Chapter 6 Thalia
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 carved chair, 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."
"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 my breath 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.