Chapter 4 Galthan
GALTHAN
Pain greets me before consciousness fully returns—a sharp, clean ache along my ribs that speaks of proper stitching rather than battlefield butchery.
I crack one eye open, expecting the familiar canvas of my patrol tent, and instead find myself staring at threadbare fabric that smells of herbs and something softer. Human.
The memory crashes back like cold water. The ambush. Stumbling through tent flaps. A small figure with steady hands and eyes that held no malice, only wariness.
I push myself upright, muscles protesting the movement.
My armor sits folded beside the bedroll—someone removed it while I was unconscious.
The thought should alarm me. Instead, I find myself studying the careful way each piece has been arranged, straps laid flat, buckles unfastened with deliberate precision.
She didn't scream. Didn't run to fetch guards or masters or whatever authority rules her small world. She stitched me up and let me sleep off the blood loss like I was worth saving.
The tent stands empty now, no sign of its owner except the lingering scent of dried lavender and the indent in the ground where she must have spent the night. On hard earth, while I claimed her bedroll.
I ease out of the tent, each step a reminder of last night's ambush. The stitches pull tight across my ribs, but they hold. Professional work—better than anything our field medics could manage.
The morning air carries the scent of cooking fires and the low rumble of two tribes preparing for ceremony. I limp toward the Thorran camp, favoring my left side.
"Galthan!"
Tarnuk's voice cuts through the bustle. He jogs over, his stocky frame moving with surprising speed. His broken tusk catches the morning light as he grins.
"Thought you were crow meat." He claps me on the shoulder—the wrong shoulder. I grunt and shift away from his hand.
"Takes more than a few arrows to put me down."
"Few arrows?" He eyes the careful way I'm holding myself. "You look like you got trampled by a boar. Where've you been? The patrol came back without you hours ago."
"Found shelter. Patched myself up."
Tarnuk's dark eyes narrow. He knows me well enough to hear the gaps in that explanation, but he doesn't push. Not yet.
"Well, whatever hole you crawled into, crawl back out. The council awaits—they're making the betrothal official. Your bride's been preening like a peacock all morning."
My stomach tightens. The ceremony. Rytha of Vaskyr, with her ash-gray skin and ambitious eyes. A political union dressed up as romance.
"Give me a moment to wash."
"Moment's all you get. They're gathering at the central fire now."
I duck into my assigned tent and splash cold water over my face and neck. The basin turns pink where it touches the bandages. I change into clean leathers—ceremonial ones with Thorran insignia worked into the shoulders. The kind of garment that announces your importance before you even speak.
When I emerge, Tarnuk falls into step beside me. "Remember, this alliance strengthens both clans. Your father's counting on you."
"I know my duty."
"Do you? Because you've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get right before you do something stupidly noble."
The central gathering space opens before us—a circle of packed earth surrounded by colorful banners from both tribes. Thorran green and bronze faces Vaskyr red and gold across the fire pit.
Rytha stands in the center, resplendent in ceremonial robes that catch the firelight. Her amber eyes find mine immediately, and she beams with the satisfaction of someone who's about to claim a prize.
Behind her, barely visible in the shadows cast by the Vaskyr delegation, stands a slight figure with downcast eyes and familiar hands folded at her waist.
The world tilts. My breath catches in my chest like I've taken another arrow.
Those are the hands that stitched my wounds. The same careful fingers that removed my armor piece by piece. The woman who could have called for guards or masters, who could have left me to bleed out on her floor.
Instead, she saved my life.
She looks up—just for a heartbeat—and our eyes meet across the ceremonial space. Her golden gaze widens with the same recognition that's currently turning my insides to ice.
Then she drops her head again, shoulders hunching inward like she's trying to disappear entirely.
"Galthan of Thorran." Rytha's voice carries across the gathering like a blade finding its mark. She extends one elegant hand, rings glinting on her fingers. "At last."
I step forward, boots crunching on the packed earth. The ceremonial space feels smaller than it should, crowded with expectations and watching eyes. "Rytha of Vaskyr."
Her grip proves firm when I take her hand—the grasp of someone who's never doubted her own strength. She doesn't release it immediately, instead letting her amber gaze travel over my frame with obvious appreciation.
"They told me you were formidable, but words hardly do justice." Her smile sharpens at the edges. "The scars suit you. Each one a testament to your prowess."
"Battle leaves its marks on all of us."
"Indeed." She traces one finger along my forearm where an old blade wound shows pale against my skin. "I find myself curious about the stories behind them. We'll have plenty of time to share tales once we're properly bonded."
My eyes drift past her shoulder to where the human woman stands motionless among the Vaskyr retinue. She's studying her hands like they hold the secrets of the universe, shoulders rigid with tension.
"Your reputation precedes you as well." I force my attention back to Rytha. "Vaskyr has prospered under your guidance."
"Flattery?" She laughs, a sound like silver bells that somehow manages to feel calculated. "How refreshing. Most warriors lack the wit for proper courtship."
Behind her, the human shifts slightly—a barely perceptible movement that draws my gaze like iron to lodestone.
The morning light catches the curve of her neck where it emerges from her simple brown dress.
The same neck I glimpsed in lamplight while she worked over my wounds with steady concentration.
"I prefer honesty to empty words."
"Better and better." Rytha steps closer, close enough that her ceremonial perfume mingles with the woodsmoke. "Honesty will serve us well in marriage. I despise games and half-truths."
"Your father speaks highly of your strategic mind," I manage.
"Strategy wins wars. Passion wins everything else." Her fingers find the leather ties of my ceremonial vest, toying with them. "I suspect you understand both."
The human woman's head tilts slightly, like she's listening to something only she can hear. For one heart-stopping moment, I think she might look up again. Instead, she takes a half-step backward, melting further into the shadows cast by the Vaskyr banners.
"The alliance benefits both our peoples."
"How wonderfully diplomatic." Rytha's smile doesn't reach her eyes.
And I suspect that once she finds out I'm not nearly as excited about this union as she is, this will be more frequent than not.