Urganza strode through, covered in dust mingled with her own sweat. Even Zelaphiel with his trained impeccable composure slowly wiggled in his chair at the stench of sweat issuing from her. The layer of dust caked on her skin, making it appear ashen grey, hiding her rich green skin underneath. Her riding outfit was crumbled and stained with her long journey. Her thick hair, though cut short still clung to her skull from the debris. Her menacing aura made everyone fall back before her steps. All except Antilorwe. Her bright hazel eyes clearly stood fixated on Urganza.

The orc cleared the ground in wide leaps, trailed by a Dusk Reaver carrying a full pail of water and a dirty rag for the Orc to clean herself.

“Urganza, you arrived at the right moment,” exclaimed Lyria. Tendrils of joy and vigour gripped Lyria at the orc's presence.

“Forge Marm,” Urganza greeted in her guttural accent, “and Lady Rylonvirah, I always keep my promises,”

Dropping the dirty rag into the pail of water, she twisted the wet rag with her powerful wrist, squeezing the soaked water.

“I will introduce myself,” said Urganza, paying no heed to the demands of etiquette as she nonchalantly rubbed the wet cloth through her muscle-bulging arms revealing brilliant moss green skin.

“Urganza, Overlord of the Orcs,” Her voice carried over with a hint of domination.

At her introduction, Antilorwe’s hazel eyes went wide and a visible sigh escaped -- not at her title but at her appearance. Without batting an eyelid, the high-elven bureaucrat’s composed features transformed from a typical serene dignity into a wild facial expression. Antilorwe slowly bit her peachy plump lower lip. This was definitely unexpected.

I gave Antilorwe my insatiable grin, both at my sudden salvation and a contorted mirth of a shared secret, but she had eyes only for the impressive form of Urganza. Oblivious to the lustful eyes stripping her, Urganza slowly lifted her travel shirt and wiped her torso clean, revealing a flat belly defined by staircase-like abdominal muscles. The skin of her torso was covered with multiple scars which she has worn as proudly as a trophy. Partially revealed by her soaked shirt, Urganza’s muscles flared underneath her voluminous forest green breasts -- for Antilorwe’s guilty eyes to drink in.

Zelaphiel, who had been silent, forced to endure the stare of Lyria, finally spoke, “Please make an additional seating arrangement for the Overlord,” then turning towards Urganza, he beamed another of his heart-warming smile,”Urganza, glad to make your acquaintance.”

Antilorwe did not raise from her seat but instead directed the valet to place Urganza’s chair by her side. As Urganza slumped herself on the offered chair, Antilorwe slowly crossed her thighs, resting one foot on top of another. The toes of her upper legs pointed towards Urganza.

“Antilorwe, neutral representative of Sarenthill, acting on behalf of common interest,” said the flustered high-elf as she extended her slender hand for Urganza to grasp. When Antilorwe noticed the silence, she raised her eyebrows quizzically. Urganza looked at Antilorwe with an uncertain curiosity, before she eagerly grasped the mercurial high-elf's palm with her battle-hardened hands. The tip of Antilorwe's long elfin nails slowly began to trace across Urganza's upturned palm.

"Tell me something, does it not bother you to be a lady and still be referred to as Overlord?" Antilorwe played it out well to engage Urganza and now the Orc has to reveal her personal stance.

"Well, part of me recognizes who I really am and for the rest of it," responded Urganza candidly without any disguise.

"What about the rest? entertain me," urged Antilorwe and under the pretext of glancing something at the periphery of her vision, she leaned forward, maintained contact with Urganza and forced both her hands on her lap.

"The rest is bashing skulls and bashing skulls needs no gender," grinned Urganza.

I felt the situation and stirred. Antilorwe, narrowed her eyes slightly, making sure that her features conveyed no external telltale signals before begging me to distract Zelaphiel. I slowly leaned toward Lyria. Zelaphiel sensing my attention, cleared his throat. Despite his claims, Lyria's presence stirred something uncomfortable in the Grand Paladin Champion. Something that is not as simply explainable with a racial bias. Something deeper, almost as if he knew who forced Zor'amoth back.

