"It already did."
The simple statement hangs between us like a verdict. Three words that acknowledge everything—the night in my tent, the goddess's mark blazing under his touch, this stolen kiss that tastes like rebellion and ruin.
Before I can respond, before I can even draw another breath, he turns and walks away. His footsteps echo down the corridor until the shadows swallow him completely, leaving me alone with the scent of leather and mountain air.
I press my back against the wall and slide down until I'm sitting on the cold stone floor, my marked arm burning beneath its careful concealment. The golden vines pulse with their own rhythm, as if they remember his touch and mourn its absence.
A distant sound—footsteps on stone—jolts me from my spiral of thoughts. My heart hammers as I scramble to my feet, pressing myself deeper into the shadows. Anyone could find me here, crumpled on the floor like some lovesick fool. The thought of explaining myself to a passing guard makes my stomach twist.
I slip through the corridors like a ghost, keeping to the darkest edges where torchlight barely reaches. My bare feet make no sound against the cold stone as I weave between tent ropes and sleeping areas. The festival grounds stretch around me, most of the celebration finally winding down to embers and whispered conversations.
When I reach my tent, I barely have time to duck inside before a sharp voice cuts through the night air.
"You."
I freeze, my hand still gripping the tent flap. That tone promises nothing good.
"Come. Now."
I follow the summons across the camp to Rytha's elaborate personal space, its silk walls glowing amber from the braziers within. The entrance flap hangs open like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
Rytha sits on a cushioned chair that might as well be a throne, her ceremonial tattoos stark against her ash-gray skin. Beside her stands a massive orc with similar markings—her father, the Vaskyr Chieftain. His presence fills the space like storm clouds gathering overhead.
Neither speaks as I enter. The silence stretches until my nerves feel ready to snap.
"The clans are talking," he finally rumbles, his voice like grinding stone. "About marks and goddesses and foolish human girls who don't know their place."
I keep my eyes fixed on the ornate rug beneath their feet. Years of training keep my expression neutral, even as something sharp and rebellious stirs in my chest.
"They're starting to ask questions we don't want to answer," Rytha adds, her amber eyes glittering with cold calculation. "About whether the goddess truly speaks through mortal flesh. About whether our alliance carries divine favor or divine curse."
Divine curse.The phrase would have terrified me yesterday. Today it just sounds like another excuse for their failures.
"Listen, girl," her father continues. "We believe that you should take this time to disappear. Vanish into the mountains like the insignificant pest you are."
"Before this becomes blood," Rytha says, leaning forward with predatory grace. "Before the clans decide that killing you might appease whatever gods they think are angry. I think it would be most wise for you to remove yourself."
I nod once, the gesture automatic after years of submission. But something inside me recoils at their certainty, their assumption that I'll simply comply and fade away like morning mist.
Rytha rises from her chair and approaches, each step deliberate. She stops close enough that I can smell the ceremonial oils in her hair, see the satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.
"You're alive because I allow it," she whispers, her breath hot against my ear. "Don't forget that."
How could I?I think, my jaw clenching despite my efforts to remain passive.You remind me every chance you get.
Rytha steps back with fluid grace, plucking a piece of exotic fruit from a silver bowl that sits within easy reach. The flesh is deep amber, glistening with juice that catches the brazier light like liquid gold. She bites into it with deliberate pleasure, lettingthe sweetness linger on her tongue while amber droplets trace down her chin.
My mouth waters involuntarily. I've smelled that particular fruit countless times while serving her meals, watched her savor it during private dinners, but never tasted even the smallest morsel myself. The scent is intoxicating—honey and sunshine and something wild that speaks of distant orchards I'll never see.
"Consider it," she says around another bite, her voice honeyed with false concern. "Consider how much you value keeping that head on those tiny shoulders of yours."
She gestures with the half-eaten fruit, casual as discussing the weather. Juice drips onto the ornate rug beneath her feet, staining the intricate patterns with careless abandon.
"Because should you attempt anything like what you've done with this false goddess..." She lets the words hang in the perfumed air between us, savoring the threat as much as the forbidden fruit. "I won't be so merciful."
Her father grunts approval from his seat, antler pauldrons shifting as he crosses massive arms over his chest. The ceremonial bone gleams white against his weathered skin, each piece carved with symbols of conquest and dominance.
I nod once, the gesture sharp and final. My throat feels dry as desert sand, but I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me swallow nervously. Won't let them know how their casual discussion of my death makes my pulse hammer.
