"Clumsy little thing." Rytha's laugh rings out bright and false. "Look what you've done."
The wine pools on the white silk of her ceremonial dress, staining the fabric like spilled blood. She rises from her chair with theatrical grace, holding her arms away from her body as if I've doused her in poison.
"Clean it. Now."
I set the pitcher down and reach for the cloth tucked into my belt, but her hand snaps out to catch my wrist. Her grip burns like iron heated in a forge.
"With your tongue."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Around us, conversations die. Forks pause halfway to mouths. Even the servants stop moving, frozen in the sudden silence that stretches between the tent poles.
"My lady, I?—"
"You made the mess. Clean it." Her amber eyes glitter with something that makes my stomach clench. "Unless you think you're too good for honest work?"
Heat floods my cheeks, but I know better than to refuse. I've seen what happens to humans who defy their masters in public. The last one who tried spent three days tied to a post with no food or water before they cut him down.
I drop to my knees beside her chair. The wine has soaked deep into the silk, spreading outward in dark tendrils that remind me of the goddess's vines. The irony tastes bitter on my tongue before I even begin.
The first touch of wine against my lips makes me gag. It's bitter, overfermented, mixed with the salt of my own humiliation. But I force myself to continue, pressing my mouth to the stained fabric while dozens of eyes burn into my back.
"Thoroughly now," Rytha purrs above me. "We wouldn't want any stains to set."
My tongue works across the silk, tasting wine and shame in equal measure. The fabric scratches against my lips, rough and unforgiving. Someone laughs—a low, cruel sound that echoes through the pavilion like the growl of a hunting beast.
I catch movement in my peripheral vision and risk a glance toward the high table where the clan leaders sit. Galthan's massive frame fills his chair, but his knuckles stand white where they grip his goblet. The bone cup creaks under the pressure of his hands.
His dark eyes meet mine across the space between us, and something passes between us that makes the air feel electric. Not pity—I couldn't bear pity. Something else. Something that burns hotter than shame and tastes sweeter than wine.
"There." Rytha releases my hair and smooths down her dress. "Much better. Though I suppose we'll need to have this cleaned properly later."
I remain on my knees, head bowed, waiting for permission to rise. My cheeks burn with humiliation, but underneath it something else simmers. Something that feels dangerously close to defiance.
Across the pavilion, Galthan's goblet finally cracks.
"And while you're down there," Rytha continues, extending one booted foot toward me, "these could use attention too."
The leather boots rise to her knees, polished to a mirror shine that reflects the pavilion's flickering torchlight. They're ceremonial pieces, inlaid with silver threading and small gems that catch the light like captured stars.
I reach for the cloth still tucked in my belt, but her hand moves faster than a striking snake. The backhand catches me across the cheek with enough force to snap my head sideways, stars exploding behind my eyes.
"What do you think you're doing?" Her voice cuts through the renewed murmur of conversation. "As I told you last time, with your shirt. Now."
The words feel like ice water. Around us, conversations halt mid-sentence. Goblets pause halfway to lips. Even the servants freeze where they stand, platters balanced in their hands like offerings to some cruel god.
My fingers tremble I reach for the hem of my rough-spun tunic. Not from fear—though anyone watching would assume that's what makes me tremble. No, this tremor comes from something far more dangerous. Rage builds in my chest like the goddess's pyre, burning bright and hot and barely contained.
I pull the shirt over my head, the fabric catching momentarily on my hair before falling away. The pavilion's air feels cold against my bare skin, raising bumps along my arms and shoulders. I keep my eyes fixed on Rytha's boots, refusing to acknowledge the weight of dozens of stares.
"Well, well." A gravelly voice from the nearest table makes my stomach clench. "Fine for a human, isn't she?"
Laughter erupts from the group of warriors seated there, harsh and predatory. One of them—a massive brute with scars crisscrossing his green chest—grins wide enough to show his tusks.
"Bet she'd make a decent orc toy. Small enough to toss around."
"Careful," another one chimes in, his voice thick with ale. "That one's got goddess marks. Might curse your cock right off."
More laughter. The sound bounces off the pavilion walls like the howling of wolves circling wounded prey. I force myself to remain still, to breathe steadily through my nose while my hands clench into fists at my sides.
