"Naturally. Organization comes as naturally to me as breathing." She stops spinning and fixes him with a pointed stare. "I trust you appreciate thorough planning?"
"Depends on the plan."
"Spoken like a true strategist." Her laugh rings across the cooking fires. "We'll complement each other perfectly—your tactical mind and my administrative genius."
A group of children dart between the cooking stations, shrieking with laughter as they chase each other around the feast preparations. One stumbles and nearly collides with Rytha's ceremonial robes. She steps back sharply, nose wrinkling in distaste.
"Someone should control those creatures before they ruin the arrangements."
"They're children."
"Exactly. Children require discipline." She brushes imaginary dirt from her sleeves. "When we establish our household, proper order will be maintained."
"I see."
His gaze finds mine for the briefest moment—a flicker of something that might be sympathy or shared exasperation. Then he looks away, jaw tightening.
We continue through the preparations, Rytha pointing out improvements she'd implement and describing the grand ceremonies she envisions for their official bonding. Her voice never stops, filling every silence with plans and proclamations.
"The trade agreements alone will triple our prosperity within five seasons." She gestures toward a group of merchants examining bolts of fabric. "And that's before we factor in the territorial advantages."
"Mm."
"You're remarkably quiet for a renowned war leader." Her tone sharpens slightly. "I hope I'm not boring you with talk of our future."
"Not at all."
"Good. Because I find silent brooding tedious in a partner." She stops abruptly beside a cluster of ale barrels, fanning herself with one hand. "This walking has made me quite thirsty."
She turns toward me with the casual expectation of someone who's never questioned being served. "Thalia. Fetch us something to drink. Something suitable for the occasion."
"Yes, mistress."
I duck my head and hurry toward the nearest beverage station, grateful for any excuse to escape the suffocating atmosphere of forced courtship. Behind me, Rytha's voicecontinues its relentless commentary on feast preparations and future plans.
But when I glance back while ladling ale into wooden cups, I find Galthan watching me rather than listening to his betrothed's elaborate descriptions of their wedding ceremony.
Our eyes meet across the bustling preparation area, and for one dangerous heartbeat, the memory of last night hangs between us—his blood on my hands, his trust in my silence, the strange intimacy of tending someone's wounds in lamplight.
Then I drop my gaze and focus on not spilling the ale.
I return with the ale, hands steady despite the tremor running through my chest. The cups feel heavier than they should, weighed down by the conversation I'm walking into.
"Your clan keeps many humans?"
Galthan's question cuts through Rytha's endless commentary about feast arrangements. His tone carries genuine curiosity rather than judgment, but something in the way he asks makes my stomach clench.
Rytha accepts her cup with a dismissive wave. "We don'tkeepthem. We use them. They're useful. Clean, cook, warm the bed if you're bored."
The casual cruelty in her voice hits like a physical blow. I've heard variations of this speech my entire life, but something about delivering it in front of him makes the words sharper. More humiliating.
"Some are more talented than others, naturally." She takes a long drink, amber eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Breeding matters, even with livestock."
I focus on the ground between my feet, counting the scattered hay stalks and trying to disappear into myself. This is nothing new. I've weathered worse conversations, endured crueler assessments of my worth.
"That one's mine."
Rytha gestures toward me with the same casual ownership she might show when pointing out a favored hunting hound or prized mare. The gesture sends heat crawling up my neck.
