"Denounced what, exactly?" I gesture toward the still-burning pyre, where humans continue their futile efforts with bucket after bucket. "You want me to reject something when we don't even know what the goddess was trying to say?"
"The goddess says nothing because there is no goddess here," Yorg snarls. "Only trickery and?—"
"Then explain that." I point at the flames that refuse to die despite being doused enough to flood a small village. "Explain how water turns to steam without touching fire. Explain markings that glow brighter than forge coals."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the frustrated grunts of humans dumping yet another round of useless water.
"I've had enough excitement for one night." I turn away from their stunned faces, suddenly exhausted. "This can wait until morning."
"Galthan—"
"Morning, elders." I stride toward the Thorran quarters, leaving them standing beside a fire that burns eternal and questions that have no comfortable answers.
10
THALIA
Hours crawl by like wounded animals. I lie on the thin pallet that passes for a bed, staring at canvas walls that seem to press closer with each breath. Sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, I see golden fire and feel the weight of a thousand stares.
The marking burns along my arm—not painful, but present. Like a brand that reaches deeper than skin. I trace the delicate vine patterns in the darkness, watching them pulse with their own inner light. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Finally, I give up the pretense of rest and slide to my knees beside the pallet. The packed earth is cold against my shins, but I fold my hands and bow my head anyway.
"Harvest Goddess." My voice barely disturbs the air. "I don't understand why you've chosen me. I'm nobody. Less than nobody."
The marking flickers brighter, as if responding to my words.
"I've served faithfully. Kept my head down. Never asked for more than survival." My throat tightens around the words. "So why mark me? Why put this target on my back whentomorrow they'll probably decide I'm a fraud and execute me for blasphemy?"
Silence answers. But the golden light along my arm pulses steady as a heartbeat, warm against my skin.
"If nothing else," I whisper, "please let me sleep tonight. Let me have peace before whatever comes tomorrow."
The tent flap rustles.
I freeze, hands still pressed together, head still bowed. Wind, maybe. Or a guard checking to ensure I haven't fled like some common criminal.
But then the canvas parts with the soft whisper of fabric, and boots—heavy—step inside.
I turn, heart hammering against my ribs.
Galthan fills the small space like a storm cloud, his massive frame blocking what little moonlight filters through the entrance. His dark hair hangs loose around his shoulders, no longer bound in ceremonial braids. Battle leathers replaced by simple cloth that does nothing to hide the breadth of his chest or the scars that map his arms.
"I shouldn't be here." His voice is rough gravel, barely above a growl. Golden eyes find mine in the dim light, wild and restless. "But I can't stop thinking about you."
My breath catches. "You need to leave."
"I know."
He doesn't move. Neither do I.
We stare at each other across the small space, the air thick with unspoken words and dangerous possibilities. His chest rises and falls with each controlled breath, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides like he's fighting some internal battle.
"Galthan—"
He steps forward and drops to his knees beside me with surprising grace for someone so large. The movement bringshim close enough that I can smell leather and steel and something uniquely him—wild and clean like mountain air.
One massive hand reaches toward me, hesitates, then gently touches the dark strands that have escaped my braid.
