"The important thing is you didn't fall for it." Thokk's voice carries the weight of tribal approval. "Shows you understand your duty to the clan. To the alliance."
"Aye." Krugg nods sagely. "Rytha chose well. You'll make strong cubs together, unite our peoples properly. None of this goddess nonsense to muddy the waters."
I force my expression to remain neutral, though bile rises in my throat. They speak of Thalia like she's some scheming seductress who painted herself with false divinity. As if the terror in her eyes this morning was all calculated manipulation.
"The human knows her place now," Elder Thokk observes with satisfaction. "Proper order restored."
The chamber gradually empties until I stand alone among scattered cushions and the lingering scent of ceremonial incense. My reflection stares back from a polished bronze mirror propped against the tent wall—dark green skin, braided hair, tusks that mark me as Thorran-born. A warrior. A weapon pointed where the clan needs cutting done.
But underneath the familiar exterior, something fundamental has shifted. Something that started the moment I stumbled into her tent, bleeding and desperate, and she chose to heal rather than scream.
I stride from the council chamber toward my own quarters, each step heavy with the weight of what I've done. Or rather, what I failed to do. The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly, but it does nothing to warm the cold spreading through my chest.
My tent looms ahead—spacious, well-appointed, befitting a war hero and future mate to a clan leader. I duck inside and immediately begin pacing the perimeter like a caged beast, my boots wearing tracks in the woven rugs.
The elders' words echo in my skull.Well handled. Impressive restraint. Proper order restored.
But all I can see is Thalia kneeling in the dirt, her voice breaking as she called herself nothing. Unworthy. A tool to be used until broken.
I stop pacing and press my palms against my temples, trying to push away the memory of last night. The way she looked at me when I entered her tent—not with fear, but with something deeper. Recognition, maybe. Like she'd been waiting for me without knowing it.
Her skin had been silk under my hands, her breath catching when I whispered her name. And when I touched the golden vines spiraling down her arm, they blazed brighter than the festival fires. Power coursed between us—ancient, undeniable, sacred.
It wasn't theater. It wasn't trickery.
It was real.
I resume pacing, my movements sharper now, more agitated. The tent suddenly feels too small, too confining. Every breath tastes of incense and lies.
When I made love to her in the darkness, something shifted inside me. Like touching a live coal that burns away everything false, leaving only truth. For those stolen hours, I wasn't Galthanthe weapon. I was just a male who'd found something worth protecting.
Something worthchoosing.
The third night's festivities stretch before us like a punishment. I sit rigid beside Rytha on the ceremonial platform, watching the crowd below pretend the goddess's pyre isn't still blazing behind us. Three days of failed attempts to douse those flames, yet everyone acts as though golden fire doesn't cast dancing shadows across their faces.
"The harvest moon rises full tonight," Rytha murmurs, her voice carrying that practiced sweetness she uses when others might overhear. "Perfect for the ritual rites."
I grunt acknowledgment, my attention fixed on the crowd rather than her words. Somewhere down there, Thalia moves through the shadows like a ghost. I catch glimpses of dark hair, the careful way she keeps her marked arm hidden beneath loose sleeves.
"Tomorrow we'll begin planning the mating ceremony." Rytha's fingers trail across my forearm, claiming territory. "I've already spoken with the shamans about combining our clan traditions."
My skin crawls under her touch. I push back from the table abruptly, the wooden legs scraping against stone.
"Need a drink."
I stride down from the platform before she can protest, weaving through clusters of celebrating orcs toward the ale barrels. The night air hits my lungs like a blessing after sitting in that suffocating display of false contentment.
"You look like you need this more than I do." Tarnuk appears at my elbow, thrusting a brimming mug into my hands. Foam spills over the rim, splashing my knuckles.
I down half the contents in one desperate gulp, the bitter ale burning my throat. It does nothing to wash away the taste of lies.
"Easy there." Tarnuk's broken tusk catches the firelight as he grins. "Save some for the rest of us."
"Not nearly enough ale in the valley for what I need."
"Wedding nerves?" He elbows me with mock sympathy. "At least you'll have a quiet mate in Rytha. Won't have to worry about her talking your ear off during?—"
My fist stops inches from his jaw before I even realize I've moved. Tarnuk raises his hands, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.
