The marking along my arm pulses weakly, dulled by exhaustion and fear. Last night feels like a fever dream—Galthan's hands in my hair, his mouth against mine, the way he whispered my name like something precious. But when I woke, the tent was empty. No trace he'd ever been there except the ache between my thighs and the scent of him clinging to my skin.
The guards shove me toward the center of the festival grounds where both clans have gathered in a massive circle. Hundreds of eyes turn toward me—curious, hostile, hungry for spectacle. I stumble forward, the golden vine pattern on my arm catching morning light like liquid fire.
"Kneel."
The command comes from an ancient Thorran elder, his tusks yellowed with age, ceremonial scars mapping his weathered face. I drop to the packed earth without argument. The cold seeps through my thin dress, but I keep my spine straight. If I'm going to die today, I won't grovel.
My gaze sweeps the assembled crowd. Council members from both tribes glare down with barely concealed disgust. Thorran warriors stand with arms crossed, expressions ranging from skeptical to openly hostile. A cluster of human servants huddle together near the back, eyes downcast, terrified to even look in my direction.
And there's Rytha, resplendent in ceremonial robes, her ash-gray skin gleaming with oils and her amber eyes burning with vindictive satisfaction. She stands beside the elders like she belongs there, chin lifted in triumph.
"The human will denounce this false marking," the elder announces, his voice carrying across the silent crowd. "She will confess her deception before both clans and accept judgment for her blasphemy."
My heart hammers against my ribs. The marking throbs along my arm, growing brighter as if responding to the accusation.
"I—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. "I don't understand what I'm supposed to confess."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Some angry, some uncertain.
"You will reject the Goddess's mark as false," another elder barks. "You will admit you used trickery to shame our sacred rites."
The golden vines pulse stronger now, warm against my skin. I stare down at them, these impossible patterns that appeared without my asking, without my understanding.
Then my eyes find him.
Galthan stands among the Thorran warriors, his massive frame rigid with tension. But his face—his face is carefully blank, giving nothing away. He doesn't look at me with the tenderness I remember from last night. Doesn't step forward to defend me or question the proceedings.
He just stands there. Watching. Silent.
The betrayal settles in my gut, making my stomach swirl with nausea. My chest tightens until I can barely breathe. He touched me like I mattered. Whispered my name like a prayer. Made me feel, for one stolen night, that I was more than just a servant to be used and discarded.
But now, when I need him most, he's just another orc staring down at the pathetic human who dared reach above her station by something entirely out of her control.
My hands shake as I press them against the cold earth, fingers digging into dirt that feels more solid than anything else in this moment. The golden vines pulse along my arm like a heartbeat I wish would stop.
"I am unworthy."
The words scrape from my throat like broken glass. Around me, the crowd leans forward, hungry for my confession.
"I am nothing but a servant. A human who tends herbs and scrubs floors and carries water." My voice grows steadier with each word, even as something inside me crumbles. "I have no place in divine affairs. No right to bear any mark of the gods."
The marking flares brighter, as if protesting my denial. I ignore its warmth, focus on the cold seeping through my knees, the weight of hundreds of eyes judging me.
"I am expendable. Replaceable. A tool to be used until I break." I lift my chin, meeting the elder's satisfied gaze. "Whatever trickery caused this marking, I renounce it. I am beneath the notice of goddesses."
Rytha's lips curve in a triumphant smile from her place among the council. She stands tall and radiant, everything I will never be—powerful, beautiful, chosen by birthright rather than cursed by accident.
Galthan remains motionless on the dais, but his dark eyes never leave my face. I search for some flicker of the man who whispered my name in the darkness, who touched me like I wassomething. But his expression reveals nothing. Just another orc watching a human grovel.
My voice cracks on the final words, but I force them out.
"If the council believes it would cleanse this shame, they could cut my branded arm from my body. Remove the offense entirely."
Gasps ripple through the assembled crowd. Some horrified, others considering. The elders exchange glances, weighing the merit of mutilation versus mercy.
But Rytha steps forward, her amber eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction.
"No." Her voice carries the authority of her bloodline, the certainty of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "Let her keep the arm. Let her keep the mark to remember her shame and deceit for the rest of her miserable life."
