Chapter 14 Galthan
GALTHAN
The training dummy explodes under my war axe, straw and burlap scattering across the packed earth like battlefield debris. Splinters of wood embed themselves in the ground where the practice post once stood, and I'm already turning toward the next target before the wreckage settles.
"Again," I growl, hefting the double-bladed weapon that feels too light in my hands tonight. Everything feels wrong—the weight distribution, the grip, the way my muscles coil and release with each strike.
Jorak, one of the younger warriors, steps up with his shield raised. Smart lad. Not smart enough.
I feint left, then bring the axe around in a brutal overhead arc that should stop inches from his guard. Should. Instead, the blade crashes through his wooden shield like it's made of parchment, splitting it down to the iron boss. The impact sends vibrations up my arms, but I barely feel them.
"Blood and bone!" Jorak stumbles backward, clutching his forearm where splinters have drawn crimson lines across green skin. "What's gotten into you tonight?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. My mind keeps drifting to moonlit corridors and desperate kisses, to the way Thalia's voice cracked when she called me a coward. The memory makes my grip tighten until my knuckles strain against the leather wrapping.
"Pair off," I bark at the others. "Work your footwork. And keep your guards up unless you fancy matching Jorak's new scars."
The warriors scatter across the training ground, wooden weapons clacking together in practiced rhythms. But even their mock combat sounds hollow compared to the real thing—no desperation, no stakes beyond bruised pride and wounded ego.
I select a pair of training blades, their edges dulled but still capable of drawing blood if wielded with enough force. The familiar weight settles into my palms like old friends returning home, and I launch into the flowing patterns that have kept me alive through a dozen border conflicts.
Strike, parry, riposte. Each movement flows into the next with deadly precision, muscle memory carved deep by years of necessity.
But tonight the patterns feel like chains, binding me to a destiny I never chose.
The blades whistle through the air as I increase the tempo, pushing my body harder, faster, seeking some release from the tension coiled in my chest.
Sweat beads across my shoulders despite the evening chill.
My braids whip around my face as I spin through a complex series of attacks, each one designed to overwhelm an opponent's defenses through sheer aggression.
It's the style that made me famous along the borderlands—brutal, efficient, unstoppable.
A memory surfaces unbidden: Thalia's hands on my wounds, gentle and sure. The way her breathing changed when I touched her hair. How small she felt beneath me, yet how fierce her responses were when she forgot to be afraid.
My left blade snaps against a training post with enough force to send the broken half spinning into the dirt. The sharp crack cuts through the evening air like a whipcrack, drawing startled glances from the other warriors.
"That's enough for tonight," Tarnuk's voice cuts across the training ground with the authority of someone who's pulled me back from the edge before. "Everyone else, clean your gear and get some food. We've got ceremony preparations tomorrow."
The warriors drift away in small groups, their conversations already turning to the upcoming festivities. But Tarnuk remains, his broken tusk catching the last rays of sunlight as he approaches with careful steps.
"You're not acting like a male about to rule," he says without preamble, settling onto a supply crate with the ease of someone who's shared too many campfires to bother with formality.
I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, tasting salt and frustration. "I never wanted to rule."
Tarnuk's laugh is dry as autumn leaves. "Everyone wants power, Galthan. The smart ones just pretend otherwise until they're ready to take it."
"This kind of power isn't freedom." I drive the remaining blade point-first into the earth between us, watching it quiver from the force. "It's a cage."
Before Tarnuk can respond, footsteps approach from behind. I turn to find a nervous-looking human male, his clothes marking him as one of the Vaskyr servants. He clutches a folded piece of parchment like it might bite him.
"Forgive the interruption, lord," he stammers, extending the note with shaking fingers. "I was instructed to give this to you."
I take the parchment, my pulse quickening despite my efforts to remain composed. The human scurries away before I can question him, leaving me staring at the plain paper that feels heavier than it should.
Meet me in the woods. Thirty paces south from the treeline, ten paces north from there.
No signature. No explanation. Just coordinates that could lead anywhere—or to anyone.
"What is it?" Tarnuk's voice carries a note of suspicion that I recognize from our patrol days.
"Nothing important." I fold the note carefully and tuck it into my belt, already calculating distances and angles in my mind. "Just clan business."
Tarnuk's eyes narrow, but he doesn't press. Twenty years of friendship has taught him when to push and when to let things lie. This is clearly one of the latter.
"Don't do anything stupid," he says finally, rising from the crate with a grunt. "We've got enough complications without you adding to them."
I nod absently, my attention already turning toward the dark line of trees that borders the festival grounds. Thirty paces south, ten north. Simple enough directions, but they could be leading me into anything—ambush, trap, or something far more dangerous.
But I don't pride myself on hiding from risk and danger.
The treeline swallows me whole as I count off paces through undergrowth that catches at my boots.
Thirty south feels like nothing with my stride, but I catch myself mid-step, remembering the source of these directions.
Human paces. I adjust my count, taking shorter steps that feel almost comical for someone my size.
Ten paces north from there brings me to the edge of something I nearly miss—a narrow creek that cuts through the forest like a silver thread in the moonlight. The water murmurs over smooth stones, barely wider than my outstretched arms, and I'm about to turn back when I spot her.
Thalia sits on a moss-covered boulder at the water's edge, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders like a curtain, and she doesn't look up when my boots crunch on the fallen leaves.
"Well," I say, settling against a nearby tree trunk with deliberate casualness, "I can see why you chose this spot. Though next time you might want to account for the difference between human paces and orc ones. I nearly walked straight past you."
Her head lifts slightly, revealing the pale curve of her cheek in the filtered moonlight. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"Neither was I." The honesty slips out before I can stop it. "But here we are."
She shifts on the rock, her bare feet dangling just above the water's surface. Silence fills the moment, filled with the soft babble of the creek and the distant sounds of the festival grounds. When she finally speaks, her voice is steady but hollow.
"I'm leaving tonight."
My gut twists, and I'm taken completely off guard, though I keep my expression neutral. "Where will you go?"
"Does it matter?" She traces patterns on the rock with her fingertip, not meeting my eyes. "There's no future here. Not for someone like me."
I want to argue, to tell her she's wrong, but the words stick in my throat.
What future could there be? I'm bound to Rytha, locked into an alliance that will cement both our clans' power.
Thalia is a servant, a human, marked by a goddess most orcs barely remember and only celebrate out of tradition.
"I wish it were different," I say finally, the admission scraping against my pride like rusty metal.
She nods, still not looking at me. "I know."
When she stands, brushing dirt from her simple dress, something in my chest clenches tight. She moves with quiet purpose toward the path that leads deeper into the woods, away from the festival, away from everything that's trapped us both.
My hand shoots out before conscious thought takes hold, catching her wrist as she passes. Her skin is warm against my palm, delicate bones shifting beneath my grip.
"Stay."
The word sits between us like an offer to the gods just waiting to be acknowledged. She freezes, her pulse fluttering against my thumb like a caged bird.
"I know it doesn't make sense," I continue, my voice rougher than I intended. "But don't go."
Stay. With me.