Tarnuk falls into step beside us, his war hammer appearing in his scarred hands. "Then let's give them something to be angry about."
The three of us—four, counting Vargath's companion—carve through the crowd. Tarnuk's hammer crushes a Vaskyr skull, while Vargath's curved sword opens arteries with surgical precision. I use my size and desperation, shouldering past warriors too shocked to react quickly.
"There!" A Thorran captain points at us from across the square. "They have the girl! Stop them!"
"So much for subtlety," Tarnuk mutters, crushing another warrior's ribs with a backhand swing.
The woods swallow us in darkness, but we're not alone. Shadows emerge from behind trees—humans with blue and white war paint streaked across their faces, moving with the fluid grace of trained fighters. They fall into formation around us without a word, covering our retreat with an efficiency that makes my warrior's instincts prick with awareness.
A human woman sprints alongside me, her painted face fierce beneath curly chestnut hair. She carries twin daggers that gleam even in the moonlight, and when a Vaskyr scout stumbles into our path, she opens his throat before he can draw breath to shout.
I've never seen humans fight like this. Not the cowering servants I've known, but warriors who move like they were born to it.
"Who are you?" I demand between ragged breaths, adjusting Thalia's weight as we leap over a fallen log.
The woman glances up at me, her smile sharp as her blades. "We're just like you. Like her."
Another human—male, with intricate spiral patterns painted down his arms—vaults over a boulder to join us. "Goddess-touched," he explains, parrying a thrown spear with casual precision. "Marked by divine hands, cast out by our own people."
Behind us, Tarnuk's war hammer connects with something that crunches. "How many of you are there?"
"Enough to make this interesting," Vargath calls from ahead, his curved blade carving through low-hanging branches.
The painted woman keeps pace with my longer strides, her eyes fixed on Thalia's burned form. I look down at Thalia's face, pale and slack against my chest. Her golden eyes are closed, dark lashes singed but still intact. The vine markings on her arm pulse faintly, like a heartbeat made visible.
"Will she live?" The question tears from my throat rougher than I intended.
The woman's expression turns solemn, her playful smile vanishing. "She was chosen for a reason. The Harvest Goddess has a plan for her." She leaps over a stream without breaking stride. "Let us hope that it's not for her to die on this night."
40
THALIA
Pain floods my consciousness like water breaking through a dam. Every nerve ending screams in protest as awareness creeps back, bringing with it the memory of flames licking at my skin, the acrid smell of burning cloth, Rytha's wild eyes as she dropped the torch.
I'm alive. Somehow, impossibly, I'm alive.
The surface beneath me is soft—softer than anything I've felt in years. Real bedding, not the thin pallet I'm used to. The scent of clean linen mingles with something else—herbs I recognize but can't place through the haze of agony that radiates from every limb.
A small movement catches my attention. Through the doorway, a tiny figure peers around the frame—an orc child, maybe six years old, with enormous dark eyes and tusks no bigger than milk teeth. The moment I groan, those eyes widen to impossible proportions, and small feet scramble away across what sounds like wooden floors.
"Mama!" The voice echoes from somewhere deeper in the dwelling. "The burned lady is awake!"
Burned lady. Right. That's what I am now.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it. Fire races along my left side where the flames caught me worst, and my right leg throbs with each heartbeat. The pain is so sharp it steals my breath, leaving me gasping against the pillow.
That's when I notice the weight against my right hand. Warm, calloused fingers intertwined with mine, a grip so familiar my chest tightens with something that isn't pain.
Galthan sits slumped in a chair beside the bed, his massive frame folded awkwardly to accommodate furniture clearly not built for someone his size. His head rests against the wall, mouth slightly open, dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger than his thirty-two years. Even in sleep, his hand holds mine like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
Dried blood stains his shirt—some of it mine, some of it probably not. His knuckles are split and swollen, and there's a nasty cut along his jaw that someone has cleaned but not properly dressed. He looks like he's been through a war.
Maybe he has.
"Galthan." My voice comes out as barely more than a whisper, throat raw from screaming. Or smoke. Probably both.
He doesn't stir. Exhaustion has claimed him completely, and I find myself studying his sleeping face—the strong line of his jaw, the way his tusks catch the light filtering through what must be a window, the faint scar that runs from his left temple to his ear. I've traced that scar with my fingertips in stolen moments, but I've never had the luxury of simply looking at him like this.
