"This is impossible," I whisper to the empty tent.
But even as I say it, I know impossible doesn't mean untrue. I've seen the eternal pyre burn for days despite buckets of water. I've felt something ancient stirring in the valley's wind. I've watched Galthan look at me like I matter.
All impossible. All real.
The Harvest Goddess. A deity I've never prayed to, never believed in, never even heard much about beyond scraps of overheard conversation. Orcs don't share their religious practices with human servants. We're told to stay quiet, stay useful, stay invisible during their rituals.
So why me? What could a goddess want with someone who's spent her entire life being told she's worthless?
I reach for the clay pot of ointment, my fingers trembling as I remove the lid. The scent that rises makes my throat tight. Mint and chamomile, yes, but underneath that—something uniquely him. Like leather and steel and the wild places beyond the valley.
I have my own herbs. Salves I mixed myself from plants I know better than my own heartbeat. Remedies that would heal these cuts faster and cleaner than anything he could find.
But I dip my fingers into his ointment anyway.
The cool paste soothes my torn skin as I spread it carefully over each wound. I wind his bandages around my palms, taking care not to cover the golden marks that seem to glow brighter in the darkness.
Each gentle touch feels like rebellion. Like choosing to accept care I don't deserve from someone who shouldn't risk giving it.
My chest aches with something I can't name. Something bigger than gratitude, deeper than fear.
The summons comes before dawn.
I'm dragged from my tent by two Vaskyr guards who don't bother with gentleness. My freshly bandaged hands throb as they haul me across the camp, past dying cook fires and sleeping orcs who don't spare me a glance.
Rytha's pavilion looms ahead, its crimson banners snapping in the pre-dawn wind. The guards shove me through the entrance flap and force me to my knees on the thick rugs that cover her floor.
She sits in a carved chair that might as well be a throne, her ash-gray skin gleaming with oils and her ceremonial tattoos freshly darkened. Amber eyes study me like I'm something unpleasant she's scraped off her boot.
"Look at me."
I lift my head, keeping my expression carefully blank. Years of practice have taught me how to arrange my features into perfect submission.
"Do you think you're special?" Her voice carries the kind of casual cruelty that comes from absolute power.
I bow deeper, letting my hair fall forward to hide my face. "I'm just a servant, mistress. Nothing more."
"Just a servant." She rises from her chair, circling me like a predator. "Then explain something to me, little ant. When my father and I told you to disappear—to run before this situation became... complicated—why didn't you listen?"
The question leaves silence in its wake. I can feel her waiting, can sense the trap hidden beneath her seemingly reasonable tone.
"I..." My throat feels dry as sand. "I know nothing other than this life, mistress. Nothing other than serving you. You are my master. I wouldn't know how to exist without?—"
But my voice cracks on the last word. Just slightly. Just enough.
Rytha stops circling.
The silence stretches until my skin crawls. I can hear her breathing, slow and controlled, can smell the expensive perfumes that cling to her skin.
"Interesting." The word drops like a stone into still water. "That little tremor in your voice. That hesitation."
I keep my head down, willing myself to become smaller, invisible. But there's nowhere to hide from those amber eyes.
"You see, I've owned you for how long now? Since you were what—twelve? Thirteen?" She crouches beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. "I know every expression you make. Every little tell when you're lying."
My hands clench in my lap, the fresh bandages pulling tight across my wounds.
"So when I ask why you didn't run, and you give me that perfectly rehearsed answer about knowing nothing else..." She reaches out, grips my chin with fingers that feel like iron, and forces me to meet her gaze. "I know you're not telling me the whole truth."
