The others laugh, the sound filling my tent with masculine amusement. Tarnuk slaps his knee, wheezing with mirth. "That's it! Our stone-hearted warrior finally spent a night with that ash-skinned beauty and discovered what the rest of us have been telling him all along."
"She must have changed his mind about something," Krugg agrees, waggling his eyebrows. "Got him all twisted up inside like a green recruit."
The image of being intimate with Rytha hits me like a punch to the gut—her cold amber eyes, her possessive hands, the way she looks at Thalia like she's something to be crushed underfoot. My stomach turns, bile rising in my throat. But I keep my expression neutral, letting them believe whatever keeps them from asking harder questions.
"Maybe you're right," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady.
This sends them into fresh peals of laughter. Grask makes a crude gesture with his hands while Krugg pounds his fist against his thigh. Even Tarnuk grins like he's solved some great mystery, nodding with satisfaction.
Let them think this restlessness comes from Rytha. Let them believe I'm finally embracing my duty as a future chieftain. It'll give me time to figure out what in the War God's name I'm actually doing—and how I'm going to protect the small human who's managed to turn my world upside down.
The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly on the festival grounds, turning the air thick and oppressive. Sweat drips between my shoulder blades as I make my way through the maze of tents and temporary structures, ostensibly checking on security preparations for tonight's ceremony. Really, I'm hunting for a glimpse of dark hair and golden eyes.
I find her near the weapon racks behind the training pavilion, bent over a collection of dulled practice swords that gleam with fresh oil. Her movements are methodical, efficient—each blade cleaned with the same careful attention she gave to my wounds that first night. The sleeves of her rough-spun tunic are pushed up to her elbows, revealing the bandages still wrapped around her wrists.
My jaw tightens at the sight. Rytha's latest round of "discipline" has left its mark, but Thalia works without complaint, her focus absolute. She doesn't look up when my shadow falls across the weapons, though I see her shoulders tense slightly.
"Thorran security needs these ready for tonight's drills," I announce loudly enough for the nearby guards to hear. Two Vaskyr warriors lounge in the shade of the pavilion, paying us little attention as they share a skin of fermented mare's milk.
Thalia straightens, finally meeting my gaze with those impossible golden eyes. "Of course, my lord. They'll be ready within the hour."
Her voice carries the perfect note of subservience, but there's something else underneath—a warmth meant only for me. I step closer, ostensibly to examine her work, and pretend to test the edge of a cleaned blade. The metal catches the sunlight, throwing fragments of light across her face.
"This one needs more attention," I say, setting the sword back on the rack. As I do, I let my fingers brush against hers where she grips the cleaning cloth. The contact lasts barely a heartbeat, but electricity shoots up my arm like lightning.
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Her skin is warm despite the bandages, soft against my scarred knuckles. For a moment, the festival grounds fade away—no guards, no politics, no impossible futures stretching between us like an unbridgeable chasm.
"Later," she whispers, her voice so low I almost miss it. "Same place."
I nod once, a barely perceptible movement that could be mistaken for approval of her work. Then I'm walking away, forcing my steps to remain steady and measured when everything inside me wants to turn back and claim her mouth right here in front of the entire festival.
The guards don't even look up as I pass.
25
THALIA
The ceremonial paint jars gleam like jewels in the lamplight, their contents thick as blood and twice as precious. I dip my cloth into the cleaning solution, working methodically to remove the dried residue from each vessel's rim. The scent of crushed berries and ground minerals fills Rytha's private chambers, mixing with the heavier musk of oiled leather and amber incense.
My hands move without conscious thought, muscle memory guiding me through tasks I've performed countless times. Refill the crimson paste used for war markings. Clean the brushes meant for delicate facial designs. Polish the silver applicators until they shine like moonlight. Each motion brings a strange comfort—the familiar rhythm of service that has defined my entire existence.
Rytha's quarters dwarf my tent like a palace compared to a hovel. Rich tapestries depicting orcish victories hang from the walls, their threads catching the light from oil lamps positioned throughout the space. Carved wooden chests overflow with ceremonial garments, each piece more elaborate than anything I've ever touched. The bed dominates one corner, draped in fursand silks that probably cost more than most humans see in a lifetime.
I reach for the next jar—deep blue paint made from crushed sapphire dust—when footsteps whisper across the carpet behind me. The sound makes my shoulders tense despite myself, though I don't turn around. In my peripheral vision, I catch the flutter of silk robes as Rytha moves closer.
"You've been acting strange."
The words slice through the air like a blade, each syllable sharp with accusation. I keep my eyes fixed on the paint jar, forcing my breathing to remain steady as ice floods my veins. The cloth in my hands trembles slightly before I clench my fingers tighter around the fabric.
I bow my head, letting my hair fall forward to shield my face. "I've been tired. The festival is demanding."
"Has it?"
Her voice carries that particular tone I've learned to recognize—the one that precedes punishment, correction, reminders of my place in her world. Footsteps circle me now, deliberate and predatory. I remain perfectly still, kneeling beside the low table where her cosmetics wait in neat rows.
"The festival has many... requirements," I add, hoping to fill the growing silence with something resembling normalcy. "The preparation, the cleaning, your many?—"
"You have been missing from your tent some nights."
