Chapter 12 Galthan
GALTHAN
The council chamber empties slowly, elders shuffling past me with satisfied nods and approving grunts. Their congratulations stick to my skin like oil I can't wash off.
"Well handled, Galthan." Elder Krugg claps a gnarled hand on my shoulder, his yellowed tusks gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the tent flaps. "Shows wisdom beyond your years."
I grunt noncommittally, my jaw clenched so tight I taste blood where my tusks cut into my lip.
"Could have been a disaster if you'd been taken in by that human's trickery," another elder adds, shaking his gray head. "Females can be cunning when they want something badly enough."
"Indeed." Elder Thokk steps closer, his scarred face creased with approval. "The way you maintained control when she knelt before you—impressive restraint. Lesser warriors might have been bewitched by such theater."
Theater. The word makes my stomach turn. I see Thalia's face again—pale, terrified, trembling as she denounced herself before hundreds of jeering orcs. The way her voice cracked when she called herself expendable. Replaceable.
"A trick of light and timing, nothing more," Krugg continues, warming to his subject. "Humans are resourceful when desperate. Probably rubbed some phosphorescent paste on her arm, waited for the right moment."
My hands curl into fists at my sides. The memory of those golden vines blazing under my touch burns through my mind—how they pulsed with warmth that had nothing to do with paste or powder. How they seemed to sing against my fingertips.
"The important thing is you didn't fall for it." Thokk's voice carries the weight of tribal approval. "Shows you understand your duty to the clan. To the alliance."
"Aye." Krugg nods sagely. "Rytha chose well. You'll make strong cubs together, unite our peoples properly. None of this goddess nonsense to muddy the waters."
I force my expression to remain neutral, though bile rises in my throat. They speak of Thalia like she's some scheming seductress who painted herself with false divinity. As if the terror in her eyes this morning was all calculated manipulation.
"The human knows her place now," Elder Thokk observes with satisfaction. "Proper order restored."
The chamber gradually empties until I stand alone among scattered cushions and the lingering scent of ceremonial incense.
My reflection stares back from a polished bronze mirror propped against the tent wall—dark green skin, braided hair, tusks that mark me as Thorran-born.
A warrior. A weapon pointed where the clan needs cutting done.
But underneath the familiar exterior, something fundamental has shifted. Something that started the moment I stumbled into her tent, bleeding and desperate, and she chose to heal rather than scream.
I stride from the council chamber toward my own quarters, each step heavy with the weight of what I've done. Or rather, what I failed to do. The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly, but it does nothing to warm the cold spreading through my chest.
My tent looms ahead—spacious, well-appointed, befitting a war hero and future mate to a clan leader. I duck inside and immediately begin pacing the perimeter like a caged beast, my boots wearing tracks in the woven rugs.
The elders' words echo in my skull. Well handled. Impressive restraint. Proper order restored.
But all I can see is Thalia kneeling in the dirt, her voice breaking as she called herself nothing. Unworthy. A tool to be used until broken.
I stop pacing and press my palms against my temples, trying to push away the memory of last night. The way she looked at me when I entered her tent—not with fear, but with something deeper. Recognition, maybe. Like she'd been waiting for me without knowing it.
Her skin had been silk under my hands, her breath catching when I whispered her name. And when I touched the golden vines spiraling down her arm, they blazed brighter than the festival fires. Power coursed between us—ancient, undeniable, sacred.
It wasn't theater. It wasn't trickery.
It was real.
I resume pacing, my movements sharper now, more agitated. The tent suddenly feels too small, too confining. Every breath tastes of incense and lies.
When I made love to her in the darkness, something shifted inside me. Like touching a live coal that burns away everything false, leaving only truth. For those stolen hours, I wasn't Galthan the weapon. I was just a male who'd found something worth protecting.
Something worth choosing.
The third night's festivities stretch before us like a punishment.
I sit rigid beside Rytha on the ceremonial platform, watching the crowd below pretend the goddess's pyre isn't still blazing behind us.
Three days of failed attempts to douse those flames, yet everyone acts as though golden fire doesn't cast dancing shadows across their faces.
"The harvest moon rises full tonight," Rytha murmurs, her voice carrying that practiced sweetness she uses when others might overhear. "Perfect for the ritual rites."
I grunt acknowledgment, my attention fixed on the crowd rather than her words. Somewhere down there, Thalia moves through the shadows like a ghost. I catch glimpses of dark hair, the careful way she keeps her marked arm hidden beneath loose sleeves.
"Tomorrow we'll begin planning the mating ceremony." Rytha's fingers trail across my forearm, claiming territory. "I've already spoken with the shamans about combining our clan traditions."
My skin crawls under her touch. I push back from the table abruptly, the wooden legs scraping against stone.
"Need a drink."
I stride down from the platform before she can protest, weaving through clusters of celebrating orcs toward the ale barrels. The night air hits my lungs like a blessing after sitting in that suffocating display of false contentment.
"You look like you need this more than I do." Tarnuk appears at my elbow, thrusting a brimming mug into my hands. Foam spills over the rim, splashing my knuckles.
I down half the contents in one desperate gulp, the bitter ale burning my throat. It does nothing to wash away the taste of lies.
"Easy there." Tarnuk's broken tusk catches the firelight as he grins. "Save some for the rest of us."
"Not nearly enough ale in the valley for what I need."
"Wedding nerves?" He elbows me with mock sympathy. "At least you'll have a quiet mate in Rytha. Won't have to worry about her talking your ear off during—"
My fist stops inches from his jaw before I even realize I've moved. Tarnuk raises his hands, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.
"Whoa. Touched a nerve there."
I force my arm down, fingers still curled into a weapon. The thought of Rytha as my wife by festival's end makes my stomach turn to acid. Of binding myself to her…
"Just tired of the whole spectacle."
"Right." Tarnuk's voice carries new wariness. "Maybe lay off the ale then. Don't want you stumbling through tomorrow's—"
Horn calls echo across the valley, deep and resonant. The crowd begins moving toward the longhouse like a slow river, voices rising in anticipation.
"Ritual rites," Tarnuk explains unnecessarily. "Time for the traditional sacrifice to the goddess. First hunt offering."
I drain the rest of my mug and slam it down on a nearby table hard enough to crack the wood.
The longhouse looms ahead, its peaked roof stark against the star-scattered sky.
Everyone files through the massive doors—elders, warriors, servants.
Even the humans shuffle inside to witness the ceremonies that bind their fates to ours.
Inside, the air thick with incense and expectation.
I take my place among the Thorran delegation, scanning the packed interior until I find her.
Thalia stands pressed against the far wall, nearly invisible in the dancing shadows cast by oil lamps.
Her marked arm remains carefully hidden, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she holds herself apart from the other humans.
The shaman's voice booms through the space, calling on the Harvest Goddess to accept our offerings and bless the coming season. A young buck is brought forward, its throat opened with ceremonial precision. Blood pools in carved bowls, steam rising in the cool night air.
When the rites conclude and the crowd begins dispersing, I hang back near the rear entrance. Most orcs push toward the main doors, eager to return to their drinking and boasting. But Thalia slips out through the smaller exit, moving like smoke through the shadows.
I follow.
The corridor beyond the longhouse stretches narrow and dim, lit only by scattered torches. My footsteps echo off stone walls as I close the distance between us. She must hear me coming—her pace quickens, shoulders hunching defensively.
"Thalia."
She stops but doesn't turn. I reach her in three long strides, my hand closing around her wrist before rational thought can intervene. She spins to face me, golden eyes wide with something between fear and longing.
And then I'm kissing her, crushing my mouth against hers like a drowning man gasping for air.