron bars.
"Still breathing, I see."
"Disappointed?"
Her lips curl into something that might charitably be called a smile. "I told them to let you starve. Let nature take its course. But no—apparently even my word carries less weight than it should."
"Poor Zharra. Must be exhausting, being so thoroughly ignored."
She steps closer to the bars, fingers wrapping around the iron with white-knuckled intensity. "You think this is amusing? You think your little jokes will save you?"
"I think you're down here talking to a chained pregnant woman instead of planning your grand political marriage. That tells me everything I need to know about how well your schemes are working."
"You don't matter." The words come out like a hiss, venom dripping from each syllable. "You never did. You're nothing but a distraction, a moment of weakness he'll forget once you're gone."
The laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest—wild, defiant, completely inappropriate for my circumstances. But I can't stop it. The sound echoes, bouncing back at us like a challenge.
Zharra recoils as if I've struck her.
"Then why are you down here?" I manage between gasps of laughter. "If I'm so insignificant, so forgettable, why aren't you upstairs planning your wedding feast? Why are you wasting time on nothing?"
Her face goes ashen, then flushes dark with rage.
Without another word, she turns and leaves. And I'm left alive… but just as alone as before.