Chapter 26 Seris
SERIS
Time moves like honey through cracked stone down here.
Minutes stretch into hours, hours collapse into moments.
My body has become a catalog of aches—the constant throb in my lower back, the sharp cramps that seize my belly without warning, the raw burn where the shackles have rubbed my ankles bloody.
I think of Mother often in the darkness.
How she used to tell me stories of women who escaped impossible situations through cleverness rather than strength.
"A sharp mind cuts deeper than any blade," she'd whisper when Father wasn't listening.
I wonder what story she'd tell about a pregnant translator chained in forgotten tunnels, whether the heroine would find her way out or simply fade into the stone like so many others.
Death feels closer some days. Not as a terror, but as a familiar visitor settling into the corner of my cell.
I've stopped fighting the thought entirely.
Sometimes I imagine what it would feel like to simply.
.. stop. To let the baby and I slip away together, peaceful, beyond the reach of politics and hatred.
But then the little one kicks, fierce and insistent against my ribs, and I remember we're both still here. Still fighting.
The sound of approaching footsteps jolts me from my half-doze. Heavy boots on stone, purposeful and unhurried. The door groans open, torch flame dancing wild shadows across damp walls.
Zharra steps inside. She moves with predatory grace, torch held high like a weapon.
She kneels beside me, close enough that I can see the cruel satisfaction glittering in her eyes. "He chose wrong. He will see that when you're gone."
I try to pull away, but my body betrays me—too weak, too tired, muscles cramped from days of confinement. The chains clink uselessly as I struggle.
"Why don't you just kill me if you're so sure?" The words rasp from my throat like broken glass. "Why keep me here?"
Her laugh bubbles up from somewhere dark and twisted. She leans closer, torch flame casting her face in hellish relief. "I wanted to watch you suffer—to watch him suffer for daring to look your way."
The torch wavers as she gestures, sending shadows careening across the stone walls. "And now, the council has convinced him that you were never even here for him. That damned parasite was never his." Her voice is filled with hatred. "You came, lied, and left."
"You're the liar." But my voice lacks conviction. Days of isolation have worn away my certainty like water against stone.
"Am I?" Zharra's smile sharpens to a blade's edge. "He's stopped searching, little translator. Stopped asking questions. The great warleader has finally accepted what everyone else already knew—that you were nothing but a fever dream brought on by guilt and loneliness."
The doubt creeps in like poison through cracked stone. If Vargath truly cared, wouldn't he have torn Azhgar apart by now? Wouldn't the very walls be bleeding from his rage?
My hands clutch my swollen belly, fingers splayed protectively over the curve where our child grows. The baby shifts. I try to shield them from the terrible thoughts spiraling through my mind—that we're truly alone, that no one is coming, that this damp tomb will be our final resting place.
"There it is." Zharra's voice drips with satisfaction. "That pathetic expression I've waited so long to see finally cross your hideous human features."
The torch flame wavers as she shifts closer, shadows dancing across her tattooed face like living things. Her eyes gleam with the fervor of someone who's finally cornering their prey after a long hunt.
"You actually believed he'd come for you, didn't you? That some grand romance would save you from the reality of what you are—nothing but a warm body he used once and discarded."
My throat feels raw, but the words scrape out anyway. "Then why haven't you just killed me already?"
The question hangs in the stale air between us. Zharra tilts her head, considering, as if my death is a puzzle she's been solving piece by piece.
"Because I wanted you to understand first. To feel the weight of abandonment settle into your bones. To know that when you die down here, alone and forgotten, it won't even register as a loss to him."
She rises to her feet, torch held high, casting her shadow enormous against the stone walls. "But you're right—I have waited too long. Time to put a pathetic animal out of its misery."
Her free hand moves to her belt, fingers closing around the ornate handle of a ceremonial dagger. The blade catches the torchlight as she draws it, etched runes glowing like molten gold along its edge.
"Accept it," she whispers, voice soft as silk and twice as deadly. "Accept that these thoughts are your last."