Page 32

Chapter 31

T he world narrowed to the cold bite of steel at my throat, my pulse hammering against the bloody blade as Dregor’s rage pulsed through the air like a living thing.

“Killing me,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even, “is not going to fill that emptiness inside you.”

Dregor’s grip on the axe tightened. His chest heaved with every breath, muscles taut, full of anger and something deeper—something broken. I recognized it because I had lived with it. It was that same emptiness that had followed me, too.

“I know you're hurting,” I continued. “But surely you know by now that hurting others doesn’t ease the grief.”

The blade pressed harder against my throat for a moment, the edge biting into my skin, but then it loosened again, just a fraction. “You think you know what it’s like to lose a son? You don’t. You can’t.”

“I don’t,” I admitted, keeping my gaze steady on him, refusing to look away. “But I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I know what it’s like to barely get by, to survive when you don’t know how to live anymore.”

His jaw clenched, the tension rippling outward, but the wild fury in his eyes had dimmed. It wasn’t gone—anger like that didn't just vanish—but it wasn’t as sharp now.

“Vorgath let his brother live,” Dregor growled. “If he’d killed Gorkath, Throk would still be here.”

I heard the war in his voice, the guilt, the blame. It was easier for him to hate Vorgath than to deal with the weight of his loss. Easier to dwell on the “what-ifs” than to face reality. I had been there, too, dwelled in those shadows, but I knew that when I got out of this alive, I couldn't allow them to shape my future.

“And if you kill me,” I said softly, “what then? Will that bring your son back?”

“No, but it will make him suffer.”

“From what I’ve seen, Vorgath already suffers every day,” I pushed, my voice steadier than my heart, which was beating a furious rhythm in my chest. “And not just for your son. He carries the weight of his choices, of his brother’s fate. He suffers for the war—and for everyone he loves.”

Dregor flinched. Just a twitch, but I felt the axe wobble.

My gaze drifted to the mimic, its mutilated form lying in the ash, grotesque and twisted, skin mottled and decaying, limbs unnaturally long. That thing was more than just a monster. It was the reflection of what grief could do to a person if they let it consume them. It was the thing that fed on everything you didn’t let yourself feel.

“Grief doesn’t make sense. It twists things. Makes you believe the only way to heal is to hurt someone else.” I spoke slowly, my voice hushed, like I was coaxing Elias back to sleep after a nightmare. “But breaking him won’t put you back together.”

His face contorted, and for a moment, I thought I'd lost him. His hand flexed around the haft of his axe, and a low growl rumbled from his chest.

“You know that, don’t you? Throk wouldn’t want—”

“Don’t say his name!” Dregor roared, the edge of his axe grazing my skin again as he lifted it slightly, his golden eyes glinting with a wild, terrible pain. “You don’t get to speak his name.”

The rage in his voice filled the room, and fear tightened around my chest. He was standing on the edge, and I had to stop him from falling.

“You're right,” I said, voice soft. “I don’t know what your son would want. But I do know you don’t have to die with him.”

Dregor froze, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His massive chest rose and fell like a snorting bull, but his eyes locked onto mine. For one long moment, everything hung in the air—all the pain, the loss, the memories we couldn’t outrun—and then, the tension in his body slackened until the axe lowered just an inch. Enough for me to breathe without the bitter cold of the metal kissing my skin.

“I don't know how to stop,” he rasped, his voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I don't know how to just... live.”

I glanced at the mimic again, its contorted, unnatural limbs twisted in the firelight. “You don’t have to forget him. You don’t have to let him go. But this—this path you’re on... it's not honoring his memory. It's not bringing you peace. It’s only tearing you apart.”

Dregor’s eyes closed, and his head dipped as if he were finally bowing to the crushing grief he'd been running from. His chest heaved, and for a long moment, he was silent. The axe was still in his hand, but it no longer felt like a threat. It felt like a burden he was finally too tired to carry.

“Then what do I do?” he whispered, broken.

I thought of Elias. Of Vorgath. Of the people who had come to mean more to me than I ever expected—Thyri, Mrs. Crumble, all those who had stood by me. Choosing to live again, to be brave enough to open my heart, wasn’t just for me anymore. It was for them.

For the future I wanted to build.

For the hope I hadn't realized I still carried.

“You let go of the hate. You honor Throk by living.”

For what felt like an eternity, he didn’t move. The fire crackled in the distance, the only sound breaking the heavy silence. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Dregor let the axe slip from his hand. It hit the stone floor with a dull thud, and the tension in the air seemed to dissolve with it. I didn’t move yet—I wasn’t sure I could—but something inside me knew that the battle was over.

In the silence that followed, I could hear the crackle of the fire, the faint hiss of embers burning out, and then something from outside—a distant noise, soft but insistent. Dregor cocked his head toward the sound, and without another word, he reached into his belt and pulled a small knife from its sheath. My muscles tensed, but before I could move, his hand shot out, grabbing the ropes binding my wrists.

With a few deft, almost careless slices, the ropes fell away, and my arms dropped, the circulation rushing back in painful prickles. He lingered for just a second longer, his golden eyes meeting mine, but there was no fury left in them—only exhaustion.

Then, he turned and retreated, disappearing deeper into the stronghold's shadows.

Just then, the heavy door burst open, slamming against the stone wall with a resounding crash. My heart jumped, but I didn’t flinch. I knew who it was before I even saw him.

