"There's no point," Galthan's voice cuts through the morning heat. "I'll spill more blood this afternoon anyway."
Rytha laughs, bright and dismissive. "Cleanliness shows respect for the training grounds. Besides, she needs the practice in thoroughness."
I chance a glance upward. Galthan sits rigid in his chair, jaw clenched so tight his tusks press white marks into his lower lip. His dark eyes find mine for one burning moment.
Rage. Frustration. Something deeper that makes my chest tight.
I want to snap at him—if you're so upset, do something about it. But the words die unspoken. Any defiance would doom us both, and I won't be responsible for destroying him along with myself.
I look away first, returning to my stones.
The moon reaches its peak when Rytha finally waves a dismissive hand.
"Enough. I'm tired of looking at you." She stretches in her chair, amber eyes already shifting to Galthan. "Go to your tent. I want to focus on my betrothed without distractions."
I don't need to be told twice. My knees crack as I stand, bloody rags wrapped around my palms like makeshift bandages. The stones beneath me gleam cleaner than they have in years, though fresh crimson still seeps through my improvised wrappings.
"And wash yourself," Rytha adds with a wrinkled nose. "You smell like pig."
I bow my head and gather what remains of my shredded brush. The walk to my tent feels endless, each step sending fresh fire through my torn hands. Behind me, Rytha's laugh tinkles like broken glass as she turns her full attention to Galthan.
My tent offers blessed solitude. I collapse onto my sleeping roll, finally allowing my shoulders to slump. The canvas walls block out the festival sounds—distant drums, celebratory shouts, the clang of sparring weapons. Here, I can breathe.
But breathing brings questions I've been avoiding all morning.
I unwrap my hands, wincing at the fresh damage. The cuts look angry, inflamed from stone dust and sweat. Yet underneath the blood and grime, something else catches my eye. A faint shimmer along my forearms where the vine sigil first appeared.
"Why me?" The words escape before I can stop them. I look up at the tent ceiling as if the goddess might answer from beyond the canvas. "Was it a mistake?"
Silence greets me. No divine voice, no burning bush, no mystical revelation. Just the distant sound of warriors practicing their deadly dance.
I press my wrapped palms together and try again. "I'm nobody. A servant. A human among orcs who barely tolerate my existence." My voice cracks. "If you wanted to make a point, surely there were better choices."
Still nothing.
Exhaustion pulls at my eyelids like lead weights. The morning's torment combined with sleepless nights catches up all at once. I curl onto my side, cradling my injured hands against my chest.
"Please," I whisper to the empty air. "Help me understand."
Sleep takes me before I finish the prayer.
In my dreams, golden vines spiral up my arms like living jewelry. They pulse with warmth, wrapping around my wrists and forearms in intricate patterns that shift and change. The light doesn't burn—it soothes, healing the cuts and bruises with gentle touches.
A woman's voice echoes from everywhere and nowhere. "Not a mistake, child. Never a mistake."
I wake with a gasp, late afternoon shadows slanting across my tent. My hands throb with remembered pain, but when I look down, faint golden light seeps through the linen wrappings.
Terror shoots through me like ice water. I scramble upright, frantically unwrapping the cloth. Underneath, my palms glow with soft radiance, the cuts sealed with threads of light that pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat.
"No, no, no." I grab the bloodied linens and rewrap my hands with shaking fingers. The glow dims but doesn't disappear completely. Even through the fabric, hints of gold leak through.
My chest tightens until breathing becomes a conscious effort. If anyone sees this—if Rytha discovers another divine marking—I'm dead. Or worse, I become a political tool in games I don't understand.
I wrap the linens tighter, layering them until my hands look like clumsy bandages rather than divine artifacts. The glow finally disappears, hidden beneath multiple layers of cloth.
But I can still feel it. The warmth pulses beneath the wrappings, a constant reminder that something fundamental has changed.
18
