The morning air carries the scent of cooking fires and the low rumble of two tribes preparing for ceremony. I limp toward the Thorran camp, favoring my left side.
"Galthan!"
Tarnuk's voice cuts through the bustle. He jogs over, his stocky frame moving with surprising speed. His broken tusk catches the morning light as he grins.
"Thought you were crow meat." He claps me on the shoulder—the wrong shoulder. I grunt and shift away from his hand.
"Takes more than a few arrows to put me down."
"Few arrows?" He eyes the careful way I'm holding myself. "You look like you got trampled by a boar. Where've you been? The patrol came back without you hours ago."
"Found shelter. Patched myself up."
Tarnuk's dark eyes narrow. He knows me well enough to hear the gaps in that explanation, but he doesn't push. Not yet.
"Well, whatever hole you crawled into, crawl back out. The council awaits—they're making the betrothal official. Your bride's been preening like a peacock all morning."
My stomach tightens. The ceremony. Rytha of Vaskyr, with her ash-gray skin and ambitious eyes. A political union dressed up as romance.
"Give me a moment to wash."
"Moment's all you get. They're gathering at the central fire now."
I duck into my assigned tent and splash cold water over my face and neck. The basin turns pink where it touchesthe bandages. I change into clean leathers—ceremonial ones with Thorran insignia worked into the shoulders. The kind of garment that announces your importance before you even speak.
When I emerge, Tarnuk falls into step beside me. "Remember, this alliance strengthens both clans. Your father's counting on you."
"I know my duty."
"Do you? Because you've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get right before you do something stupidly noble."
The central gathering space opens before us—a circle of packed earth surrounded by colorful banners from both tribes. Thorran green and bronze faces Vaskyr red and gold across the fire pit.
Rytha stands in the center, resplendent in ceremonial robes that catch the firelight. Her amber eyes find mine immediately, and she beams with the satisfaction of someone who's about to claim a prize.
Behind her, barely visible in the shadows cast by the Vaskyr delegation, stands a slight figure with downcast eyes and familiar hands folded at her waist.
The world tilts. My breath catches in my chest like I've taken another arrow.
Those are the hands that stitched my wounds. The same careful fingers that removed my armor piece by piece. The woman who could have called for guards or masters, who could have left me to bleed out on her floor.
Instead, she saved my life.
She looks up—just for a heartbeat—and our eyes meet across the ceremonial space. Her golden gaze widens with the same recognition that's currently turning my insides to ice.
Then she drops her head again, shoulders hunching inward like she's trying to disappear entirely.
"Galthan of Thorran." Rytha's voice carries across the gathering like a blade finding its mark. She extends one elegant hand, rings glinting on her fingers. "At last."
I step forward, boots crunching on the packed earth. The ceremonial space feels smaller than it should, crowded with expectations and watching eyes. "Rytha of Vaskyr."
Her grip proves firm when I take her hand—the grasp of someone who's never doubted her own strength. She doesn't release it immediately, instead letting her amber gaze travel over my frame with obvious appreciation.
"They told me you were formidable, but words hardly do justice." Her smile sharpens at the edges. "The scars suit you. Each one a testament to your prowess."
