Thalia emerges from behind a supply wagon, arms full of bundled linens. Even at this distance, I can see the careful way she moves, head down, shoulders curved inward like she's trying to disappear entirely.
"You there!" Rytha calls out, voice carrying across the morning bustle. "Come here. Now."
Thalia freezes. The linens slip in her grip before she catches them, knuckles white against the fabric. She approaches our table with measured steps, each one calculated to avoid drawing further attention.
When she reaches us, she sinks into a deep bow without being told. Her hair falls forward like a curtain, hiding her face from view.
"My boots are filthy from yesterday's festivities," Rytha announces, extending one leather-clad foot. "Clean them. With your shirt."
The command hangs in the morning air like smoke. Thalia's shoulders go rigid, but she doesn't lift her head. Around us, conversations quiet as orcs turn to watch the entertainment.
"I..." Thalia's voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"Did I stutter?" Rytha's tone could freeze blood. "Remove your shirt and clean my boots. Show proper gratitude for being allowed to serve."
My hands clench around the horn's carved surface hard enough to crack bone. But Thalia straightens slowly, fingers moving to the ties of her rough-spun shirt. She pulls it overher head in one fluid motion, leaving only her thin undershirt between her skin and dozens of hungry stares.
She kneels in the dirt and begins scrubbing at Rytha's boots with the coarse fabric. The undershirt clings to her shoulders, revealing the delicate line of her collarbones, the gentle curve of her spine.
"Look at that dedication," someone calls out from a nearby table. "Knows her place, that one."
"Bet she's just as eager in other areas," another voice adds, followed by crude laughter.
"Quiet and obedient," a third chimes in with a low whistle. "Perfect qualities in bedsport, too."
The comments roll over Thalia like water over stone. Her face remains composed, focused entirely on her task. No tears, no trembling—just steady, methodical movements as she works dirt from leather with her bare hands.
But I see the way her jaw tightens. The slight pause between breaths. The careful mask she wears to hide whatever burns beneath.
My little goddess, forced to worship at the feet of lesser beings.
The horn creaks in my grip as rage builds like pressure behind a dam. Around us, the jeering continues, each comment another weight added to the fury coiling in my chest.
17
THALIA
My palms split open on the third stone, leaving crimson smears across gray granite. The coarse brush handle tears fresh wounds where old calluses used to protect me. I press my lips together and keep scrubbing.
"You can't break what's already broken," I whisper to the bloodstained rock.
But that's a lie. Every task Rytha assigns proves it. Each impossible demand chips away another piece until I wonder what will remain when she's finished.
The training ground stretches before me like a battlefield aftermath. Dark stains mark where warriors bled yesterday, where they'll bleed again tomorrow. My knees ache against the unforgiving stone as I work my way across the circle, one stubborn bloodstain at a time.
"Faster," Rytha calls from her shaded seat. "The afternoon training begins soon."
I duck my head and scrub harder. The brush splinters against stone, sending wooden shards into my already torn palms. Fire shoots up my arms but I don't pause. Can't pause.
Behind me, conversations continue around the council table. Galthan's voice rumbles low and controlled, discussing patrol routes with his second. Normal warrior business. Nothing to suggest he spent last night whispering my name.
Maybe that's all it was. A moment of curiosity about the marked human. A temporary fascination with something forbidden.
The thought shouldn't sting. I've survived twenty-three years by expecting nothing beyond survival. But the memory of his hands in my hair, the way he looked at me like I mattered—it carved out spaces in my chest I didn't know existed.
"This stone here," Rytha points to a particularly stubborn stain near the center ring. "It needs special attention. Use your fingernails if the brush won't work."
My shoulders burn like someone's driving hot coals between my shoulder blades. The sun climbs higher, turning the stones into griddles beneath my knees. Sweat drips salt into my open wounds.
