"Take him to the execution site," Rytha snarls, her composure completely shattered. "Let him watch his precious goddess burn before we string him up beside her."
The guards haul me toward the doors, my feet scraping against stone worn smooth by centuries of tribal councils. As we pass beneath the carved lintel depicting the first great harvest, I catch one last glimpse of Rytha standing alone among the guttering candles, her face twisted with the kind of fury that consumes everything it touches.
The corridor ahead leads toward firelight and the sound of gathering crowds. Toward Thalia.
Toward whatever ending the Harvest Goddess has written for us both.
35
THALIA
The door crashes open with a sound like breaking bones. I don't flinch—my body has nothing left to give, every nerve already screaming from Rytha's attentions. Blood crusts the corner of my mouth where her rings split my lip, and my ribs protest each shallow breath.
"On your feet, chosen one."
The guard's voice drips mockery. Rough hands haul me upright before I can comply, rope burns from my bindings making my wrists slick with fresh blood. The hemp cuts deeper with each movement, but I've learned not to struggle. Struggling only makes them laugh.
They drag me through corridors that blur together in a haze of torchlight and jeering faces. Servants I once worked beside press themselves against the walls, some weeping, others staring with the hollow eyes of those who've seen their own futures written in someone else's suffering.
The first drops of rain hit my face as we emerge into the festival grounds. Storm clouds roil overhead like angry bruises, pregnant with lightning that flickers but doesn't strike. The air tastes of copper and ozone, heavy with the promise of violence.
"Look what the storm brought us," one guard chuckles. "Even the sky wants to piss on her."
But the Harvest Flame burns.
Despite days of buckets of water thrown by terrified humans, the sacred fire blazes as bright as the moment the goddess first lit it. Golden tongues of flame dance against the darkening sky, untouched by wind or weather. The sight makes my chest tight with something between terror and wonder.
A wooden post rises before the pyre like a blackened finger pointing accusations at the heavens. Fresh-cut timber, still weeping sap that gleams in the firelight. They've built it tall enough that everyone in the crowd will have a clear view when I burn.
The crowd gathers like carrion birds drawn to fresh meat. Hundreds of orcs press forward, their voices rising in a cacophony that splits between bloodlust and uncertainty.
"Burn the witch!"
"False prophet!"
"Let her burn!"
But other voices cut through the chanting, creating discord in what should be unified hatred.
"The flame still burns."
"What if she really is chosen?"
"The goddess hasn't abandoned us—look at the fire!"
Thunder rolls across the valley, a deep rumble that seems to rise from the earth itself. The sound makes several orcs glance nervously at the sky, then at the Harvest Flame that refuses to acknowledge the storm's authority.
"Afraid of a little rain?" I ask the guard gripping my arm.
He backhands me without breaking stride. "Shut your mouth, human."
Blood fills my mouth again, warm and metallic. I spit it into the mud at our feet, watching it disappear into the churned earthwhere so many boots have trampled the festival grounds into a battlefield.
They shove me against the post, the rough wood scraping against my spine through the thin fabric of my torn dress. More rope appears, binding me tight against the timber while the crowd presses closer, their faces a sea of tusks and scars and hungry eyes.
The Harvest Flame crackles behind them, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. Untouched. Unquenched.
Eternal.
