She guides me through the wheat toward a sound I hadn't noticed before—the gentle lapping of water against shore. We emerge at the edge of a lake so clear it might be made of crystal, its surface perfectly still despite the breeze that sets the grain dancing.
"Look."
I peer into the water, expecting to see my own familiar reflection—hollow cheeks, tangled hair, the permanent shadows of exhaustion beneath my eyes. The scrawny slave who learned long ago to make herself invisible.
Instead, I gasp.
The woman staring back at me has curves that speak of proper meals and peaceful sleep. Her hair falls in lustrouswaves around shoulders that hold themselves straight with quiet confidence. Her skin glows with health, unmarked by bruises or the permanent grime of servitude. The simple cream dress fits her perfectly, emphasizing the graceful lines of her body.
She's beautiful. Not in Rytha's sharp, predatory way, but with a warmth that draws the eye like candlelight in a dark room.
"This is impossible," I whisper.
The Goddess kneels beside me, her reflection joining mine in the crystal water. "Look at that, and when my son looks at you, tell him that he is seeing nothing. Because this is what he sees. This, child, is who you are."
The world fractures.
I wake on cold stone, tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Galthan," I sob, the word getting stuck in my throat.
34
GALTHAN
The council chamber empties like blood from a wound, leaving only the echo of angry voices and the bitter taste of betrayal hanging in the air. Torchlight flickers against stone walls carved with ancestral victories—battles I helped win, conquests that built my reputation. Now they feel like monuments to a stranger's life.
Rytha remains beside me, her ash-gray skin luminous in the firelight. She moves with predatory grace, circling me like she's already tasting victory. The ceremonial tattoos spiraling down her arms seem to writhe in the dancing shadows.
"It's not too late." Her voice drips honey over poison, each word carefully measured and weighted with false promises. The sound echoes off the carved stone walls, bouncing back at us like a mockery of sincerity. "You can still reclaim your honor, Galthan. Rule beside me as we always planned—as it was always meant to be."
I watch her reach for an ornate chalice that sits on the heavy oak table, its surface etched with scenes of conquest and domination. Wine the color of dried blood sloshes against burnished silver as she lifts it, the liquid catching torchlightlike liquid rubies. Dark sediment swirls in the depths—imported wine, expensive enough to feed a dozen families through winter. She extends it toward me with both hands, a ceremonial gesture that once would have sealed our union, amber eyes gleaming with calculated seduction and barely contained triumph.
"Power beyond your wildest dreams, respect from every clan from here to the Sunward Peaks, forgiveness for this momentary lapse in judgment—all yours if you simply denounce that pathetic creature and watch her burn as she so richly deserves." Her lips curve in what might pass for a smile if you'd never seen genuine warmth. "Think of what we could accomplish together, what territories we could claim, what legacy we could forge."
The wine sits heavy between us, its rich, heady scent mixing with the acrid smoke from dying torches and the lingering smell of fear-sweat from the departed council members. The chalice trembles slightly in her grip—the only sign that perhaps she's not as confident as she appears. I don't move to take it. My hands remain at my sides, scarred fingers curled into loose fists.
"Was this always your plan?" The words scrape raw from my throat, each syllable tasting of ash and betrayal. My voice echoes in the stone chamber, bouncing off walls that have witnessed countless such betrayals over the centuries. "To kill the only person touched by a god in generations? To murder the one being who might actually bring our people something greater than endless raids and bloodshed?"
Rytha's perfect facade—that carefully constructed mask of nobility and righteousness she's worn since childhood—cracks for just a moment, revealing something cold and vicious underneath. Something that has always been there, lurking beneath the surface of her amber eyes like a serpent waiting to strike. The ceremonial tattoos that spiral across her ash-gray skin seem to writhe in the flickering torchlight, and fora heartbeat, I see her as she truly is: empty, grasping, utterly without honor.
Then she laughs, the sound like breaking glass scattered across marble, sharp and brittle and completely devoid of any warmth or genuine mirth. It's a sound I've heard her make at executions, at the suffering of enemies, at the pain of those too weak to defend themselves.
"She's not a person, Galthan." She sets the chalice down with deliberate, theatrical care, wine splashing across the ancient stone table like spilled blood, staining the carved runes that mark this as a place of judgment. The liquid spreads in dark rivulets between the grooves, pooling in symbols whose meaning has been lost to time. "She's kindling. Nothing more than a useful tool that's finally outlived its purpose. A weapon that grew too sharp for its wielder's hand."
The chamber falls silent except for the steady drip of wax from guttering candles. I study her face—the sharp cheekbones, the predatory smile, the complete absence of anything resembling mercy or compassion. How did I never see it before? This emptiness where her soul should be?
I gather saliva in my mouth and spit directly into her face.
The glob lands across her left cheek, sliding down toward her jaw in a slow, deliberate trail. Her amber eyes widen with shock, then narrow to slits of pure rage.
"Then I'll burn with her."
Rytha wipes the spit away with the back of her hand, her movements sharp and violent. Her voice rises to a shriek that echoes off the ancient stones.
"Guards!"
The chamber doors explode inward. Heavy boots thunder across the floor as armed orcs flood the space, their weapons already drawn. I don't resist as rough hands seize my arms,dragging me upright with enough force to dislocate my shoulders.
