The Reckoning

Grashok sat motionless upon the great blackstone throne, elbows braced on his knees, hands covering his face.

The chamber was silent but for the gentle hiss of torchlight and the soft, deliberate breaths of those gathered. Every female who had remained during the altar ceremony stood before him, some with crossed arms, others watching him with narrowed eyes. A few looked unsure. None looked particularly forgiving.

Across the chamber, the High Priestess stood serene, her hands folded before her ceremonial belt, her expression unreadable. She met his glower with maddening calm. It made him want to scowl harder—though he already felt too small for his own armour.

Grashok replayed the events in his mind, grinding his tusks in quiet frustration.

It had started, of course, with what had seemed to him—at the time—a logical step.

He had summoned the Elder. Calmly. Rationally. Or so he thought. The Elder, with grave eyes, had gone out into the heart of the warrens and brought every female who had taken part in the temple rites back to the throne room.

And then Grashok, without preamble, had barked out, “How many of you are pregnant?”

The silence that followed had not been encouraging. Faces turned. Eyes widened. Some looked to one another in confusion; others blinked slowly, as if uncertain they’d heard correctly.

A few had hesitantly raised their hands. Some whispered. A few held their bellies, uncertain.

Most simply stared at him.

Still, the answer became clear.

Every one of the women who had remained after the Elder departed the ceremony—every one—was either definitely or probably pregnant.

That alone might have been manageable.

But then—then—he’d spoken again.

He had asked, voice faltering, “How many of those are… mine?”

And when over half of the raised hands remained aloft, the rest sinking with either disappointment or smugness, he had turned pale.

And said, aloud, before all gathered—

“Fuck.”

It had echoed. The word bounced off the stone pillars and into every corner of the great hall like a curse woven from ice and panic.

That had been the beginning of the end of the conversation.

He knew it the instant he saw the expressions shift. The looks of mild awkwardness melted into offence, then outrage. One female—Fiora, he thought—had crossed her arms with such force it sounded like a war drum being struck. Several others had drawn themselves up to their full height, hands planted on hips.

The High Priestess had merely raised an elegant brow and glanced at the nearest brazier.

He’d tried to speak again. Had opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought better. Opened it again.

Words had failed him.

And just as the first low murmur of collective feminine wrath began to rise like a storm tide...

...a laugh rang out.

It came from the back of the room.

Snippa.

She leaned against one of the carved obsidian columns, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other. Her green leather top caught the firelight as she shook her head, eyes dancing with amusement.

She pushed off from the wall and strolled forward through the sea of angry gazes with all the casual grace of someone who had faced down ogres and come away with their purse strings.

“Easy, ladies,” she said, her tone light but commanding. “He’s in shock.”

There was a shifting in the crowd—some of the women looked to her, their fury momentarily dimmed by curiosity.

Snippa continued, “You all know what men are like in these situations. Bravery in battle, unmatched skill in the field, but utterly brainless when it comes to a bit of baby-making.”

There were a few snorts. One or two chuckles. A wave of resentment lifted—but did not entirely break.

“He’ll be a great father,” she added, pausing at the foot of the throne steps. “I’ve seen him with our son. He’ll honour and care for every single one of you and your children, and if he doesn’t—” she glanced up at him with a cheeky smirk, “—I’ll bash his head in with my bow.”

A round of subdued laughter followed that, warmer this time.

Grashok dared to lift his face from his hands and peek out through his fingers.

Snippa turned fully now, addressing the group, “But right now, I’m afraid I need to borrow him. Security issues. You understand. Give him a little time to let it all settle in that thick skull of his.”

Before anyone could protest, she turned and strode up the throne dais, took Grashok by the hand, and with surprising gentleness, tugged him to his feet.

He allowed her to lead him, stiff‑limbed, away from the throne, past the women, past the High Priestess—who gave a small incline of the head as he passed—and out through the heavy stone doors.

