The rope bites into my wrists as they secure the final knots, pulling so tight that my fingers tingle with lost circulation. The post's rough bark scrapes against my skull when I try to shift position, splinters catching in my hair like tiny wooden teeth.
My torn sleeves have fallen away, exposing the golden vine sigil that winds down my arm like living fire. Even in the storm's dim light, the mark blazes with its own illumination, pulsing in rhythm with my racing heart. The sight draws gasps from the crowd—some awed, others disgusted.
"Look how it glows," someone whispers.
"Unnatural," another spits. "Abomination."
The rope around my chest makes breathing difficult, each shallow gasp burning my bruised ribs. But I force myself to lift my head, to scan the crowd for the one face that matters.
I find him across the square.
Galthan kneels chained to a stone platform, massive shackles binding his wrists and ankles. Three warriors hold him down—one pressing his shoulders, two gripping his arms—but even restrained, his body radiates coiled violence. Muscles strain against his bonds with each breath, and fresh blood streams from his split lip where someone struck him for struggling.
Our eyes meet across the churning sea of orcs.
His gaze burns with fury so pure it makes my chest ache. Not at me—never at me—but at the world that brought us to this moment. At the chains that keep him from reaching me. At his own powerlessness in the face of tribal law.
Tears blur my vision, but I don't look away. If these are my final moments, I want to spend them memorizing the fierce love in his green eyes, the way his jaw clenches with desperate rage, the promise written in every line of his scarred face that he would tear the world apart to save me if he could.
He mouths my name, and the sound carries across the square despite the crowd's roar.
I want to speak, to tell him this isn't his fault, that I would choose him again even knowing it would end here. But my throat closes around words too precious to waste on the ears of those who would burn me.
Instead, I memorize him. The way firelight catches the bone beads in his braids. The protective fury that transforms his features from handsome to devastating. The love that blazes brighter than the goddess's own flame.
A figure steps forward, breaking our connection. The torchbearer—an elder I don't recognize, his face painted with ceremonial ash. He carries a long brand wrapped in oil-soaked cloth, flames dancing at its tip like eager spirits.
"By order of both clans," his voice booms across the square, "the false prophet burns."
36
GALTHAN
The shackles bite into my wrists as I surge forward, metal grinding against bone. The chains hold—barely—but the warriors gripping my shoulders stumble backward from the force of my rage.
"Thalia!"
Her name tears from my throat like a battle cry, raw and desperate. The sound carries across the square, cutting through the crowd's bloodthirsty chanting. Every muscle in my body strains against the iron bonds, tendons standing out like cables under my skin.
"Hold him down!" one of my captors barks, throwing his full weight against my shoulders.
The third warrior laughs, his breath reeking of fermented grain. "Look at the mighty war hero. Brought low by a scrawny human cunt."
I snap my head back, skull connecting with his nose in a wet crunch. He staggers away, blood streaming down his face, cursing. The remaining two tighten their grips, but I can feel their uncertainty—they know what I'm capable of when the chains come off.
"Watch your whore burn, war hero," the bleeding one snarls, wiping crimson from his split lip. "Maybe we'll let you have what's left when the fire's done with her."
Red floods my vision. I roar, throwing myself against the shackles with such force that the stone platform cracks beneath my knees. The metal cuts deeper, warm blood making my wrists slick, but I don't care. Let them break every bone in my body—I'll crawl to her if I have to.
"She's not dying for your cowardice!" I bellow at the crowd, at the elders, at anyone who'll listen. "The Harvest Goddess chose her! You burn her, you burn the goddess!"
The torchbearer raises his brand higher, flames dancing eager and bright against the storm-dark sky. Oil drips from the wrapped cloth, hissing when it hits the wet ground. Thalia's eyes find mine across the chaos, golden and fierce despite the tears streaming down her bruised cheeks.
I memorize her face, knowing these might be our last moments. The way firelight catches the defiant tilt of her chin. The goddess's mark blazing down her arm like liquid gold. The love that burns in her gaze even as death approaches.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, knowing she can't hear but hoping somehow the words reach her anyway.
The torch descends toward the oil-soaked kindling at the post's base.
