Chapter 32 Vargath
VARGATH
Iwatch Seris sway in her saddle like a reed in wind, and my jaw clenches tight enough to crack teeth.
Another day of traveling, and she's worse than yesterday.
Her skin carries the gray pallor of someone fighting fever, and dark circles hollow her eyes until she looks like a ghost wearing her own face.
The horses struggle through deeper snow now, their hooves punching through the crust with each step. Ice crystals cling to their manes, and steam rises from their flanks despite the bitter cold. But it's not the animals I'm worried about.
"There." I point toward a cluster of carved stones jutting from a hillside ahead. "Shelter."
Seris doesn't respond, lost in whatever fevered dream holds her now.
I guide both horses toward the ancient alcove—First Age stonework, carved when humans still believed their gods walked among them.
The craftsmanship puts our crude orc masonry to shame, all flowing lines and symbols that seem to shift when I'm not looking directly at them.
The shelter extends deeper into the hillside than it appeared from outside. Partially collapsed, yes, but the remaining walls still block wind and the carved ceiling keeps most of the snow out. I dismount and reach for Seris, catching her as she slides sideways from her saddle.
"Easy." Her weight settles against my chest, too light for someone carrying a child. "I've got you."
I ease her down onto my spread cloak, arranging it over the smoothest section of stone floor. She curls onto her side immediately, knees drawn up, hands pressed to her belly. Blood seeps through her boots where the leather has worn thin.
"Damn." I kneel beside her feet, working the boots off as gently as possible. The sight underneath makes my stomach clench—raw flesh, split skin, toes gone white with cold. "Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"
She stirs slightly at my touch but doesn't wake. Just murmurs something too soft to catch.
I dig through my pack for clean cloth and the last of our medicinal supplies. The salve stings when I apply it—I know because she flinches even in sleep. But her feet need tending, and infection would kill her faster than cold or hunger.
Her lips are cracked deep enough to bleed, split from dehydration and bitter wind. I dab water onto them from my waterskin, watching it absorb into the damaged skin. She needs more than I can give her out here. Needs warmth, rest, proper food, a healer who knows how to care for pregnant women.
Memories rise unbidden as I work. Korran, my youngest brother, dying of fever after a dark elf raid. The elders refusing to waste resources on "weak blood." My father's voice: "Warriors don't weep for the fallen. They honor them by becoming stronger."
I'd believed that once. Believed strength meant cutting away anything that made you vulnerable. The irony tastes bitter now—here I am, tending wounds and whispering prayers like the softest of healers.
The council would laugh if they could see me. Zharra would call it fitting justice. Even Gargan might shake his head and mutter about warriors gone soft.
Let them. Let them all rot in their certainty while I choose what matters.
Seris stirs as I finish wrapping her feet, eyelids fluttering open. For a moment she stares at me without recognition, fever-bright and confused. Then awareness filters back.
"Vargath?" Her voice comes out cracked and raw. "Where...?"
"Shelter. Old human ruins." I settle the blanket more securely around her shoulders. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been trampled." She tries to sit up, then thinks better of it. "How long was I asleep?"
"Most of the day. You've been talking in your sleep."
A flush creeps up her neck despite the cold. "What did I say?"
"Nothing clear. Mostly just murmurs." I don't mention the times she called my name, or the way she reached for me even unconscious.
She shifts restlessly, wincing as movement pulls at her injuries. "I dreamed of you."
The admission surprises me. "Just now?"
"No. Before." Her eyes focus on something beyond the carved walls. "Before we met. Nights before the diplomatic summit where I first saw you."
My hands still on the medical supplies. "What kind of dreams?"
"Strange ones. Vivid." She pulls the blanket closer, as if the memory makes her cold. "I dreamed of an orc warrior with burn scars and braided hair. Standing in firelight, reaching for me."
The description sends ice through my veins. "What else?"
"You spoke my name. Called me yours." Her voice drops to barely a whisper. "I woke up aching for someone I'd never met."
I stare at her, mind racing. Dreams aren't prophecy—except when they are. Maedra believed in signs, in divine intervention. She'd have called this fate.
"When I first saw you at the summit," Seris continues, "it was like recognition. Like I'd been waiting for you without knowing it."
"You never mentioned this before."
"Would you have believed me?" She meets my eyes directly. "Would you have stayed that night if I'd told you I dreamed of you first?"
The question hangs between us like smoke. Would I have? Or would I have run faster, convinced she was either mad or trying to manipulate me?
"I don't know," I admit.
"Well, it really happened," she grumbles.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth—the first genuine one I've felt in days. "I haven't stopped dreaming of you since."
Her eyes widen slightly, as if she expected deflection or another wall thrown up between us. Instead, she reaches for my hand, her fingers cold but steady as they find mine. When she squeezes, it's tentative at first, then firmer as I squeeze back.
Our fingers intertwine naturally, her smaller hand fitting against mine like it was carved to match. Hope—that's what this feels like. Fragile and fierce at once, burning bright in a world that's tried its best to snuff it out.
"Good," she whispers. "I was starting to worry I was the only one losing sleep."
I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. Her skin tastes like salt and determination. "Never just you."
The wind picks up outside our shelter, howling through gaps in the ancient stonework. Snow swirls past the entrance in ghostly spirals, reminding me we can't stay here long. Dawn will bring pursuit—if it hasn't already.
"Rest while I work." I release her hand reluctantly, already missing the warmth. "We need food and heat, but we can't risk staying more than one night."
I venture back into the storm long enough to check the snares I set earlier.
The wire loops are simple but effective—old techniques my father taught me before politics poisoned everything between us.
Two fat rabbits hang limp in the cold, their fur already stiffening.
Not much, but enough to keep us alive another day.
Back inside, I build a small fire in the deepest corner of the shelter, banking it with stones to contain both light and smoke.
The flames catch quickly on dry kindling I gathered from dead branches, casting dancing shadows on the carved walls.
Ancient human faces seem to watch us from the stone, their expressions shifting with the firelight.
Seris watches me skin and prepare the rabbits, her eyes heavy but alert. "You're good at this."
"Survival?" I thread meat onto makeshift spits. "Had to learn young. The clan doesn't coddle anyone—not even a chieftain's heir."
"No. Taking care of people." She shifts closer to the fire, pulling my cloak tighter around her shoulders. "It's not what I expected from the stories."
"What stories?"
"The ones about orc warleaders. All blood and brutality, no... tenderness."
The meat sizzles as fat drips into the flames. "Maybe those stories got it wrong."
"Or maybe," she says softly, "you're different than they thought you'd be."
When the food is ready, we eat in comfortable silence. The rabbit is tough and gamey, but it's hot and fills the hollow ache in our bellies. Seris manages half her portion before exhaustion claims her again.
That night, we sleep tangled together beneath my furs, heartbeat to heartbeat. Her back curves against my chest, my arm draped protectively over the swell where our child grows. Every breath she takes, I feel. Every small movement sends warmth through me.
For the first time since leaving Azhgar, I allow myself to believe we might actually survive this.