Chapter 9 Galthan
GALTHAN
The vial burns against my palm like molten metal. Not the glass itself—that remains cool—but something deeper, something that pulses with each beat of my heart. When Thalia's fingers brushed mine, the world shifted on its axis.
Now flames roar behind us, tall as three orcs standing on shoulders, painting the night in shades of gold and crimson. The heat washes over my back, but I can't look away from her face. Can't break the connection that's holding us both frozen.
"By the War God's blood—"
"Look at her arm!"
"The marking—do you see it?"
Gasps ripple through the crowd like wind through grain. I follow their horrified stares down to Thalia's outstretched arm, the one that held my gift moments before.
Golden light traces along her skin from wrist to shoulder, delicate as filigree but bright as the forge fires back home.
Vines and leaves spiral in impossible patterns, pulsing with their own inner radiance.
The sigil of the Harvest Goddess herself, unmistakable even to warriors who've never seen it outside of ancient carvings.
The marking burns brighter as we stare at each other, her golden eyes wide with terror and something else—recognition? Understanding? I don't know. I can't think past the roaring in my ears.
"No." Rytha's voice booms. She rises from her chair, silk robes billowing around her like storm clouds. "This is impossible."
"The goddess has chosen—"
"The goddess has chosen nothing!" Rytha's amber eyes blaze with fury that makes the pyre flames look pale. "Galthan, reject this. Now. Before everyone here."
I blink, trying to focus on her words instead of the way Thalia's marking pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat. "What?"
"Reject the blessing. Tell them it's false."
"False?" The word tastes wrong in my mouth. "How can divine fire be false?"
"Because gods abandoned us decades ago!" Rytha gestures wildly at the crowd, at the flames, at Thalia kneeling between us like an offering. "Magic is dead. The shamans can barely light cooking fires, let alone channel divine will. This is trickery."
Murmurs spread through the assembled orcs—some nodding agreement, others shaking their heads in obvious doubt. I catch fragments of whispered arguments.
"—never seen marking so clear—"
"—just a human slave—"
"—fire came from nothing—"
"—impossible for the goddess to choose—"
"Look at her!" Rytha's voice rises to a shout. "Look at this pathetic creature and tell me any deity would mark her as chosen. She's human. She's nothing."
Thalia flinches as if struck, the golden light flickering but not fading. Her hands shake where they rest on her thighs, but she doesn't lower her marked arm. Can't, maybe—the sigil seems to have a will of its own.
"Divine flame doesn't exist anymore!" Rytha whirls to face him, ceremonial tattoos seeming to writhe in her fury. "When did any of you last see true magic? When did the shamans last heal with goddess-blessed herbs instead of human medicine?"
Uncomfortable silence answers her. Because she's right about that much—our magic died with our exile to this world. The shamans struggle with rituals that once came as naturally as breathing.
"This is paint and parlor tricks," Rytha continues, voice dripping with disdain. "Some desperate attempt to elevate herself above her station."
Elder Karreth of Thorran steps forward, his weathered face grim beneath silver tusks. Behind him, Vaskyr's council members emerge from the crowd like carrion birds sensing death.
"Enough." His voice cuts through the chaos with the authority of decades leading warriors. "The festivities end now."
"But the marking—" someone protests from the crowd.
"The marking will be examined properly." Elder Yorg of Vaskyr joins his counterpart, amber eyes hard as flint. "Not in this... spectacle."
They turn their attention to Thalia, who still kneels between Rytha and me, the golden sigil pulsing along her arm like a heartbeat made visible. The girl looks ready to bolt or collapse—maybe both.
"Human." Karreth's tone could freeze summer wine. "Return to your quarters immediately. You will remain there until summoned."
"Should you attempt to leave," Yorg adds, his words sharp as blade edges, "you will be executed."
Fear lances through me at those words, cold and sudden. My hands clench without permission, the vial still burning against my palm. Thalia's golden eyes find mine for one breathless moment—terror and something deeper swimming in their depths.
Then she's scrambling to her feet, the marked arm clutched against her chest, and running. Her bare feet slap against packed earth as she disappears into the maze of tents, leaving only the scent of herbs and something indefinably sweet.
"Put out that fire," Karreth barks at the nearest humans. "Now."
A dozen servants rush forward with buckets, water sloshing over the rims as they race toward the towering flames. They dump load after load onto the pyre, steam hissing and billowing in great white clouds.
The fire doesn't even flicker.
Water runs down the burning logs like tears, pooling at the base, but the golden flames dance on as if fed by something beyond wood and oil. The sight sends murmurs rippling through the crowd again—hushed, frightened sounds.
Both elders turn to me with expressions that could curdle milk.
"You should have denounced this immediately," Karreth growls, his scarred hands flexing. "The moment that marking appeared, you should have rejected whatever claim—"
I bark out a laugh that echoes across the festival grounds. The sound stops him mid-sentence, tusks gleaming in the firelight as his jaw drops.
"Denounced what, exactly?" I gesture toward the still-burning pyre, where humans continue their futile efforts with bucket after bucket. "You want me to reject something when we don't even know what the goddess was trying to say?"
"The goddess says nothing because there is no goddess here," Yorg snarls. "Only trickery and—"
"Then explain that." I point at the flames that refuse to die despite being doused enough to flood a small village. "Explain how water turns to steam without touching fire. Explain markings that glow brighter than forge coals."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the frustrated grunts of humans dumping yet another round of useless water.
"I've had enough excitement for one night." I turn away from their stunned faces, suddenly exhausted. "This can wait until morning."
"Galthan—"
"Morning, elders." I stride toward the Thorran quarters, leaving them standing beside a fire that burns eternal and questions that have no comfortable answers.