I couldn't hear Antilorwe's comments properly but every once in a while, I felt her eyes flicker towards Urganza's chiselled biceps and every time a low rumble would resonate out of her nose. Occasionally, she would utter an "ooh..." which sounded naughty enough to not go unnoticed.

"Educate me this, Urganza," said Antilorwe with a subtle sibilant note, "Is it true what they say about orcs? The more ferocious a warrior, the more passionate a lover they are!"

Well, my condolences Syrune. You have lost the race before you even decided to sign up. You are never going to compete against that smooth move.

Antilorwe’s interest in Urganza is a boon, an unexpected but still a welcomed one. With Antilorwe out of the way, I cornered Zelaphiel.

“Why would the Aberrant Irregulars fight your war?” I asked.

“Because you are registered in Sarenthill, that means, legally, Sarenthill can conscript your mercenaries should it deem it necessary for the city,” answered Zelaphiel.

“I must applaud, it is a brilliantly hatched plan. Sending me to my death, while you can eliminate the One-Horned Warlord’s forces in one fell swoop from Fort Halcyon. Removing an enemy and an obstacle in one strategic move, except, have you considered that I might willingly join forces with your adversary? What incentive do I have to sacrifice the lives of my mercenaries in your fight?” I pushed Zelaphiel towards the edge of his chair but the most excepted refusal came from the unexpected.

“No Rils, You will not,” said Lyria stubbornly. There was an element of hardened steel in her words that made countering her words impossible. She would not welcome any arguments in this context.

Zelaphiel, slowly rose from his seat and leaned forward, closer towards us and then pleaded his cause.

“Lady Rylonvirah, please listen to your companion’s wise words. She delivers good counsel with noble intentions.”

He then focussed on Lyria and in a voice devoid of venom and arrogancy, he begged, “Please convince Lady Rylonvirah. She values your opinion. You could get her to see reason.”

Turning once again before a baffled Lyria, he pointed towards one of the freshly erected tents.

“Please avail the privacy of the tents. They have been shielded with protective wards. You could counsel undisturbed and in the comfort of a private conversation. We could adjourn at daybreak.”

I looked at the alluringly inviting tent and then at the pleading face of Zelaphiel. Finally, my eyes settled on Lyria. Though her composure was stony and expressionless, deep inside, Lyria’s heart raced at the thought of spending a night alone with me.

Lyria hesitantly stood behind me as I sat slowly consuming the expensive mulled wine. Bereft of any other means to keep myself occupied, I poured myself another cup. Zelaphiel could have left some books or some parchments or maps, but all his valets left us was a huge pitcher of dull wine. Did they bank on the fact that the alcohol would hinder my critical thinking? For the past days, I have been drinking stuff that the orcs fondly brew. Surely, Zelaphiel could at least get one thing done properly.

The warmth from the deep red liquid slowly spread through my nerves. Aware of her gaze fully focussed on me, I gave the cup a swirl before drowning the contents in a single gulp.

Isolated and separated from the rest, with nothing to direct my pent-up energy on, the conversation with Lyria was unavoidable.

“Out with it,” I ordered.

Lyria considered me for a moment longer before she turned towards the pitcher. Then she huffed. I could only surmise that she was debating whether to come out with it or not.

I looked around the tent once again to ensure that we are truly alone while patiently waiting for her response.

As if a malicious hex has been placed on her, draining her of vitality, she felt fatigued to stand on her feet. Lyria slowly approached the empty cot, sat and tapped the empty space beside her with her left hand, urging me to sit close to her. I filled the cup full once again and thrust the warm liquid in her hand before I took her offer.

She took small sips with long deliberate pauses between. Eventually, after a long silence, her words strugglingly came out, “I never acknowledged this to anyone, before,”

It was odd; extremely odd for Lyria to confess anything about herself. But if she was hoping to gain sympathy by revealing and magnifying trivial facts about her childhood, she will fail desperately.

