"The boy speaks!" the Vaskyr Chieftain laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Tell us, great warrior—was she worth destroying everything for? Was one night with a marked slave worth more than the honor of your bloodline?"
"Watch your tongue when you speak of her."
The hall falls silent except for the crackling of torches and my own ragged breathing.
Rytha's father leans back in his throne, studying me like a hunter examining wounded prey.
"She's a plague," he declares, his voice carrying the finality of an executioner's axe. "A disease that's infected our strongest warrior and threatens to spread to others. The only cure is fire."
"Defend yourself, boy." Elder Korrath's voice cuts through the chamber like a rusty blade. "What possible justification could you have for this betrayal?"
I lift my head, feeling the weight of every gaze in the hall. The shackles bite deeper as I shift, but the pain grounds me, keeps me focused on what matters.
"The Goddess's will is not mine to deny."
The words hang in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. I watch the color drain from Tarnuk's scarred face as he stands among the warriors at the back of the hall. His broken tusk catches the torchlight as his mouth falls open in horror.
Murmurs ripple through the chamber like wind through wheat—some shocked, others angry, all dangerous. I catch fragments of whispered threats, talk of war, of blood spilled for honor.
From the shadows behind her father's throne, Rytha's smile spreads like poison across her lips. She thinks she's already won, that I've just handed her everything she needs to destroy me and claim her victory.
The fools have no idea what they're dealing with.
"You dare invoke the divine to justify your lust?" the Vaskyr Chieftain's voice booms off the carved walls. "You dishonor not just your clan, but the very gods you claim to serve!"
I surge to my feet despite the chains, my voice carrying enough force to rattle the ancient stones.
"Dishonor? You blind bastards spent a week celebrating a Goddess you claim abandoned us, and when she returns—when she marks a human with her own divine sigil—you call it trickery!"
Elder Korrath's face purples with rage. "How dare you?—"
"How dare I what? Speak truth?" I turn my gaze across every face in that hall, letting them see the fire burning in my eyes. "You feast in her honor, burn offerings at her altar, beg for her blessings. But the moment she shows you her will—her actual, undeniable will—you piss yourselves and cry fraud because it doesn't serve your immediate political needs."
The Vaskyr Chieftain rises from his throne, his massive frame trembling with fury.
"She's a human slave! A nothing!"
"She bears the mark of divinity, you ignorant fool!" My voice cracks like a whip. "This is exactly why the gods abandoned us in the first place—because we're too fucking selfish and stupid to accept divine will when it challenges our petty ambitions!"
Silence falls like a hammer blow. Even the torches seem to dim in the face of my words.
The silence stretches like a bowstring about to snap. Every warrior in the hall holds their breath, waiting to see which way the wind will blow. The torches flicker against carved stone, casting dancing shadows that make the ancient battle scenes seem alive with movement.
Then Rytha steps forward, her ceremonial tattoos gleaming in the firelight like war paint. Her amber eyes lock onto mine with the intensity of a predator sizing up wounded prey.
"I want to speak with him alone."
The words drop into the silence like stones into still water, sending ripples of surprise through the gathered elders and warriors. Murmurs rise from the back of the hall where my brothers-in-arms stand watching this disaster unfold.
Her father's weathered face twists with confusion and mounting anger. The antler pauldrons on his shoulders catch the light as he turns toward his daughter, his braided beard bristling with indignation.
"Absolutely not." His voice carries the authority of a chieftain accustomed to unquestioned obedience. "This bastard has already dishonored you enough. I won't have you?—"
"This is my choice." Rytha's voice cuts through his protests like a blade through leather. She doesn't raise her tone, doesn't shout or plead. The quiet certainty in her words somehow carries more weight than his bluster.
The Vaskyr Chieftain's massive frame trembles with barely controlled rage. His scarred hands clench into fists that could crush stone, and for a moment I think he might strike his own daughter down where she stands.
"Your choice?" The words drip with disbelief. "Your choices led us to this mess in the first place! You should have kept better control of your property!"
