Chapter 31 Seris
SERIS
Iwake wrapped in warmth that doesn't belong to me. Vargath's arm curves around my shoulders, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek with the steady rhythm of deep sleep. The scent of leather and cold metal clings to his skin, familiar now after days of traveling together.
My body feels like it belongs to someone else—distant and unreliable. Every muscle aches with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that sleep doesn't touch. The baby stirs restlessly inside me, as if sensing my discomfort.
"You're awake."
His voice rumbles through his chest rather than breaking the silence around us. I don't lift my head, too tired to pretend I'm stronger than I feel.
"Unfortunately."
"How do you feel?"
"Like I've been dragged behind the horses instead of riding them." I shift slightly, testing the limits of my body's cooperation. Pain shoots through my ribs, sharp enough to steal my breath. "How long did I sleep?"
"Most of the day. It's nearly evening now."
The admission surprises me. I remember mounting my horse this morning, remember the first few miles of winding mountain paths. After that, everything blurs together in a haze of exhaustion and stubborn determination.
"I slowed us down."
"You needed rest." His arm tightens slightly around my shoulders. "We're not racing anyone."
I finally lift my head to look at him, taking in the concern etched across his features. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and I realize he probably didn't sleep at all while I was unconscious.
"When did you last eat?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
He sits up slowly, careful not to jostle me too much. The movement reveals the small camp he's built around us—bedrolls arranged near a carefully banked fire, travel packs positioned to block wind, horses tethered within easy reach.
"I'll eat when you do."
The dried meat and hard bread taste terrible in my mouth, but I chew and swallow. My stomach rebels against the food, cramping with each bite. Vargath watches me struggle through the meal with the intensity of a battlefield commander monitoring troop movements.
"Eat more." He tears off a piece of his own bread and holds it out to me. "The baby needs it."
"I can't. If I eat any more, I'll just bring it back up."
"Try anyway."
"Don't order me around."
"I'm not ordering. I'm asking." His voice gentles, but the determination remains. "Please."
The bread crumbles between my fingers as I accept it. The simple gesture—him offering his own food—carries more weight than grand declarations ever could. I manage three more bites before my stomach definitively refuses to cooperate.
Snow begins falling as we break camp, fat flakes that melt against my skin and turn the world soft around the edges.
The landscape stretches before us in rolling hills of white, broken by the skeletal remains of what must have been a human city.
Twisted metal and crumbling concrete thrust up through the snow like broken teeth, monuments to a civilization I never knew.
"How far?" I ask as Vargath helps me toward my horse.
"Another few days to reach the border territories. Maybe a week to find Kaela and Drokhar, depending on where they've settled."
The mounting process proves even more difficult than yesterday. My legs shake under my own weight, refusing to support me long enough to reach the stirrup. Vargath bears most of my weight again, lifting me with careful strength until I'm seated in the saddle.
"I should walk for a while." The words sound foolish even as I speak them. "Let the horses rest."
"The horses are fine."
"But I—"
"Seris." His tone cuts through my protests. "You can barely sit upright. Walking isn't an option."
Pride wars with practicality as we begin moving through the snow-dusted ruins. The horses pick their way carefully between fallen stones and twisted metal, their hooves finding purchase on uncertain ground. I focus on staying balanced, on not sliding sideways out of the saddle like a sack of grain.
After an hour of riding, the effort of simply remaining upright becomes too much. My vision blurs around the edges, and I feel myself swaying dangerously to one side.
"Stop." The word comes out weaker than I intend. "I need to stop."
Vargath reins in immediately, dismounting before my horse has fully halted. I try to swing my leg over the saddle, to dismount with some dignity intact, but my body refuses to cooperate.
"Let me help—"
"I can manage."
But I can't. My legs give out the moment they touch the ground, sending me crashing to my knees in the snow. Cold seeps through my clothes immediately, and I feel the baby protest the jarring impact.
Strong arms lift me before I can even attempt to stand. Vargath cradles me against his chest with the same care he'd show fragile glass, and the comparison makes my throat tight with unwanted emotion.
"You should've left me." The confession tears out of me without permission. "Back in Azhgar. At the temple. Any of it. You should've walked away and let me figure it out alone."
"Never."
The single word carries absolute finality. No hesitation, no doubt, no room for negotiation.
"I'm slowing you down. Making everything harder." Tears I refuse to shed burn behind my eyes. "You'd be better off—"
"Stop." He settles me more securely in his arms, and I feel his heartbeat against my cheek. "I'm exactly where I choose to be."
He settles me against the crumbling concrete wall of what might have been a storefront once, his cloak wrapped around both of us like a cocoon. The skeletal remains of the building provide some shelter from the wind, but cold seeps through every gap in the broken walls.
"Better?" His breath forms small clouds in the frigid air.
I want to say yes, to give him something that resembles reassurance, but the world keeps shifting around the edges. Shadows move where they shouldn't. The twisted metal overhead flickers like flames.
"Maedra?" I whisper, turning toward a corner where gray-green skin seems to materialize from nothing. "You're supposed to be dead."
Vargath's arms tighten around me. "There's no one there."
But I see her clearly—stooped shoulders, ritual scars, that knowing smile she wore when she spoke of divine flames. She gestures toward my belly with hands that smell of ash and herbs.
"The gods haven't forgotten," she says in her crackling voice. "Even when their people do."
"Seris." Vargath's hand cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Look at me. Only at me."
The vision dissolves, leaving only broken concrete and rusted rebar. I blink hard, trying to anchor myself in reality, but exhaustion pulls at my consciousness like undertow.
"I can't tell what's real anymore."
"I'm real." His thumb traces across my cheekbone. "The baby's real. Everything else can wait."
Another flicker of movement catches my peripheral vision—firelight dancing between the skeletal trees, impossible warmth in this frozen wasteland. I turn toward it instinctively, and Vargath follows my gaze to the empty forest.
"What do you see?"
"Fire. Light." The words feel thick on my tongue. "Like the flames outside the temple. The ones that burned for us."
He pulls me closer, sharing his warmth as wind whistles through the broken walls. "Are you scared?"
The question surprises me with its gentleness. Vargath doesn't ask vulnerable things—he states facts, issues commands, makes declarations. But fear threads through his voice now, barely contained.
"Are you?"
A long pause stretches between us, filled only by the sound of snow hitting broken glass.
"I've never been more afraid in my life."
The admission breaks something open in my chest. This warrior who faced down councils and cut through enemies without flinching—he's terrified. Of losing me. Of losing the baby. Of making the wrong choice.
"Because of me?"
"Because I don't know how to save you." His voice cracks on the last word. "I can fight anything with teeth and claws, but I can't fight this."
I lean deeper into his warmth, feeling his heartbeat against my back. "Then don't fight. Just stay."
Above us, snow continues falling through the broken roof, each flake catching what little light remains. Vargath shifts slightly, and I hear him whisper something in old orcish—words I don't recognize but understand in my bones.
"What are you doing?"
"Praying." The word sounds foreign in his mouth. "To the Plentiful God. To whoever might be listening."
His voice drops lower, becoming a rumble I feel more than hear. "Maedra believed you were chosen. That our child carries something sacred." He presses his face against my hair. "If that's true, if any of it matters—help her. Help them both."
The firelight flickers again at the edge of my vision, but this time it feels less like hallucination and more like answer.