His boots echoed heavily along the stone corridor, his hand still caught in Snippa’s as she pulled him forward with her usual mix of mischief and purpose. Behind them, the doors rumbled shut with a groan of iron and stone, muffling the low murmuring of voices—discontented, curious, watchful. He was not proud of what had happened in that chamber.

His breath came hard, short bursts flaring from his nostrils as he tried to calm the storm raging in his thoughts. The air tasted of cold stone and fire smoke, and somewhere far off, the dripping of condensation from the dungeon ceiling ticked out an irregular rhythm, far too cheerful for his mood.

Snippa didn’t speak at first. She led him down an empty passage that curved off the main hall, past unused guardrooms and carved alcoves where statues had once stood—now long removed during renovations to repurpose the space for defence drills and emergency storage. The stone walls held echoes but no eyes. There was privacy here—mercifully.

Grashok pulled free of her grip, came to a stop, and turned, his face caught somewhere between anger and shame.

“I’ve really ballsed this up,” he muttered, voice low. “Didn’t even mean to sound like that—like it was all a curse.”

Snippa tilted her head, arms folding beneath her chest.

“You didn’t balls it up because you asked,” she said. “You ballsed it up because you looked at them like they were a battlefield you didn’t want to march into.”

“They were all staring at me!” he snapped, then winced and lowered his voice. “Some of them proud, yeah. Others... confused. Afraid. And what do I do? Stare like a stunned mule and blurt out ‘fuck’ like that’s going to win hearts.”

Snippa smirked. “Would’ve been worse if you’d fainted.”

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome.”

They stood for a while in silence, the passage cool and still. Snippa leaned back against the stone, head resting lightly, fingers idly playing with the strap of her quiver.

“How many?” she asked quietly.

“Fourteen,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Fourteen that were certain. A few others said it was too early to tell but… it doesn’t take a cleric’s vision to read between the lines.”

“And of those…?”

“Six raised their hands,” he said, voice low. “Six who think it’s mine. And that’s not counting Nyxie and Sylrith.” He closed his eyes. “I’m not saying I don’t remember. I’m saying… I didn’t think. I didn’t know it would be this many.”

Snippa gave him a long look. Then she stepped away from the wall and nudged him gently with her shoulder.

“Of course you didn’t. You were drunk on triumph and divine mead. That whole ceremony was half spiritual awakening, half mating‑season chaos. Nobody’s blaming you for not taking a tally mid‑thrust.”

Grashok made a strangled sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

“I’m serious,” she continued, expression softening. “You’re not a monster, Grashok. You didn’t force anyone. You didn’t lie. You’re not vanishing from the aftermath. You’re here. You’re panicking, sure, but you’re trying to do right by them. That counts. More than you think.”

He ran a hand down his face, the stubble along his jaw rasping against his palm. “Doesn’t feel like enough.”

“Well, no. Not yet. You’ve got work to do.”

Grashok nodded slowly, gathering himself. He breathed deep. The air no longer felt quite so stifling.

“You said there were security matters?”

Snippa grinned. “No, but it got you out of there, didn’t it?”

He stared.

She held up her hands. “Alright, alright—don’t boil over. There was a genuine concern,” she said, arms wrapping around Grashok’s waist. “Elenara has tracked increased skirmishes between our scouts and Ratkin watchers near Ingunde.” She leaned in close. “I need to head back this very night. I’ve already said good‑bye to Rukk… and I’ll be taking two more scouts with me. We need to shore up defences.”

Grashok’s deep gaze flickered between pride and reluctance. The tension returned, brief and jagged. Finally, he nodded, slow, as though lowering a drawbridge in his heart.

Snippa sealed his resolution with a fierce, passionate kiss—hard, urgent, forgiving. When they parted, her yellow eyes glowed with purpose.

“Now,” she said, breathless, “go back in there and be the father to your tribe.” She brushed his cheek tenderly.

Grashok took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and gave one last lingering look at Snippa. She smiled—soft, fierce—and turned to stride toward the outer gate.

He watched until her figure disappeared into the shadows of the corridor. Then he went back to the throne room, resolved at last.