"Wise. We wouldn't want you too drunk to appreciate your wedding gifts." She gestures toward the growing pile of offerings at the foot of the dais—weapons, furs, carved ornaments, even a pair of matched stallions that stamp and snort in their temporary paddock.
"Generous."
The Thorran shaman rises from his seat, ancient bones creaking as he lifts a ceremonial cup that gleams like polished bronze in the firelight. His voice carries across the valley with the authority of someone who's spoken to gods.
"Blessed Harvest Goddess!" The crowd falls silent, even the drunkest warriors straightening with respect. "You who reap what others sow, who gather strength from the fallen fields of our enemies! Tonight we honor the union of Vaskyr and Thorran!" The shaman's painted face splits into a grin that shows yellowed teeth. "May their blades drink deep from conquered lands! May their harvests grow fat on the blood of the weak!"
The roar of approval makes my chest tighten. Warriors pound their fists against tables until the wood groans. Cups crash together in toasts that sound more like battle cries.
"Grant them victory over the soft clans!" The shaman raises his cup higher, wine sloshing like liquid fire. "Let their enemies' crops wither so ours may flourish! Let their children serve our children as the natural order demands!"
My stomach turns. This goddess they're praising—she's can't thrive off of the death of others... right? This is something that feeds on conquest, that sees abundance as a prize to be stolen rather than cultivated.
"Bless this union with the fury of the harvest storm! May they sweep across the lands like locusts, leaving nothing for those too weak to defend what they've planted!"
The crowd erupts. Weapons clash against shields in rhythm, creating a thunderous beat that makes the ground tremble beneath my feet. I back away from the dais, the empty pitcher clutched against my chest like armor.
My gaze drifts to the massive pyre that dominates the far end of the feast ground. We spent all day building it—myself and the other human servants, hauling logs and kindling until our backs screamed. The structure towers above everything else, a monument of wood and oil waiting for flame.
What kind of goddess demands such destruction? What kind of harvest requires burning everything down first?
I study the shamans as they begin their ritual celebration around the unlit pyre. Their movements speak of violence, of taking rather than tending. Their chants praise the goddess who "cuts down the tall grain" and "gathers the fruits of war."
But harvest should be about growth. About nurturing seeds until they become something beautiful and sustaining. About the patient work of tending and waiting and celebrating when abundance finally comes.
Not this. Never this.
Movement catches my eye. Galthan has shifted in his chair, his dark gaze fixed on me with an intensity that makes mybreath catch. For a heartbeat, our eyes meet across the chaos of celebration.
I jerk my head down, focusing on the worn leather of my boots. My heart hammers against my ribs as I hurry toward the serving tables, desperate to disappear back into invisibility.
7
GALTHAN
The raised platform places us like trophies before the towering pyre, as if proximity to the Harvest Goddess might grant us some fragment of divine authority. The irony tastes bitter as old blood. We're seated here like we matter, like we're worthy of sharing space with deities who abandoned us centuries ago.
I study the massive structure of logs and kindling that looms behind us, unlit but ready for tomorrow's ceremony. The shamans positioned us here deliberately—bride and groom elevated above the masses, blessed by association with sacred flame. But what blessing can there be from gods who turned their backs when we needed them most?
That's why we fled to Earth, isn't it? Our magic stripped away, our strength diminished, our rightful place as apex predators reduced to scavenging among the ruins of better days. We came here to reclaim what was taken—to be hunters again instead of the hunted.
The ale in my cup has grown warm, but I drink anyway. Around us, the celebration reaches its crescendo of drunken revelry before beginning its inevitable slide toward exhaustion.Warriors who were bellowing war songs an hour ago now lean heavily on tables, their voices hoarse and their movements sluggish.
"What a night." Rytha's fingers trail across my forearm, her touch light but possessive. "Tomorrow will be even better, when the real ceremony begins."
Her amber eyes hold promises I'm not sure I want fulfilled. The ceremonial tattoos that spiral across her arms seem to shift in the firelight, ancient symbols that speak of conquest and dominion.
"The pyre should burn beautifully," she continues, gesturing toward the towering structure behind us. "Father says the Harvest Goddess favors grand displays. The bigger the flame, the greater the blessing."
"Mm."
She leans closer, her breath warm against my ear. "I should retire soon. Prepare myself for the soon to come... festivities." Her smile carries implications that make my jaw tighten. "Sweet dreams, my warrior."
Rytha rises with fluid grace, her gold cloth catching the firelight as she descends the platform steps. Several of her retinue fall into step behind her, their voices already planning tomorrow's elaborate ceremonies.
I remain seated, nursing my ale and watching the feast wind down around me. The human servants emerge like shadows, moving with practiced efficiency as they begin the enormous task of cleaning up after several hundred drunk orcs.
They dart between tables, gathering discarded cups and platters, sweeping up spilled food and wine. Their movements speak of long practice—quick, unobtrusive, designed to avoid drawing attention from celebrants who might decide a servant needs correcting.
