"You'll have her too, once we're mated. Part of my dowry, you could say."
The words slam into me with unexpected force. I've always known I was property, understood that my fate would change hands along with Rytha's marriage negotiations. But hearing it spoken aloud, reduced to a transaction between them, makes something crack inside my chest.
My breathing grows shallow. The cups in my hands suddenly feel like anchors, dragging me deeper into a future I can't escape.
"She's quite skilled with herbs and healing." Rytha continues cataloging my attributes like she's discussing the merits of a prize stallion. "Keeps her mouth shut, follows orders, never causes trouble. She'll be yours, too, once we're wed."
Galthan says nothing. The silence stretches between them, thick with implications I don't want to examine. But when I risk a glance upward, his jaw has gone rigid, the muscle jumping beneath the dark green skin.
His eyes find mine across the space separating us. Something flickers in their depths—not the predatory assessment I've learned to fear from orc males, but something else entirely. Something that makes my chest lurch in a way I don't understand.
The moment stretches too long. Too dangerous. I drop my gaze again, but the damage is done. Whatever passed between us in that look has shifted something fundamental, created a crack in the careful walls I've built around my heart.
"Well?" Rytha's voice sharpens with impatience. "Don't you have anything to say about your future acquisition?"
Galthan looks away and says simply, "The Thorran Clan doesn't keep humans."
6
THALIA
Trumpets blast across the valley like war cries, their brazen voices echoing off the surrounding peaks. The sound makes my bones vibrate, drowns out the nervous flutter of my heartbeat as I balance another laden platter against my hip.
Bonfires roar to life in precise formation around the feast ground, each one tall enough to reach toward the stars. The flames cast dancing shadows that make everything look alive—the carved totems, the ceremonial banners, even the faces of the assembled orcs who cheer with voices that could shake mountains.
I weave between the tables, refilling cups and replacing empty platters with fresh ones. Roasted boar, honeyed bread, wheels of aged cheese—enough food to feed an army, which isn't far from the truth considering the warriors packed into this valley.
"To the Harvest Goddess!" The Thorran chieftain's voice booms over the crowd. "Who blesses our fields and fills our stores!"
"To unity!" Rytha's father raises his own goblet, ale sloshing over the rim. "May our clans channel their wrath as one!"
The roar of approval that follows makes my ears ring. Hundreds of voices joining in celebration of... what exactly? I duck my head as I navigate around a group of warriors who've started an impromptu arm-wrestling contest, their laughter rough as grinding stone.
"Channel wrath as one." The phrase follows me as I work, whispered and shouted and sung in increasingly slurred voices. I've heard variations before—orc prayers tend toward the violent—but something about tonight feels different. Hungrier.
I steal glances at the shamans gathered near the largest bonfire. They chant in the old tongue, words that scrape against my ears like rusted metal. Their painted faces gleam with sweat and firelight as they gesture toward carved idols I don't recognize.
The Harvest Goddess should be about abundance, shouldn't she? Growth and plenty and the green things that feed us all? But these rituals speak of conquest, of taking what others have sown. The shamans pour wine onto the flames until they hiss and spark, and I catch fragments of their prayers.
"...blood of enemies waters the earth..."
"...strength through dominance..."
"...the weak serve the strong as grain serves the harvest..."
My stomach clenches. This can't be right. Whatever goddess they're honoring tonight, she's not the gentle spirit who makes flowers bloom and fruit ripen. This is something else entirely—something that demands submission rather than growth.
The high dais dominates the center of the feast ground like a throne room built for giants. Rytha perches on her ceremonial chair, resplendent in cloth-of-gold that catches the firelight with every gesture. Her amber eyes survey the celebration with the satisfaction of someone who's orchestrated every detail.
Galthan sits beside her, but his posture suggests endurance rather than enjoyment. His massive frame fills the carvedchair, but he holds himself like he's ready to bolt at the first opportunity.
"Another toast!" Rytha calls out, raising her goblet high. "To the bonds that make us stronger!"
The crowd responds with enthusiasm that borders on frenzy. I hurry up the steps to refill their cups, keeping my eyes fixed on the task rather than their faces.
"Your people certainly know how to celebrate," Rytha murmurs to Galthan as I pour. "Though I notice you're not drinking with quite the same... vigor."
"I'm pacing myself."
