Chapter 29 Vargath
VARGATH
Iwatch Seris's breathing even out as exhaustion finally claims her.
The healers assured me she needs rest more than anything now—that and time for her body to recover from what Zharra put her through.
My hands clench into fists at the memory of finding them in that burial chamber, of how close I came to losing everything that matters.
The healer's wing feels too quiet, too exposed. Every footstep in the corridor makes my hand drift toward my axe. Every shadow could hide another threat. The council may have accepted Zharra's exile, but that doesn't mean they've accepted Seris. Or me, for choosing her over tradition.
I need to think. To plan. And I can't do that while watching every breath she takes, terrified it might be her last.
I brush my thumb across her knuckles one final time before releasing her hand. She doesn't stir, lost in the deep sleep of healing. Good. She needs that peace, however brief it might be.
The corridors of Azhgar feel different now—less like home, more like a trap closing around us. Guards nod respectfully as I pass, but I catch the whispers that follow in my wake. The way conversations die when I enter rooms. They're watching me, waiting to see what I'll do next.
I find Gargan in the armory, methodically sharpening blades that don't need sharpening. It's what he does when his mind is working through problems—keeps his hands busy while his thoughts churn.
"She awake?" He doesn't look up from the whetstone's steady rhythm against steel.
"For a while. Sleeping now."
"Good. She looked like death when you carried her up from those tunnels."
I settle onto the bench across from him, watching sparks fly from the blade. "How bad is it?"
"Depends how you define bad." The whetstone pauses. "Council's split between those who think you handled Zharra appropriately and those who think you've lost your mind entirely. Zharra's supporters are calling for your removal as warleader."
"And the warriors?"
"Most would follow you into the depths of hell if you asked. But this?" He gestures vaguely toward the door. "This isn't a battle they understand. Love makes poor strategy."
I lean back against the stone wall, feeling the weight of leadership pressing down on my shoulders like armor made of lead. "It's not about love."
"No?" Gargan's scarred eyebrow lifts. "What's it about then?"
"Survival. Hers and the child's."
"Same thing, in the end." He sets down the blade and fixes me with that steady gaze that's gotten me through a dozen campaigns. "Question is, what are you planning to do about it?"
The words stick in my throat for a moment. Once I say them aloud, there's no taking them back. No pretending this is temporary madness that will pass with time.
"She can't stay here." I meet his eyes. "They'll try again. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but they will. And next time I might not find her in time."
Gargan nods slowly. "Probably right. So what—you send her away? Find her some safe human settlement to birth the child in?"
"No." The word is final, and maybe too fast. "I go with her."
The whetstone clatters against the bench as Gargan's hand goes still. For a long moment, the only sound is the distant clang of hammers from the forges.
"You're talking about leaving Azhgar."
"I'm talking about protecting what's mine."
"Vargath. You know what that means. The council won't just let you walk away. Not as warleader. Not with everything you know about our defenses, our strategies."
"I know."
"You'll be branded a deserter. A traitor." The words hang heavy between us. "There's no coming back from that. No redemption, no second chances. You'll be hunted."
I think of Seris lying pale and bleeding in that underground chamber. Of the way her hand trembled when she told me she didn't trust me yet. Of the child growing inside her—my child—who deserves better than a world that sees them as an abomination.
"Then brand me."
Gargan studies my face for a long moment, searching for cracks in my resolve. Finding none, he picks up the whetstone again, but doesn't resume sharpening.
"When?"
"Soon. Before the council decides to take more direct action."
"You'll need supplies. Horses. A route that avoids the main roads."
"Gargan—"
"Don't." He cuts me off with a gesture. "Don't insult me by pretending I'd let you go alone. I've followed you this far."
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, as fragments of conversations drift back to me. War councils where the elders spoke in hushed tones about troubling developments beyond our borders. Not raids or territorial disputes—something else entirely.
"There were whispers," I begin, my voice low. "In the councils, when they thought I wasn't listening. About a bonded pair building something beyond the reach of the old clans."
Gargan's whetstone pauses mid-stroke. "Go on."
"Kaela and Drokhar." The names feel strange on my tongue, like speaking of legends made flesh. "An orc who somehow traveled from the old world for a human woman. They've gathered others like them—outcasts, half-breeds, those who don't fit the old ways."
"Yes." Gargan spits into the dust. "I've heard the name whispered in taverns. Most think it's a myth."
"Most thought I'd never choose a human over tradition." I meet his gaze. "Yet here we are."
The implications settle between us like smoke from a dying fire. A place where Seris and our child might not just survive, but belong. Where the gods' blessing wouldn't be seen as blasphemy, but as proof of something larger than clan politics and blood feuds.
"You think they'd take you in?" Gargan asks. "A warleader fleeing his own people?"
"I think they'd understand why I'm fleeing."
Three hours past midnight, we move through Azhgar's lower reaches like ghosts. Gargan knows every guard rotation, every blind spot in the watchtowers. Years of defending this place have taught us exactly how to slip past its defenses.
The supply stores sit beneath the old human courthouse, carved into foundations that predate the orc occupation. Gargan produces keys that shouldn't exist—copies made by a sympathetic blacksmith who owes him favors from campaigns past.
We work in silence, filling travel packs with dried meat, grain, medicinal herbs. Gargan adds a water skin that's seen better days but holds liquid without leaking. I select a cloak thick enough to shield Seris from mountain winds.
"Horses?" I whisper.
"Two mounts, saddled and waiting in the eastern grove. Hardy beasts, bred for distance rather than war."
I pause in my packing, studying my oldest friend's profile in the dim torchlight. The scar along his jaw catches the flame, a reminder of the battle where he saved my life by taking a dark elf's blade meant for my throat.
"Gargan."
He doesn't look up from coiling rope with military precision. "Don't."
"You could come with us."
"No." The word comes flat, final. "Someone needs to hold this place together when the council tears itself apart looking for someone to blame.
Besides—" He glances up with that crooked grin that's gotten us through a dozen impossible situations.
"Three's a crowd when you're trying to start a new life. "
We shoulder the packs, checking straps and buckles one final time. At the door, Gargan catches my arm.
"For what it's worth..." His broken tusk glints as he speaks. "I hope she's worth it."
The words hang in the cold air between us. Worth abandoning everything I've built. Worth becoming an exile, a traitor, a man without a clan. Worth the hunt that will surely follow.
I think of Seris's laugh, rare and precious as sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Of her hands gentle on my scars, accepting what others have always seen as marks of brutality. Of our child, growing strong despite a world that would deny their right to exist.
"She's everything."