I will not cry. I will not break. I will not give them the satisfaction.
Taking the shirt in both hands, I kneel before Rytha's extended boot. The leather gleams like black water, already perfect, but I begin to work anyway. The rough fabric of my tunic scratches against the smooth surface, but I apply pressure, working in small circles around the silver threading.
"Thoroughly," Rytha murmurs, loud enough for the watching crowd to hear. "We can't have my future husband thinking I keep sloppy servants."
The words sting worse than her slap. I scrub harder, the fabric growing damp with my own sweat as I work my way up the boot's length. The silver inlay digs into my knuckles through the thin cloth, leaving red marks across my skin.
From the high table comes the sharp crack of splintering wood. I risk a glance upward and catch sight of Galthan rising from his chair, the armrest crumbling beneath his grip like kindling. His dark eyes burn with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
Without a word, he turns and stalks from the pavilion, his massive frame cutting through the crowd. The tent flap snaps shut behind him with the finality of a tomb closing.
22
GALTHAN
The barracks courtyard stretches before me like a battlefield, all packed earth and weapon racks gleaming in the afternoon sun. I stride across it with purpose, my boots grinding against the dirt with each step. The rage still burns in my chest from watching Thalia kneel half-naked before those leering bastards, scrubbing Rytha's boots like some broken thing.
The sound of laughter stops me cold.
"Did you see the little human this morning?" The voice belongs to Grask, a thick-skulled warrior from the eastern patrol who's never met a thought too crude to voice. He sits sprawled on a bench near the weapon racks, sharpening his broad-bladed axe with lazy, deliberate strokes that scrape against the whetstone. The sound grates against my nerves like claws on stone. "Tongue working overtime on that dress, licking every speck of mud off like her life depended on it."
His companions snicker like hyenas circling fresh carrion, their voices carrying the cruel edge that comes with pack mentality. One of them—Krugg, I think, a gap-toothed brute with more scars than sense—leans forward on his own bench, his grin spreading wide enough to show the full length of hisyellowed tusks. The expression makes my stomach turn with disgust.
"Should've seen her tits when she stripped that shirt off," he continues, his voice thick with lewd appreciation. "Small as they are, but perfect handfuls. Bet they'd feel real nice pressed against your chest while she's?—"
Each syllable stoke the fire that's been building in my chest since I left that cursed hall. My hands clench into fists at my sides, the leather of my gauntlets creaking under the strain.
"Blessed by the bed, not the goddess," Grask adds, setting down his whetstone. "That's what I say. Mark or no mark, she's still just a warm hole with legs."
The world goes red around the edges.
My fist connects with Grask's jaw before he can blink. The impact sends shock waves up my arm, bone meeting bone with a crack that echoes across the courtyard like splitting timber. His head snaps back so hard I hear his neck pop, and he topples from the bench to hit the dirt with a wet thud.
Blood streams from his nose, painting the packed earth in dark droplets. His eyes roll white for a moment before focusing on me with the glazed confusion of a stunned ox.
"What the?—"
"Get up." My voice comes out as a growl, low and dangerous. "Stand up and say that again."
Grask spits blood and scrambles backward on his elbows, leaving red smears in the dirt. The other warriors freeze like rabbits sensing a wolf, their hands hovering near weapons they're too smart to draw.
"I didn't mean nothing by it," Grask mumbles through split lips. "Just talking?—"
"About insulting a goddess-marked woman." I take a step forward, and he flinches. "About reducing someone favored by the gods to meat for your amusement."
"She's just a human?—"
My boot catches him in the ribs before he can finish. The kick lifts him off the ground and sends him rolling across the courtyard like a broken doll. He curls into a ball, wheezing and clutching his side.
"Insult her again," I snarl, loud enough for every warrior in earshot to hear, "and you'll meet the real wrath of the gods."
The silence that follows feels heavy as a thundercloud, pregnant with the kind of tension that precedes lightning strikes. Even the wind seems to hold its breath, as if the very air understands that something sacred has been violated and corrected. The courtyard, moments before filled with coarse laughter and crude jests, now stretches empty save for the harsh sound of Grask's labored breathing.
His companions—warriors who've faced down enemy spears and charging beasts without flinching—back away slowly, their calloused hands trembling as they retreat. Their eyes have gone wide with the kind of primal fear usually reserved for charging cavalry or the roar of an avalanche. They've seen me angry before, seen me cut down enemies in the heat of battle, but this is different. This rage carries the weight of something beyond mortal fury.
One by one, they scatter like leaves before a storm. Feet pound against the packed dirt as they flee toward the supposed safety of the barracks, abandoning their weapons in their desperate haste to escape. Axes and spears lie forgotten in the dust, their owners more concerned with putting distance between themselves and whatever dark force they sense radiating from my frame. Only Grask remains, still curled on the ground like a beaten dog, his breath coming in short, pained gasps.
"The goddess chose her," I tell his prone form, each word dropping like stones into still water. My voice carries across theempty courtyard, ensuring that any who might still be listening understand the gravity of what has transpired. "Question that choice, and you question divine will itself."
