1
THALIA
The summons comes at dawn, delivered by a stone-faced orc guard who barely glances at us as he barks orders. I follow the other human servants through corridors I've walked before—past tapestries depicting Vaskyr victories and carved pillars that dwarf even the tallest orc.
The longhouse doors groan open, revealing the council chamber in all its imposing glory. Massive wooden beams stretch overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast, while braziers cast dancing shadows across walls lined with weapons and clan banners. Most humans never set foot here. I have, thanks to Rytha's particular brand of favoritism.
The Vaskyr Chieftain stands at the head of the great table, his antler pauldrons gleaming in the firelight. His weathered face bears the same calculating expression I've learned to read like storm clouds on the horizon.
"Seven years have passed since the last accord with Thorran," he announces, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "The time has come to forge something more... permanent."
I exchange glances with Myra, a kitchen servant whose wide eyes mirror my own unease. She's heard the same rumors I have—whispers of Thorran's disdain for human servants, their belief that we contaminate orcish strength.
"My daughter Rytha will unite our clans through marriage to their war hero, Galthan of Thorran."
Rytha stands beside her father, ash-gray skin luminous with ceremonial tattoos, amber eyes fixed on some distant future where she commands two clans instead of one. Her smile cuts sharp as winter wind.
"The spring Harvest Festival will witness this union," the Chieftain continues. "Select humans will accompany our delegation to the neutral valley."
My stomach drops. The neutral valley means leaving Vaskyr territory, venturing into lands where human lives matter even less than they do here.
"Thalia." Rytha's voice slices through my spiraling thoughts. "You will attend me."
The other servants murmur among themselves—some envious, others relieved. They think this is honor. Recognition. They don't understand that Rytha's attention has always been a double-edged blade.
"Thank you, my lady," I manage, the words tasting like ash.
Rytha's smile widens, revealing the satisfaction of a predator who's just secured her favorite prey.
"Pack light," she says, those amber eyes glittering with something that makes my skin crawl. "We leave at week's end."
The dismissal comes swift and final. As we file out, I catch whispered congratulations from the other servants. They see privilege where I see shackles—golden perhaps, but shackles nonetheless.
The orders come sharp and precise, delivered while Rytha examines her ceremonial robes in the mirror.
"Pack the willow bark, feverfew, and bloodroot," she commands without turning around. "Ensure you have enough binding cloth for wounds. The journey is long, and orcs grow... restless during travel."
I nod, already mentally cataloguing the herbs scattered throughout my small quarters. "Yes, my lady."
"And Thalia." Her reflection catches my eyes in the polished bronze. "Remember that you represent me now. Any embarrassment you cause will be met with consequences far worse than a missed meal."
The threat hangs between us like smoke from a dying fire. I've felt those consequences before—the sting of her palm, the humiliation of public correction, the cold hunger that follows disobedience.
"I understand, my lady."
Three days later, I climb into the wagon beside the grand procession, my herb satchel secured beneath the bench. The Vaskyr delegation stretches ahead in a display of calculated power—warriors on horseback, supply wagons groaning under ceremonial gifts, and Rytha's ornate carriage at the center like a jewel in a crown.
The warriors laugh and drink as we roll through unfamiliar territory, their voices carrying crude jokes about human fragility and Thorran customs. One particularly loud orc with a scar bisecting his left tusk raises his ale horn high.
"Here's hoping the humans don't piss themselves during the ceremony," he bellows, earning raucous approval from his companions. "Bad enough we have to share air with them."
My stomach clenches, but I keep my expression neutral. The other human servants huddle closer together, their faces pale with shared anxiety.
As we crest a hill, the neutral valley spreads below us like a green amphitheatre carved by ancient hands. Something stirs inthe wind—not quite scent, not quite sound. The sensation crawls along my spine, as if the very earth watches our approach with patient, knowing eyes.
The Thorran delegation awaits us at the festival grounds, their dark green banners snapping in the breeze. Their chieftain steps forward, a mountain of muscle and ceremony, flanked by warriors who could crush skulls with their bare hands.
"Welcome, brothers of Vaskyr," he rumbles, clasping forearms with our chieftain. "The Harvest Goddess smiles upon this union."
