I turn my back on him and walk away, my hands still clenched into fists. The rage burns slower now, but it doesn't fade. It settles into my bones like molten iron, hot and permanent.
"Galthan."
Tarnuk's voice stops me at the courtyard's edge. My oldest friend emerges from the shadow of the armory, his scarred face grim with concern. The broken tusk that earned him his nickname catches the sunlight like a blade.
"That was unwise."
"Was it?" I don't slow my pace as he falls into step beside me. "A warrior insults a goddess-marked woman, and I'm the one being unwise?"
"You know what I mean." His tone carries the weight of years fighting beside me, years watching my back when arrows flew and blood ran thick. "She's going to get you killed, brother."
I stop walking. Turn to face him fully. Tarnuk's gray-green skin bears the scars of a dozen campaigns, but his eyes hold something I've never seen there before. Fear. Not for himself—never that. For me.
"Then I'll die on my feet."
23
THALIA
The candlelight wavers in my tent like a dying breath, casting shadows that dance across the canvas walls. I sit cross-legged on my thin bedroll, unwinding the bloodied strips of cloth from my palms with careful precision. Each layer peels away like old skin, revealing the raw meat beneath—torn flesh that weeps clear fluid and throbs with every heartbeat.
"Goddess," I whisper to the flickering flame, my voice barely audible above the distant sounds of the festival winding down. "I don't understand what you want from me."
The silence stretches long enough that I almost convince myself she's abandoned me entirely. That whatever divine attention I caught was fleeting as morning mist, gone now that the novelty has worn thin. I reach for the clean linen strips I've prepared, the movement sending fresh waves of pain shooting up my arms.
"I'm not brave," I continue, wrapping the first bandage with practiced efficiency despite the tremor in my fingers. "I'm not strong. I don't even know why you chose me when there are so many others who?—"
The tent flap tears open and sends the candle flame guttering wildly. I freeze, half-wrapped bandage dangling from my palm, expecting Rytha's fury or worse. Instead, Galthan fills the entrance like a storm given flesh.
He's drenched in sweat that makes his dark green skin gleam like polished jade in the candlelight. His chest rises and falls with the deep, measured breaths of someone who's been fighting—or restraining himself from fighting. The thick braids that normally frame his face hang loose and disheveled, a few of the carved bone beads missing entirely. One dangles by a single thread, swaying with each movement of his massive frame.
Blood stains his knuckles. Fresh blood, still wet enough to catch the light.
He doesn't speak. Just stands there filling my tiny space with his presence, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. The broad tusks that jut from his lower lip catch the candlelight, and for a moment they look less like weapons and more like something carved from ivory by a master sculptor.
I should tell him to leave. Should remind him that being found here means death for both of us. Instead, I watch as he lets the tent flap fall closed behind him, sealing us into this small bubble of warmth and flickering light.
He moves with surprising care for someone his size, lowering himself to sit across from me on the packed earth floor. His legs fold beneath him with the fluid grace of a predator at rest, but tension radiates from every line of his body. The scars that crisscross his torso tell stories of battles won and lost—some old enough to have faded to pale lines, others still pink and raised.
We don't speak. The silence between us feels heavy with unspoken words, thick as honey and twice as sweet. I continue wrapping my hands while he watches, his dark eyes tracking every movement with the intensity of a hunter studying prey.But there's no threat in his gaze. Only something that makes my chest tighten and my breath catch.
The candlelight plays across the planes of his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the way his brow furrows with concentration. He's beautiful in the way that mountains are beautiful—dangerous and imposing, but undeniably magnificent.
The weight of his presence fills every corner of my small tent, making the air feel thick and charged. I finish wrapping my left hand, tucking the end of the linen strip with movements that feel clumsy under his intense gaze.
Finally, I can't bear it anymore.
"Why are you here?"
The words come out barely above a whisper, but they might as well be shouted for how they shatter the quiet. His dark eyes find mine across the flickering candlelight, and something raw passes between us—something that makes my stomach flip and my pulse quicken.
"Because I don't feel like myself unless I am."
The honesty in his voice hits me like a physical blow. No deflection, no clever words—just truth delivered with the kind of quiet intensity that makes my chest ache. His scarred hands rest on his knees, knuckles still stained with blood that belongs to someone else. Someone who probably said something about me that he didn't like.
The thought sends warmth spreading through my belly, dangerous and intoxicating.
I should tell him he's being foolish. Should remind him that we're playing with fire in a world made of kindling. Instead, I find myself leaning forward, my bandaged hand reaching out to touch his shoulder.
