Elder Thorgrim emerges from the shadows, his weathered face catching the firelight. Deep lines map a lifetime of battles across his features, and his gray braids hang heavy with bone charms that click softly as he moves.
"Elder." I incline my head, but my eyes remain fixed on the flames.
"You stand before the goddess's fire like a supplicant." He settles beside me with the careful movements of age, joints protesting the cold. "What is it you seek, young warrior?"
The question hangs between us, simple yet impossible to answer. I could lie. Tell him I'm merely restless, that the approaching ceremony weighs on my mind. But something in his ancient eyes suggests he'd see through any deception.
"A sign." The words scrape from my throat like rusted metal. "That I'm not losing my mind."
Thorgrim's laugh rumbles deep in his chest, a sound like distant thunder. "Ah, the eternal question of warriors who find themselves caught between duty and desire."
"The goddess marked her." I finally turn to meet his gaze. "In front of both clans. That fire hasn't died since."
"And you wonder if divine will trumps political necessity."
"I wonder if I'm a fool for believing any of it could be true."
The elder's eyes crinkle with something that might be amusement. "The Harvest Goddess gives no easy signs, boy. She's not the War God, demanding blood and glory. Her truths come wrapped in riddles, her blessings disguised as curses."
I bark out a harsh laugh. "Then she's succeeded. This feels like both."
"Tell me, what do you see when you look into those flames?"
The question catches me off guard. I turn back to the pyre, expecting to see nothing but dancing tongues of fire and glowing embers. But as I stare deeper, the flames seem to shift and swirl, taking on new patterns.
And there, in the heart of the burning wood, I see her.
Thalia's face forms in the golden light—not as she appeared today, bruised and exhausted from Rytha's cruelty, but as she was that first night in her tent. Determined. Unafraid. Her hands steady as she tended my wounds, her eyes bright with something I couldn't name then but recognize now.
The vision shifts. I see her kneeling in the dirt while Rytha sneers down at her. I see her small hands bleeding as she scrubs stone. I see the way she flinched when the goddess's mark blazeddown her arm, terrified not of divine attention but of what it would cost her.
My fists clench at my sides. The fire burns hotter, responding to something I don't understand.
"Nothing," I whisper, my voice rough with emotion I can't contain.
"Hm. Most definitely," he says before turning and walking away.
The flames dance higher, casting wild shadows across the empty festival grounds. In their light, I see not just Thalia's face but her future—the one that awaits if I do nothing. If I let duty and honor chain me to a path that leads away from her.
"I'll protect her." The vow falls from my lips like a stone into still water, sending ripples through everything I thought I knew about myself. "Even if I have to burn the world to do it."
21
THALIA
The morning sun beats down mercilessly on the festival pavilion, turning the air thick and stifling beneath the heavy canvas. I stand behind Rytha's ornate chair, my hands folded at my waist, watching steam rise from platters of roasted meat and honey cakes that fill the long tables.
"Wine," Rytha commands without turning around.
I reach for the ceramic pitcher, careful not to let my sleeves brush against the elaborate spread. The liquid sloshes dark red as I pour it into her goblet—a massive thing carved from what looks like bone, inlaid with amber stones that catch the filtered sunlight.
"More."
The wine reaches the rim. Any higher and it will spill. "My lady, it's?—"
"Did I ask for your opinion?" Her voice carries across the pavilion, drawing glances from nearby orcs who pause their conversations to watch. "Pour."
My fingers tighten on the pitcher's handle. The ceramic feels slick with condensation and my own nervous sweat. I tip itforward, watching the dark liquid breach the goblet's edge and run down the carved bone in crimson rivulets.