Vorgath.

He stormed into the room, dark eyes wild, scanning every corner for threats before locking onto me. His jaw tightened, and without a word, he stepped toward me, the ferocity in his gaze softening only slightly when he saw I was still standing, still breathing.

In one hand, he held a sword. It was the first time I’d seen him armed with anything other than a hammer, and the sight was both thrilling and unsettling. This wasn’t just any weapon; it was the one I’d glimpsed hanging in his forge, like a relic of a life he’d left behind. But now, here he was, willing to wield it again—for me.

In his other hand was a small, gleaming device—Elias’s Finder, the one Grimble had given him at the Tinkerer's Faire. The bird spun once, then stopped, pointing directly at me. I swallowed hard, the weight of what that meant sinking in. The Finder didn’t guide Vorgath to battle, to his forge, or to his past life in the mountains. It led him here.

His heart had led him to me.

Vorgath’s gaze flicked toward the open space where Dregor had vanished and then to the twisted remains of the mimic lying on the floor. His shoulders tensed, weapon still at the ready. But before he could give chase, I found my voice.

“It’s over,” I said. His eyes snapped back to mine, the tension still thick in the room, but I held his gaze, willing him to understand. “Dregor’s gone. It’s over.”

For a moment, his brow furrowed, and I could see the conflict in his eyes—wanting to finish what Dregor had started, wanting to fight. But I could also see the toll it had taken on him, the weight of all the battles he had already fought. Like me, like Dregor, he had carried so much pain, and I wanted nothing more than for him to find peace.

“Let it go,” I urged. “You’ve fought enough.”

Vorgath’s chest rose and fell with deep, controlled breaths, but slowly, ever so slowly, his weapon lowered. He studied me, searching for any sign of weakness or injury, and then, finally, he closed the space between us in two long strides. His strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me into the warmth of his chest. I didn’t resist. I let myself sink into the safety of him. His heart thundered against my ear, and for a moment, everything else faded—the fear, the tension, the shadows.

“I will always fight for you,” he murmured, pulling back slightly, enough to look down at me. “No matter how many times you push me away.”

“I'm done pushing you away,” I replied, tipping my head back to meet his eyes. “I choose you. Always.”

His thumb brushed over my neck, where he had marked me the night before, sending a shiver of heat through me. “Is that so?”

I nodded, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “Yes, but don't get too comfortable. I might still need a reminder every now and then.”

“I can think of a few ways to make sure you never forget,” he muttered, his voice low and teasing.

I laughed, playfully smacking his muscular arm. But my laugh came up short when he gathered me against him again. His breath stirred the top of my hair, his broad chest rising and falling, a solid, reassuring wall against the world. I lay my cheek against him, exhaling the last of my tension.

In that moment, it struck me just how far I had come. I had faced loss, fear, and uncertainty, yet here I stood, not just surviving but living . I remembered the days when grief felt like an insurmountable weight, when I thought my heart would never mend. I had been a widow, lost in sorrow, and a mother grappling with the shadows of a painful past.

Yet through it all, I had discovered a flicker of hope—a spark that had ignited during my time with Vorgath.

He had shown me that vulnerability was not a weakness, but a strength. I had learned to trust again, to open my heart, not just to him, but to the possibility of joy and love. I was no longer just a mother or a widow, no longer a hollow imitation of life; I was Soraya—someone deserving of happiness and fulfillment.

I had reclaimed my voice and my dreams, and I was ready to embrace the future, whatever it may hold.

“Elias,” I said at last, breaking the tranquil quiet. “He must be worried...”

“He’s safe,” Vorgath reassured me. “He's with Mrs. Crumble. Nothing and no one’s getting past that brownie. Not even me,” he added with a rough chuckle.

I smiled despite everything. “Thank you,” I whispered.

“For what?” he asked.

“For taking care of Elias. For not giving up. For...” I faltered briefly, searching for the right words.

But he didn't wait for me to find them. Instead, he leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. A small sound escaped me, a soft hum of contentment, as his tusks brushed lightly against my cheek. I pressed closer, letting myself sink into the sensation of being enveloped by him, his warmth, his strength, the protective way his arms wrapped around me like I was the most valuable thing he’d ever held.

When we finally pulled apart, the world felt a little softer. His forehead rested against mine, and for a few heady seconds, we simply stood there, breathing in each other’s air. I could hear Elias’s laugh in my head, see Kald’s ghost in my memories, watch the remnants of my old life smoldering in the ashes with the forge that had burned down before I rebuilt it brick by brick…

And underneath it all, I saw Vorgath. Always there. Always steady.

“Let’s go home,” he rumbled softly.

He released me just enough to grab my hand, threading his fingers through mine, and together, we turned toward the door. The flickering firelight behind us painted long shadows on the stone walls, but I didn’t look back, not at the mimic’s remains, not at the place where Dregor had vanished. This place was behind us now. The grief, the anger—it didn’t own me anymore.

As we stepped into the cold night air, I tightened my grip on Vorgath’s hand, feeling the reassuring warmth of his calloused skin. The stars above seemed brighter, the wind crisper, and for the first time in a long time, the future felt wide open.

We weren't just returning to the forge, or to Elias, or to the life we had begun to build. We were stepping forward, into something new, something neither of us could have ever imagined. The path ahead was uncertain, filled with challenges we had yet to face, but I knew one thing with absolute certainty.

I was not afraid.