Chapter 16 Galthan
GALTHAN
Dawn breaks over the festival grounds, cutting sharp and clean across the valley. I wake before the horn sounds, before the first servants stir the cooking fires. My body knows the rhythm of war—early rising, constant vigilance. But this morning feels different.
I stretch, feeling muscles that remember last night's tenderness instead of yesterday's violence. The memory of Thalia's skin against mine, her breath catching when I whispered her name—it sits in my chest like molten metal, heavy and burning and permanent.
I've bedded females before. Warriors, servants, the occasional willing captive. But this... this was worship. She touched me like I was something sacred instead of something feared. Like I was worth saving instead of surviving.
My small, perfect goddess.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it fills every hollow space I didn't know existed.
I pull on my leather vest, buckle my weapon harness.
The motions are automatic, muscle memory from decades of preparation.
But my mind churns with possibilities, each one more dangerous than the last. Rytha will expect her betrothal ceremony within days.
The clans will demand their alliance. And somewhere in the middle of their expectations stands Thalia, marked by a goddess they refuse to acknowledge.
Let them refuse. I know what I felt when she came apart in my arms.
The festival grounds buzz with morning activity as I step outside. Servants haul water from the creek, warriors sharpen blades, cooks stoke fires that will feed hundreds. The smell of roasting meat and wood smoke fills the air, familiar and grounding.
A human approaches with a wooden platter balanced against his hip, steam rising from whatever he carries. Young, maybe twenty, with the careful posture of someone who's learned to move like smoke.
"Honored warrior," he says, voice pitched low and respectful. "Fresh bread and honey cakes from the ovens."
I pause. Yesterday, I would have taken what I wanted without acknowledgment. Today, I see the way his shoulders tense, ready for a blow that might never come. I see Thalia in his careful movements.
I select a honey cake, still warm from the oven. "My thanks."
The human blinks. His mouth opens, closes. The platter wavers in his grip.
"I... you're welcome, honored warrior."
He scurries away like I've grown a second head, glancing back twice before disappearing into the crowd. The cake crumbles sweet and rich on my tongue as I continue walking, aware of the curious glances from my fellow warriors.
Let them stare. Everything has changed, and I refuse to pretend otherwise.
The council table sits in the shadow of the Harvest Goddess's pyre.
Rytha occupies the seat beside mine, her ceremonial leather gleaming with fresh oil and her tattoos dark against ash-gray skin.
The Vaskyr Chieftain holds court at the head, antler pauldrons catching morning light as he gestures expansively with a horn of fermented mare's milk.
"Look at my daughter this morning," he booms, amber eyes twinkling with paternal pride and political satisfaction. "Beautiful as the dawn itself, wouldn't you agree, Galthan?"
I pause with my own horn halfway to my lips. Rytha preens under her father's praise, spine straightening as she awaits my response. Her amber eyes fix on me with the expectation of worship, the same look she wore yesterday when demanding Thalia's submission.
The memory of Thalia's skin beneath my hands burns through my chest.
"Consistent," I say finally, taking a long drink. "Must take considerable time to achieve such... precision each morning."
Rytha's smile widens, interpreting the words as intended flattery. She leans closer, voice dropping to what she probably considers seductive.
"A warrior's mate should always present herself with care. I've been preparing for this union my entire life."
Her fingers brush my forearm, nails painted the deep red of dried blood. I resist the urge to pull away, instead letting my gaze drift across the festival grounds. Servants move like water between the tents, carrying platters and hauling refuse from last night's feast. Somewhere among them...
"The morning light suits you particularly well," Rytha continues, apparently mistaking my silence for rapt attention. "I was thinking we might walk the perimeter together, discuss our future holdings."
I grunt noncommittally, still scanning the crowd. A flash of dark hair near the cooking fires catches my attention, but it's not her. My jaw tightens with frustration.
"Galthan." Rytha's voice sharpens. "Are you listening?"
Before I can respond, her gaze follows mine across the grounds. Her expression shifts, amber eyes narrowing with predatory focus.
"Ah." She spots what I was searching for before I do. "There's my little pet."
Thalia emerges from behind a supply wagon, arms full of bundled linens. Even at this distance, I can see the careful way she moves, head down, shoulders curved inward like she's trying to disappear entirely.
"You there!" Rytha calls out, voice carrying across the morning bustle. "Come here. Now."
Thalia freezes. The linens slip in her grip before she catches them, knuckles white against the fabric. She approaches our table with measured steps, each one calculated to avoid drawing further attention.
When she reaches us, she sinks into a deep bow without being told. Her hair falls forward like a curtain, hiding her face from view.
"My boots are filthy from yesterday's festivities," Rytha announces, extending one leather-clad foot. "Clean them. With your shirt."
The command hangs in the morning air like smoke. Thalia's shoulders go rigid, but she doesn't lift her head. Around us, conversations quiet as orcs turn to watch the entertainment.
"I..." Thalia's voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"Did I stutter?" Rytha's tone could freeze blood. "Remove your shirt and clean my boots. Show proper gratitude for being allowed to serve."
My hands clench around the horn's carved surface hard enough to crack bone. But Thalia straightens slowly, fingers moving to the ties of her rough-spun shirt. She pulls it over her head in one fluid motion, leaving only her thin undershirt between her skin and dozens of hungry stares.
She kneels in the dirt and begins scrubbing at Rytha's boots with the coarse fabric. The undershirt clings to her shoulders, revealing the delicate line of her collarbones, the gentle curve of her spine.
"Look at that dedication," someone calls out from a nearby table. "Knows her place, that one."
"Bet she's just as eager in other areas," another voice adds, followed by crude laughter.
"Quiet and obedient," a third chimes in with a low whistle. "Perfect qualities in bedsport, too."
The comments roll over Thalia like water over stone. Her face remains composed, focused entirely on her task. No tears, no trembling—just steady, methodical movements as she works dirt from leather with her bare hands.
But I see the way her jaw tightens. The slight pause between breaths. The careful mask she wears to hide whatever burns beneath.
My little goddess, forced to worship at the feet of lesser beings.
The horn creaks in my grip as rage builds like pressure behind a dam. Around us, the jeering continues, each comment another weight added to the fury coiling in my chest.