"They remind me that strength comes from unexpected places," I finally answer, the words feeling more honest than anything I've said all night. "That sometimes the gods choose vessels we wouldn't expect."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd, some approving, others uncertain. Rytha's grip on my leg tightens almost imperceptibly.
"Wise words," she purrs, but there's steel beneath the silk. "Though we must be careful not to mistake tricks of light for divine favor."
The reference to Thalia's marking hits like a physical blow. I keep my expression neutral, but inside, something snarls with protective fury. The memory of Thalia's golden eyes reflecting moonlight by the river blazes through my consciousness, drowning out the feast's cacophony.
I remember how she felt beneath my hands, soft and yielding yet somehow stronger than any warrior I've known. The way she looked at me when she spoke of forests and dreams—not with the calculated assessment I'm used to, but with something raw and honest that made my chest ache.
An elder begins recounting the tale of Grimjaw the Bonecrusher, my great-grandfather who supposedly single-handedly held a mountain pass against a hundred enemies. I've heard this story countless times, but tonight the words wash over me like distant thunder. My mind keeps drifting back to smaller moments—Thalia's laugh when I mentioned the difference between human and orc paces, the trust in her voice when she shared pieces of her broken childhood.
"More wine, my lord?"
A human servant appears at my elbow, pitcher in hand. Not Thalia. This one is older, worn down by years of service until her face resembles carved wood. I nod, watching amber liquid flow into my cup while my chest constricts with worry.
What if Rytha has done something? What if she's decided Thalia poses too much of a threat to ignore?
The thought sends ice through my veins. I've seen what happens to humans who displease their orc masters. Seen the casual cruelty that passes for discipline in households that view their servants as slightly more valuable than livestock.
Another ritual I'll have to endure while my thoughts remain tangled around a woman who should mean nothing to me.
But she doesn't mean nothing. She means everything, and that terrifying truth grows stronger with each stolen moment we share.
Rytha's fingers trace patterns on my forearm, her touch deliberate and warm. The scent of ceremonial oils clings to her skin—jasmine and something sharper that makes my nose twitch.
"You're thinking too hard," she murmurs, her voice dropping to that throaty register she reserves for private moments. "Tonight should be about feeling."
I grunt noncommittally, lifting my goblet to create distance between us. The wine tastes like copper and regret.
But Rytha doesn't retreat. Instead, she shifts closer, her thigh pressing against mine with increasing pressure. The carved bone of her ceremonial belt digs into my side as she practically melts into my space.
"The elders are watching," I warn, though my voice lacks conviction.
"Let them." Her hand slides higher, fingertips dancing across my shoulder. "They expect passion from their future leaders."
She moves with calculated grace, her hips shifting in a rhythm that's meant to be enticing but feels rehearsed. Like every gesture has been practiced in front of polished bronze mirrors until perfected. I can practically hear the advice of her aunts echoing in each movement—how to sit, how to touch, how to make a male forget his own name.
"Drink more," she breathes, guiding my goblet back toward my lips. "The wine is particularly fine tonight."
I tip the cup, but her sudden movement causes amber liquid to spill down my chin. The wine traces a path along my jaw,dripping onto my ceremonial vest. Before I can reach for cloth to clean it, Rytha leans forward.
Her tongue follows the trail of wine with deliberate slowness, starting at my chin and working upward. The wet heat of her mouth against my skin should ignite something—desire, possession, the primal satisfaction of claiming and being claimed.
Instead, revulsion rolls through my gut like poison.
I shove her away with enough force to send her stumbling backward. She catches herself against the table, amber eyes wide with shock and fury.
"Have some dignity."
The words crack through the pavilion like a whip. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Goblets freeze halfway to lips. Even the drummers miss a beat.
Rytha's face cycles through emotions faster than a summer storm—confusion, embarrassment, rage. Her ceremonial tattoos seem to darken against her ash-gray skin as blood rushes to her cheeks.
"How dare you?—"
But I'm already standing, my chair scraping against stone with a sound like grinding bones. The gathered orcs watch with the hungry fascination of spectators at a gladiator match. Some lean forward, eyes bright with scandal. Others exchange meaningful glances that speak of political calculations and shifting alliances.
Rytha's father clears his throat with the authority of someone accustomed to managing family crises. "Perhaps the wine has been stronger than expected?—"
