I step over her corpse without a backward glance.
"Don't touch her!" I roar at the two orcs as they pull Thalia's limp form from the flames. Her clothes are charred, skin angry red in patches, but she's breathing. Unconscious, but breathing.
The orc with the curved blade looks up, exasperated. "We're trying to save her, you thick-skulled?—"
"If not for us, the girl would be dead," the other cuts in, hefting Thalia over his shoulder like a sack of grain. His movements are careful despite the rough handling, avoiding the worst of her burns. "That's the only reason to trust us."
"Who are you?" I demand, blocking their path even as my skull pounds from the head wound. Blood still streams down my neck, but I don't care. "You expect me to trust you?"
The first orc rolls his eyes. "We don't have time for introductions. Half the valley wants her head, the other half thinks she's chosen. We're the second half. Either way, standing here gets her killed."
Around us, the chaos continues—orcs fighting orcs, humans with war paint cutting down warriors twice their size, the acrid smell of smoke and blood thick in the air. But these two move with purpose, like they've been planning this extraction for days.
"You're not Vaskyr," I observe, noting their unfamiliar armor markings. "Not Thorran either."
"Brilliant deduction," the second orc mutters. "Can we discuss genealogy after we're not surrounded by people trying to murder your mate?"
An arrow whistles past my ear, embedding in the ground where Rytha's body lies. More shouts echo from the direction of the tribal council tent—reinforcements coming.
The orc holding Thalia shifts her weight. "Decide now, war hero. Come with us, or watch her bleed out in the mud while you play twenty questions."
39
GALTHAN
The choice isn't really a choice at all. Thalia's breathing is shallow, her skin mottled with angry burns, and the smell of charred flesh makes my stomach clench. Every second we stand here is another second closer to her death.
I reach out, and the orc holding her transfers her limp form to my arms. She weighs almost nothing—too light, like the flames have consumed more than just her clothes. Her head lolls against my chest, dark hair singed at the ends, and I can feel the heat radiating from her burns through what's left of her shirt.
"Her name," I demand, adjusting her carefully so her injured leg doesn't drag. "If we're doing this, I need to know who you are."
The orc with the curved blade wipes blood from a fresh cut on his cheek. "Vargath. And that's all the introduction you get until we're somewhere that doesn't reek of politics and blood."
Vargath cups his hands around his mouth, his voice booming over the chaos. "Move! We have her! Get out, now!"
The call ripples through the crowd, and suddenly I see them—other orcs I hadn't noticed before, scattered through the melee like seeds in soil. They converge on our position with militaryprecision, cutting down anyone who gets too close. Not Thorran, not Vaskyr—something else entirely.
"How many of you are there?" I grunt, shifting Thalia's weight as we start moving toward the valley's edge.
"Enough," Vargath's companion answers, swinging his war axe in a wide arc that sends three Vaskyr warriors stumbling backward. "Less talking, more running."
We push through the crowd, and I use my bulk to clear a path while keeping Thalia's burns away from grasping hands and swinging weapons. A Thorran soldier recognizes me, confusion flickering across his face before Vargath's blade opens his throat.
"You're killing my people," I observe, though I don't stop moving.
"Your people tried to burn a goddess-touched woman alive," Vargath replies without looking back. "I'd say we're even."
A familiar figure steps into our path—stocky frame, broken tusk, gray-green skin scarred from a dozen battles. Tarnuk stands with his weapons lowered, but his stance is tense, ready.
My heart lurches. Of all the orcs in both clans, he's the one I least want to fight. The one I can't afford to lose.
"Brother." His voice cuts through the noise around us, steady and sure. "Let me join you."
I almost stumble. "Tarnuk?—"
"I've watched you these past days. Seen what she means to you." His eyes flick to Thalia's unconscious form, then back to my face. "If the War God wanted her dead, he wouldn't have let the Harvest Goddess mark her first."
Vargath makes an impatient sound. "Touching reunion, but we're about to be surrounded by very angry orcs who don't share his theology."
