Korven, one of the Thorran council members, staggers past my platform with the determined gait of someone who's had far too much to drink. His massive frame sways as he navigates between the tables, ale sloshing from the cup he's somehow still managed to hold onto.
"Great night!" he calls out to no one in particular. "Great bloody night for?—"
His boot catches the edge of a decorative brazier, sending the iron stand toppling. Burning coals scatter across the ground like fallen stars, embers dancing on the evening breeze as they settle among the dried grass and discarded rushes.
Before I can move, before anyone else even notices, Thalia appears. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't call for help—just drops to her knees and begins stamping out the glowing coals with her feet. The leather of her worn boots smokes as she works, and when that's not enough, she scoops ash and dirt with her hands to smother the remaining embers.
No one else sees. No one else cares. Korven stumbles on without a backward glance, oblivious to the fire he nearly started. The other servants continue their work, heads down, focused on their own tasks.
But I watch as Thalia kneels in the dirt, her hands black with ash as she ensures every ember is dead. Watch as she checks twice, then three times, making certain nothing will reignite once she's gone.
When she finally rises, brushing soot from her skirts, she glances up—and freezes when she sees me watching.
The silence stretches between us across the dying celebration, her golden eyes wide with something that might be fear or recognition. I don't look away this time. Don't pretend I haven't been watching.
"You're not watching the entertainment."
Rytha's voice cuts through the moment. She's returned to the platform without my noticing, her amber gaze following mine to where Thalia still kneels in the ash.
I lean back in my chair, letting my lips curve into something that barely qualifies as a smile. "I'm watchingsomething."
The temperature around us drops several degrees. Rytha's jaw tightens, the ceremonial tattoos on her arms seeming to darken in the firelight. Her fingers drum once against the table's edge—a warning I've learned to recognize from my own warriors when they're deciding whether to draw steel.
"How fascinating." Her voice could freeze ale mid-pour. "I wasn't aware scattered embers qualified as sport among the Thorran."
Below us, Thalia has moved on to the next table, gathering abandoned cups with the same methodical precision she used to stamp out the fire. Her movements are economical, practiced, designed to complete her task without drawing attention.
Except she already has mine.
A massive iron cauldron sits abandoned near the feast's edge, probably used for one of the countless stews that fed tonight's crowd. Thalia approaches it, testing its weight with both hands before attempting to lift it. The thing must weigh more than she does—filled with water and scraps, it's a job for two people.
But there's no one else. The other servants have scattered to their various tasks, leaving her alone with the impossible weight.
She braces her legs, wraps her arms around the cauldron's rim, and heaves. For a moment it seems she might manage it—then her footing slips on the ash-slicked ground.
I'm halfway out of my chair before conscious thought catches up with instinct. Every muscle in my body coiled to move, to catch her before she falls, to shoulder that burden she shouldn't be carrying alone.
Then I stop.
What am I doing? She's a servant. A human. Tomorrow I'll be mated to the orc beside me, bound by ceremony and clan politics to a future that was decided long before I met either of them.
I force myself back into the chair, my hands clenching into fists against my thighs. The carved bone beads in my braids click together as I settle, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet between Rytha and me.
Below, Thalia steadies herself and tries again with the cauldron. This time she manages it, though the strain shows in every line of her body as she carries it toward the washing area.
"Fascinating indeed." Rytha's voice drips with contempt. She pushes back from the table with enough force to make the cups rattle. "Enjoy your... entertainment."
She sweeps down from the platform in a rustle of gold fabric and barely contained fury, her retinue scrambling to follow. I catch fragments of her muttered complaints as she stalks away—something about "distracted fools" and "knowing one's place."
I don't care.
My fists remain clenched, knuckles white against my thighs, as I watch Thalia disappear into the shadows beyond the firelight.
8
THALIA
My fingers shake as I unlace my boots, ash still clinging to the worn leather despite my attempts to brush it clean. The small tent feels impossibly cramped after the vast expanse of the feast grounds, the canvas walls pressing close like a burial shroud.
