She gestures dismissively at me, as if I'm a problem already solved.
"A human who cannot serve would be of no use to anyone. Better she live with the constant reminder of how she tried to elevate herself above her station."
The elders nod in agreement, pleased with this twisted mercy that promises prolonged humiliation rather than swift punishment.
"Dismissed."
The elder's voice cuts through the morning air like a blade. Around me, the crowd begins to disperse—orcs mutteringamongst themselves, humans scurrying back to their duties with heads bowed low. I remain kneeling on the cold earth, watching boots and bare feet shuffle past me.
"You." Rytha's shadow falls across my hunched form. "Return to your tent. I'll need my ceremonial robes cleaned and my hair braided before the afternoon ceremonies."
I don't look up at her. Can't bear to see the satisfaction gleaming in those amber eyes.
"Yes, mistress."
"And Thalia?" Her voice drops to a whisper meant only for me. "Remember what you confessed today. Remember your place."
She walks away, her footsteps light with triumph. I wait until the last of the crowd has dispersed before pushing myself upright on shaking legs. My knees ache from kneeling on the packed dirt, but the pain feels distant compared to the hollow ache spreading through my chest.
The walk back to my tent stretches endlessly. Each step feels like walking through thick mud, my limbs heavy with exhaustion and something deeper—a bone-deep weariness that has nothing to do with lack of sleep.
Other humans avoid my gaze as I pass. Some cross themselves or mutter protective charms under their breath, as if whatever cursed me might spread. A few shoot pitying glances my way before quickly looking elsewhere.
I reach my small tent and duck inside, letting the flap fall shut behind me. The confined space that felt like a sanctuary yesterday now feels like a tomb. Sunlight filters through the worn fabric, casting everything in muted tones that match the gray settling over my thoughts.
For a moment, I just stand there. Staring at the rumpled pallet where Galthan held me. Where he whispered my name like it meant something. Where he made me believe, for onestolen night, that I could be more than what they've always told me I am.
I trace one spiraling pattern with a trembling finger, remembering how they blazed when I knelt before him. How the pyre roared to life behind us like the goddess herself was bearing witness.
But it meant nothing. Whatever divine joke was played on me last night, whatever cruel trick of fate marked me with power I don't understand—it changes nothing.
The first sob catches me off guard, tearing from my throat like a physical wound. I press my hands over my mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it's too late. The dam breaks.
Tears pour down my cheeks in hot streams. My shoulders shake as twenty-three years of swallowed pride and buried hope come spilling out all at once. I sink onto the pallet, curling into myself as the sobs wrack my body.
I cry for the girl who learned early that speaking up meant punishment. For the woman who convinced herself that survival was enough. For the fool who let herself believe that golden vines and a warrior's touch could somehow change the fundamental truth of what she is.
Nothing. I am nothing.
12
GALTHAN
The council chamber empties slowly, elders shuffling past me with satisfied nods and approving grunts. Their congratulations stick to my skin like oil I can't wash off.
"Well handled, Galthan." Elder Krugg claps a gnarled hand on my shoulder, his yellowed tusks gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the tent flaps. "Shows wisdom beyond your years."
I grunt noncommittally, my jaw clenched so tight I taste blood where my tusks cut into my lip.
"Could have been a disaster if you'd been taken in by that human's trickery," another elder adds, shaking his gray head. "Females can be cunning when they want something badly enough."
"Indeed." Elder Thokk steps closer, his scarred face creased with approval. "The way you maintained control when she knelt before you—impressive restraint. Lesser warriors might have been bewitched by such theater."
Theater.The word makes my stomach turn. I see Thalia's face again—pale, terrified, trembling as she denounced herselfbefore hundreds of jeering orcs. The way her voice cracked when she called herself expendable. Replaceable.
"A trick of light and timing, nothing more," Krugg continues, warming to his subject. "Humans are resourceful when desperate. Probably rubbed some phosphorescent paste on her arm, waited for the right moment."
My hands curl into fists at my sides. The memory of those golden vines blazing under my touch burns through my mind—how they pulsed with warmth that had nothing to do with paste or powder. How they seemed to sing against my fingertips.
