Chapter 5 Thalia
THALIA
The elders beam like they've orchestrated something profound rather than a political transaction dressed in ceremonial robes. They gesture expansively toward the feast preparations sprawling across the valley floor.
"Walk among your people," the Thorran chieftain declares. "Let them see their future leaders together."
Rytha's fingers curl possessively around Galthan's arm. "What a delightful suggestion. Come, my warrior. Show me how Thorran celebrates."
I fall into step three paces behind them, close enough to respond if summoned, far enough to pretend I don't exist. The familiar position of a shadow—seen only when needed, ignored otherwise.
"The alliance will reshape the entire region." Rytha's voice carries the confidence of someone who's never doubted her own importance. "Together, our territories could stretch from the mountain passes to the southern rivers."
"Ambitious."
"Practical. Small tribes scatter like leaves in winter. United clans endure." She tosses her elaborately braided hair over one shoulder, the bone ornaments clicking together. "I assume you agree?"
"Unity has its merits."
They pause beside a cooking pit where Thorran women turn spitted meat over glowing coals. The scent of roasted venison mingles with woodsmoke and the sharper tang of fermented ale. Rytha examines the preparations with the calculating gaze of someone evaluating assets.
"Your people know their craft. Though I suspect Vaskyr cooks could teach them a few refinements."
"Perhaps."
His responses grow shorter with each exchange. I study the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his eyes drift toward the treeline rather than focusing on his betrothed. The same restless energy I glimpsed last night when he collapsed in my tent—like a caged animal testing the bars.
"The feast tonight will be magnificent." Rytha spins in a graceful circle, arms outstretched. "Our first celebration as intended mates. I've planned every detail."
"Have you."
"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 voice continues 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't keep them. 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.
"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."