“Stop,” I interjected, “remember when we had the talk about having a baby?”

“I remember every single moment I spent with you,” she replied.

I suppressed the flinch that wanted to leave my body. But of course, it did not stop the unsaid thoughts.

“I was never the mothering type. We both knew it. I asked you to carry but you never wanted to propagate your cursed bloodline,” My eyes bulged, jaws tightened and I could feel my blood boiling. Her fingers slowly curled around mine -- gently.

“Do you want me to even remind you, your own words when I asked how you felt about me carrying?” I was hoping for an easy route out of this conversation but I did not expect Lyria to persist in my belittling her for so long. In the end, she needs to hear it.

“I accept the child as my own, irrespective of the race or bloodline,” she repeated the same words, with the same steadfast resolve as she declared them centuries ago.

“Did your oath come with an exception clause?” I mocked Lyria, “Exceptions may apply for Aasimars.”

“It is not that simple,” replied Lyria while her grip tightened.

I unloaded my suppressed anger without holding back, “I will accept our baby so long as it is not an Aasimar. Does raising an Aasimar, tarnish your honour as a tiefling? Did you think you are betraying your race by having an Aasimar daughter?”

“Because I am not a tiefling,” snapped back Lyria.

“I am....” She stammered, “a half-fiend. I carry the deathly aura of my progenitor.” She spat the last word almost as if it were poison.

While Lyria expected me to be surprised or even shocked by her revelation, only my unpleasant chuckle greeted her in response.

“I have seen demons prostrate before you. You being more than just a mere tiefling is no secret and has nothing to do with your cowardly act,”

“Remember how Delyn was a sickly baby? Except she wasn’t. She was poisoned,” quelling her overwhelming emotion she continued,” by my presence.”

I stood taken back by her sentence. She had just confessed something important and genuine to me and yet I found it irritating that she could only tell me these things in such a delayed and distant manner. In retrospect, everything makes sense. That has always been the problem with Lyria, the fact that she cannot express herself in words, even to me.

Despite the oddity of her confession, I still did not fully abandon my hold on cynicism.

“Why have you never bothered to tell me this before?”

“Rils, I am just your lover at that time, but she is your own daughter, your own flesh and blood,” Her voice softened, but I could not help but notice the underlying sadness in her tone. It resembled a slight pain; something familiar but couldn’t pinpoint. The more I tried to grasp it, the more it fuelled my ire and hatred for her.

“I would have built another manor for you. Kept you away from Delyn; kept you both close to me,” I lamented, “My daughter in due time would have grown with her two mothers instead of with an absent mother and plenty of tutors.“

Lyria released my hand and gazed into the distance. Her head slowly inclined forward as her eyes dropped to the floor.

“And you would have visited me only to have your raging lust satisfied and spend the rest of your life raising your daughter. With the passing of time, my feelings would have turned to resentment and before that future became a reality, I had to make a choice." She raised her gaze and paused for a narrow moment. There was no mistaking the yearning in her eyes as if I was the only person who mattered in the entire world.

“I had to make a choice,” she repeated, “to preserve the sweet memory of our time before my thoughts became resentments.”

Her arm lightly brushed against mine, eliciting a sudden quiver. I suppressed my reactions, presenting only my stoic expression to her. The Lyria before me is twisted and deranged. With every bit of willpower that I could muster, I pushed her aside. I need to regain my lost self-control, for I could sense my carefully erected barrier crumbling before her benign candour.

“You thought I would sacrifice you for my daughter?” I sneered at her notion.

“Yes, because I would do the same for our daughter,” replied Lyria quickly, almost too quickly.

And unruly tears cascaded down my face. As if my unjust hatred demanded a purge. Notwithstanding the impact of my own failing opinions, I crumbled on the floor and Lyria wrapped her arms around me; holding me. Just like how she used to calm me when we were young.