"How can what?" I step closer until he has to crane his neck to meet my eyes. "How can the Harvest Goddess choose who she blesses? Since when do you question divine will?"
Koreth finds his voice, though it wavers. "We were just talking, Galthan. Just wondering about the meaning?—"
"You were plotting against me." The words come out as a growl. "Against someone marked by our patron goddess."
"It was a joke," another voice pipes up desperately. "Just nervous talk, nothing more?—"
I let out a bark of laughter that makes them all flinch. "Weak-minded fools. The goddess lights an eternal flame and you respond with schemes to spill blood."
They scatter like startled crows, mumbling apologies and excuses as they stumble over tent stakes in their haste to escape. Koreth shoots me one last uncertain look before disappearing into the maze of canvas and rope.
I stand alone beside their abandoned fire, my hands shaking with barely controlled rage.
The next day crawls by like a wounded animal. I watch from across the festival grounds as Rytha forces Thalia to scrub the stone steps of the council platform with nothing but a scrap of torn fabric and a bucket of cold water. The rough stone tears at her already blistered palms, leaving streaks of red in the dirty water.
Thalia doesn't complain. Doesn't even wince. She just kneels there, methodically working at stains that will never come clean, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face.
"Faster," Rytha snaps from her cushioned chair above. "The ceremony is tonight and I won't have stains marring the sacred space."
The irony makes my stomach turn. Sacred space. As if anything about this mockery honors the goddess.
By midday, Rytha has Thalia hauling water from the creek in buckets too heavy for her slight frame. I watch her shoulders shake with exhaustion as she stumbles up the muddy bank, water sloshing over the rim to soak her already filthy dress. When she trips, sending half the bucket's contents spilling into the dirt, Rytha's laughter rings across the clearing like broken glass.
"Clumsy creature. Start over."
Each cruel task makes me sicker. Each bruise on Thalia's perfect skin feels like a personal insult. The goddess marked her, chose her, and yet allows this torment to continue. Why? If the Harvest Goddess truly blessed our connection, why doesn't she protect what belongs to her?
The questions gnaw at me as I pace my tent that evening. The gods abandoned the orcs generations ago, leaving us to scrape by on fading magic and half-remembered rituals. So why appear now, on this strange human world, and choose me? Choose us?
What does she want from me that I'm too blind to see?
19
THALIA
Iwake to the scent of fresh bread cutting through the stale air of my tent.
My body protests as I push myself upright, every muscle screaming from the day's abuse. The canvas walls flicker with dying firelight from somewhere outside, casting shadows that dance like restless spirits across the rough fabric.
There, beside my bedroll where nothing existed when I collapsed hours ago, sits a small collection of items that shouldn't be here.
A loaf of bread, still warm. Clean bandages rolled tight. A clay pot of ointment that smells faintly of mint and something else I can't identify.
I know who brought these. The knowledge settles in my chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through parts of me I'm trying to keep locked away.
My hands tremble as I reach for the bread. Not from hunger, though my stomach clenches at the sight of real food. Not from pain, though my palms throb where the stone steps carved trenches in my flesh.
They shake because someone cared enough to risk being seen. To think of me when the rest of the world would prefer I disappear.
I tear off a piece of bread and chew slowly, letting the warmth spread through my empty belly. It tastes like safety. Like something I'm not supposed to want.
When I finish eating, I unwrap the bloody cloth from my hands. The fabric sticks to the worst cuts, making me bite my lip to keep from crying out. The wounds look angry in the flickering light, edges raised and weeping.
But it's not the cuts that steal my breath.
The golden vine that first appeared on my forearm has spread. Delicate tendrils now curl around my wrist, spiraling down to trace patterns across my palm and fingers. On my other hand, where no mark existed before, new vines circle my wrist like jewelry made of light. I've tried to cover them for days, but it's become more and more difficult with Rytha's relentless tasks.
I turn my hands over, studying the intricate patterns that seem to pulse with their own inner fire. The marks don't hurt. If anything, they feel warm against my skin, like sunlight after a long winter.
