Chapter 37 Seris
SERIS
The wagon's gentle rocking pulls me between sleep and waking like waves against a shore. Each bump in the road sends a dull ache through my core, but it's manageable—nothing compared to the fire of labor or the sharp agony of Zharra's blade.
My son sleeps against my chest, his tiny fist curled around my finger. I study his face in the dim light filtering through the canvas cover—Vargath's strong jaw already evident, but my nose, my mouth. A perfect blend of two worlds that shouldn't fit together but somehow do.
"How are you feeling?" Kaela's voice is soft as she adjusts the blanket around my shoulders.
"Like I've been trampled by a herd of war horses." I shift carefully, careful not to pull at my stitches. "But alive."
She checks the baby's breathing, her touch gentle but practiced. "He's beautiful. Strong lungs, good color. You did well."
"I screamed like a banshee."
"That's what you're supposed to do." Kaela grins, tucking the blanket more securely around us both. "Any woman who gives birth quietly is either dead or lying."
Through the wagon's opening, I watch Vargath's broad shoulders moving beside us. He hasn't mounted his horse once since we started moving, just walks with that predatory grace, head turning constantly to scan the tree line.
"He's going to wear himself out," I murmur.
Kaela follows my gaze. "He's terrified. I've seen it before—new fathers who've nearly lost everything. They think if they stop watching, stop protecting, it'll all disappear."
"Have you seen many like us?" I ask her. "Human women with orc children?"
"More than you'd think. Less than there should be.
" She settles beside me, voice dropping lower.
"That's what we do—Drokhar and I. Find people caught between worlds.
Some come willingly, running from arranged marriages or empty lives.
Others are taken, stolen for reasons that have nothing to do with love. "
The baby stirs against my chest, making soft sounds. I adjust his position, and he settles back into sleep. "And you protect them all?"
"We try. Sometimes we're too late. Sometimes politics get in the way. But we've built something—a place where mixed families can exist without shame."
A branch snaps somewhere in the forest, and I watch Vargath's hand drift to his axe before he identifies the source as a deer. His shoulders remain tense even after the animal bounds away.
"What about you?" I ask. "How did you and Drokhar...?"
"That's a story for when you're stronger." Kaela's smile carries shadows I don't understand yet. "Right now, you need to focus on healing. And feeding this little one when he wakes up."
As if summoned by her words, my son begins to fuss, his face scrunching with the promise of a hungry cry. I loosen my shirt, grateful for the wagon's privacy as he latches on with surprising strength.
"Natural," Kaela observes approvingly. "Some babies struggle at first, but he knows exactly what he wants."
"Gets that from his father." The words come out fondly, surprising me with their warmth.
Vargath's voice carries from outside—a low rumble as he speaks with Drokhar about the route ahead. Even exhausted and walking, there's authority in his tone, the bearing of a man accustomed to command.
"He chose you," Kaela says quietly, watching my face as I nurse. "Over everything—tradition, position, safety. That's not nothing."
"He chose us after nearly losing us." I stroke the baby's downy hair. "I'm not sure that's the same thing."
"Isn't it? Sometimes it takes almost losing something to realize what it means."
The wagon hits a rut, jostling us gently. My son doesn't even pause in his feeding, completely content in this small bubble of warmth and safety we've created.
The scent of roasted meat and herbs drifts through the evening air as we settle into camp. My stomach responds with an embarrassing growl that makes Kaela laugh.
"That's the best sound I've heard all day," she says, ladling thick stew into a wooden bowl. "Your body's been through hell. It needs fuel to heal."
I accept the bowl gratefully, surprised by how eagerly I dig in. The meat is tender, seasoned with unfamiliar spices. For weeks, food has been an afterthought—something to choke down for the baby's sake. Now, I actually taste it.
"This is incredible." I glance toward where Drokhar tends the fire, adding more herbs to the pot. "I didn't know orcs could cook like this."
"Most can't," Kaela admits with a grin. "Drokhar's got hidden talents. Drives him mad when I tease him about it."
Across the fire, Vargath catches my eye and nods toward my bowl. "Eat more," he says simply, but there's satisfaction in his expression as he watches me take another spoonful.
It's such a small thing—being encouraged to eat rather than having food thrown at me like scraps. But after months of barely surviving, kindness feels revolutionary.
The other humans in their group—a young couple who introduced themselves as Marcus and Elena—chat quietly as they clean their weapons. No one stares at my mixed-blood son. No one whispers about contamination or shame. They simply exist around us, comfortable and accepting.
"Your son's beautiful," Elena says when she notices me watching. "Look at those strong little hands."
I glance down at my baby, sleeping peacefully in my arms after his feeding. His tiny fingers are indeed perfectly formed, neither fully human nor fully orc, but uniquely his own.
"Thank you." The words come easier than they have in months.
As full darkness settles around our camp, Vargath approaches and extends his hands. "May I?"
I hesitate only briefly before transferring our son to his father's arms. Vargath settles beside the fire, cradling the baby with surprising gentleness for such massive hands. The firelight catches the ritual scars along his arms, painting them in gold and shadow.
"He's so small," Vargath murmurs, voice filled with wonder. "How can something so small be so perfect?"
"Babies have a way of being exactly what they need to be," Kaela observes, settling beside me with her own bowl of stew.
I watch Vargath's face as he studies our son—the fierce warrior completely undone by ten pounds of sleeping infant. There's no shame in his expression now, no conflict about tradition or propriety. Just a father discovering his child.
For the first time, I'm not afraid. Not of tomorrow, not of being alone, not of raising a child caught between worlds. The hardest part—the running, the hiding, the nearly dying—it's behind us now.
I lean back against the fallen log Kaela positioned for my comfort, feeling something I'd forgotten existed: peace.