Chapter 7 Galthan
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.
Korven, one of the Thorran council members, staggers past my platform with the determined gait of someone who's had far too much to drink. His massive frame sways as he navigates between the tables, ale sloshing from the cup he's somehow still managed to hold onto.
"Great night!" he calls out to no one in particular. "Great bloody night for—"
His boot catches the edge of a decorative brazier, sending the iron stand toppling. Burning coals scatter across the ground like fallen stars, embers dancing on the evening breeze as they settle among the dried grass and discarded rushes.
Before I can move, before anyone else even notices, Thalia appears.
She doesn't hesitate, doesn't call for help—just drops to her knees and begins stamping out the glowing coals with her feet.
The leather of her worn boots smokes as she works, and when that's not enough, she scoops ash and dirt with her hands to smother the remaining embers.
No one else sees. No one else cares. Korven stumbles on without a backward glance, oblivious to the fire he nearly started. The other servants continue their work, heads down, focused on their own tasks.
But I watch as Thalia kneels in the dirt, her hands black with ash as she ensures every ember is dead. Watch as she checks twice, then three times, making certain nothing will reignite once she's gone.
When she finally rises, brushing soot from her skirts, she glances up—and freezes when she sees me watching.
The silence stretches between us across the dying celebration, her golden eyes wide with something that might be fear or recognition. I don't look away this time. Don't pretend I haven't been watching.
"You're not watching the entertainment."
Rytha's voice cuts through the moment. She's returned to the platform without my noticing, her amber gaze following mine to where Thalia still kneels in the ash.
I lean back in my chair, letting my lips curve into something that barely qualifies as a smile. "I'm watching something."
The temperature around us drops several degrees. Rytha's jaw tightens, the ceremonial tattoos on her arms seeming to darken in the firelight. Her fingers drum once against the table's edge—a warning I've learned to recognize from my own warriors when they're deciding whether to draw steel.
"How fascinating." Her voice could freeze ale mid-pour. "I wasn't aware scattered embers qualified as sport among the Thorran."
Below us, Thalia has moved on to the next table, gathering abandoned cups with the same methodical precision she used to stamp out the fire. Her movements are economical, practiced, designed to complete her task without drawing attention.
Except she already has mine.
A massive iron cauldron sits abandoned near the feast's edge, probably used for one of the countless stews that fed tonight's crowd.
Thalia approaches it, testing its weight with both hands before attempting to lift it.
The thing must weigh more than she does—filled with water and scraps, it's a job for two people.
But there's no one else. The other servants have scattered to their various tasks, leaving her alone with the impossible weight.
She braces her legs, wraps her arms around the cauldron's rim, and heaves. For a moment it seems she might manage it—then her footing slips on the ash-slicked ground.
I'm halfway out of my chair before conscious thought catches up with instinct. Every muscle in my body coiled to move, to catch her before she falls, to shoulder that burden she shouldn't be carrying alone.
Then I stop.
What am I doing? She's a servant. A human. Tomorrow I'll be mated to the orc beside me, bound by ceremony and clan politics to a future that was decided long before I met either of them.
I force myself back into the chair, my hands clenching into fists against my thighs. The carved bone beads in my braids click together as I settle, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet between Rytha and me.
Below, Thalia steadies herself and tries again with the cauldron. This time she manages it, though the strain shows in every line of her body as she carries it toward the washing area.
"Fascinating indeed." Rytha's voice drips with contempt. She pushes back from the table with enough force to make the cups rattle. "Enjoy your... entertainment."
She sweeps down from the platform in a rustle of gold fabric and barely contained fury, her retinue scrambling to follow. I catch fragments of her muttered complaints as she stalks away—something about "distracted fools" and "knowing one's place."
I don't care.
My fists remain clenched, knuckles white against my thighs, as I watch Thalia disappear into the shadows beyond the firelight.