"Gratitude, Thalia. You'll show proper gratitude for the privilege of witnessing our union." Her smile cuts through the lamplight. "Fail me, and I'll have you flayed before both tribes."
The threat hangs in the air long after she leaves, the tent flap snapping shut behind her like jaws closing.
The next day crawls by with agonizing slowness. I keep to the shadows, hauling water, grinding herbs, mending tears in canvas that the wind keeps reopening. Simple tasks that require no thought, no interaction with anyone who might report back to Rytha.
But I feel his attention like heat against my skin. When I'm bent over wash basins, scrubbing stains from ceremonial cloths. When I'm kneeling in the dirt, gathering windfall apples that rolled beneath the supply wagons. When I'm standing perfectly still beside Rytha's pavilion, waiting for orders that never come.
Galthan watches me. Not openly—he's too clever for that—but I catch the weight of his gaze in peripheral glimpses. The way conversations pause when I pass within earshot. The subtle shift in his posture when Rytha gestures dismissively in my direction.
I avoid looking back. Keep my eyes fixed on tasks, on ground, on anything except the dark green of his skin or the carved bone beads threaded through his braids.
By evening, my nerves feel scraped raw.
The second feast blazes brighter than the first. Torches ring the ceremonial ground in perfect circles, their flames reaching toward stars that seem unusually distant tonight. The Harvest Goddess's pyre stands behind the high dais—unlit logs arranged in precise spirals around a central pole carved with symbols I don't recognize.
Rytha glows in the firelight, draped in silk that shifts from gold to copper as she moves. Galthan sits beside her, massive and imposing in polished armor that reflects the dancing flames.
When the moment arrives, I approach the dais on trembling legs. The gift I've prepared—a bundle of rare healing herbs wrapped in soft leather—feels inadequate in my sweating palms.
"My lady." I drop to both knees before Rytha, offering up the package. "For your health and happiness."
She accepts it with theatrical grace, holding it aloft so the assembled crowds can see. "How thoughtful. My devoted servant knows her place."
Murmurs of approval ripple through the orcish observers. I remain kneeling, waiting.
"And for the groom?"
I turn toward Galthan, pulling the second gift from my pouch—a small vial of concentrated willow bark extract, potent enough to dull even orcish pain. My hands shake as I hold it up.
"For your strength and?—"
Galthan reaches out, but the moment he grabs the vial, his thick green fingers brushing mine… The Harvest Goddess's pyre erupts behind them in a column of brilliant flame.
9
GALTHAN
The vial burns against my palm like molten metal. Not the glass itself—that remains cool—but something deeper, something that pulses with each beat of my heart. When Thalia's fingers brushed mine, the world shifted on its axis.
Now flames roar behind us, tall as three orcs standing on shoulders, painting the night in shades of gold and crimson. The heat washes over my back, but I can't look away from her face. Can't break the connection that's holding us both frozen.
"By the War God's blood?—"
"Look at her arm!"
"The marking—do you see it?"
Gasps ripple through the crowd like wind through grain. I follow their horrified stares down to Thalia's outstretched arm, the one that held my gift moments before.
Golden light traces along her skin from wrist to shoulder, delicate as filigree but bright as the forge fires back home. Vines and leaves spiral in impossible patterns, pulsing with their own inner radiance. The sigil of the Harvest Goddess herself, unmistakable even to warriors who've never seen it outside of ancient carvings.
The marking burns brighter as we stare at each other, her golden eyes wide with terror and something else—recognition? Understanding? I don't know. I can't think past the roaring in my ears.
"No." Rytha's voice booms. She rises from her chair, silk robes billowing around her like storm clouds. "This is impossible."
"The goddess has chosen?—"
"The goddess has chosen nothing!" Rytha's amber eyes blaze with fury that makes the pyre flames look pale. "Galthan, reject this. Now. Before everyone here."
