I blink, trying to focus on her words instead of the way Thalia's marking pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat. "What?"
"Reject the blessing. Tell them it's false."
"False?" The word tastes wrong in my mouth. "How can divine fire be false?"
"Because gods abandoned us decades ago!" Rytha gestures wildly at the crowd, at the flames, at Thalia kneeling between us like an offering. "Magic is dead. The shamans can barely light cooking fires, let alone channel divine will. This is trickery."
Murmurs spread through the assembled orcs—some nodding agreement, others shaking their heads in obvious doubt. I catch fragments of whispered arguments.
"—never seen marking so clear?—"
"—just a human slave?—"
"—fire came from nothing?—"
"—impossible for the goddess to choose?—"
"Look at her!" Rytha's voice rises to a shout. "Look at this pathetic creature and tell me any deity would mark her as chosen. She's human. She's nothing."
Thalia flinches as if struck, the golden light flickering but not fading. Her hands shake where they rest on her thighs, but shedoesn't lower her marked arm. Can't, maybe—the sigil seems to have a will of its own.
"Divine flame doesn't exist anymore!" Rytha whirls to face him, ceremonial tattoos seeming to writhe in her fury. "When did any of you last see true magic? When did the shamans last heal with goddess-blessed herbs instead of human medicine?"
Uncomfortable silence answers her. Because she's right about that much—our magic died with our exile to this world. The shamans struggle with rituals that once came as naturally as breathing.
"This is paint and parlor tricks," Rytha continues, voice dripping with disdain. "Some desperate attempt to elevate herself above her station."
Elder Karreth of Thorran steps forward, his weathered face grim beneath silver tusks. Behind him, Vaskyr's council members emerge from the crowd like carrion birds sensing death.
"Enough." His voice cuts through the chaos with the authority of decades leading warriors. "The festivities end now."
"But the marking—" someone protests from the crowd.
"The marking will be examined properly." Elder Yorg of Vaskyr joins his counterpart, amber eyes hard as flint. "Not in this... spectacle."
They turn their attention to Thalia, who still kneels between Rytha and me, the golden sigil pulsing along her arm like a heartbeat made visible. The girl looks ready to bolt or collapse—maybe both.
"Human." Karreth's tone could freeze summer wine. "Return to your quarters immediately. You will remain there until summoned."
"Should you attempt to leave," Yorg adds, his words sharp as blade edges, "you will be executed."
Fear lances through me at those words, cold and sudden. My hands clench without permission, the vial still burning against my palm. Thalia's golden eyes find mine for one breathless moment—terror and something deeper swimming in their depths.
Then she's scrambling to her feet, the marked arm clutched against her chest, and running. Her bare feet slap against packed earth as she disappears into the maze of tents, leaving only the scent of herbs and something indefinably sweet.
"Put out that fire," Karreth barks at the nearest humans. "Now."
A dozen servants rush forward with buckets, water sloshing over the rims as they race toward the towering flames. They dump load after load onto the pyre, steam hissing and billowing in great white clouds.
The fire doesn't even flicker.
Water runs down the burning logs like tears, pooling at the base, but the golden flames dance on as if fed by something beyond wood and oil. The sight sends murmurs rippling through the crowd again—hushed, frightened sounds.
Both elders turn to me with expressions that could curdle milk.
"You should have denounced this immediately," Karreth growls, his scarred hands flexing. "The moment that marking appeared, you should have rejected whatever claim?—"
I bark out a laugh that echoes across the festival grounds. The sound stops him mid-sentence, tusks gleaming in the firelight as his jaw drops.
