Chapter 18 Galthan
GALTHAN
Iwatch Thalia limp away, each uneven step twisting something sharp in my chest. Her shoulders curve inward like she's trying to make herself smaller, and the bloodied cloth wrapped around her hands catches the afternoon light. She moves like someone who's learned to carry pain without complaint.
My jaw aches from grinding my teeth.
"Pathetic servants and their weak bodies." Rytha's sigh drips with theatrical disappointment. "I swear, humans break if you look at them wrong. No wonder they need constant supervision."
The casual cruelty in her voice makes my hands curl into fists. I force them to relax before she notices.
Rytha shifts in her chair, the movement calculated to draw my attention. When I don't immediately respond, she reaches over and trails her fingers along my forearm. Her touch feels cold despite the afternoon heat.
"But enough about tedious household matters." Her voice drops to what she clearly believes is a seductive purr. "We should discuss more pleasant topics. Our mating ceremony, perhaps. I have such plans for our first night together."
Her amber eyes glitter with anticipation as her hand slides higher, fingers tracing the scars along my bicep. The touch that should ignite desire instead makes my skin crawl.
"I've been thinking about the traditions we'll blend. Vaskyr ceremonies are so much more... elaborate than Thorran customs. More opportunities for creativity." She leans closer, her breath warm against my ear. "I want our union to be memorable. Something the clans will speak of for generations."
Everything about this feels wrong. Her hands, her voice, the way she speaks of our mating like a political performance. Three nights ago, I would have accepted this as inevitable. Expected, even. Now the thought of her touch makes me want to tear my own skin off.
I stand abruptly, cutting off whatever else she planned to whisper. "I'm exhausted from the day's events."
Rytha blinks, clearly not expecting the interruption. Her hand drops to her lap, fingers curling with obvious frustration.
"I'll see you tomorrow." I force my voice to remain level, polite. "Goodnight, Rytha."
I turn and walk away before she can protest, leaving her sitting alone at the council table. I don't look back, though I can feel her stare burning between my shoulder blades.
My feet carry me away from the training grounds, away from the main festival area. Away from Thalia's tent, though every instinct screams at me to follow her. To check her wounds, to hold her until that haunted look leaves her eyes.
Instead, I head toward the kitchen tents where the evening meal preparations should be winding down. The familiar sounds of cleanup—metal clanging against metal, voices calling out orders—provide a welcome distraction from the chaos in my head.
The cooking fires cast dancing shadows between the canvas walls. Steam rises from washing basins where servants scrub the day's accumulation of pots and platters. The air smells of roasted meat and woodsmoke, tinged with the sharp bite of soap.
I'm almost past the main preparation area when voices from behind the largest tent stop me cold.
"The pyre still burns," Koreth's gravelly voice carries clearly through the night air. The old warrior's been with Thorran longer than anyone except my father's generation. His words carry weight.
"Three days now," another voice agrees. "Bright as ever, no matter how much water we throw at it."
I step closer to the canvas wall, keeping to the shadows. Through a gap in the tent flaps, I can see four figures huddled around a small fire. All older orcs, all council members or former warriors whose opinions matter.
"Maybe if we sacrifice the girl, the flame will go out." Koreth spits into the dirt. "A symbol to show we won't be manipulated by fake prophecy."
My blood turns to ice.
I step from the shadows, my voice cutting through the night like a blade. "Say that again."
The four orcs scramble to their feet, eyes wide with shock. Koreth's weathered face goes pale beneath his green skin, his mouth opening and closing like a fish yanked from water.
"Galthan." His voice cracks. "We didn't know you were—"
"Go on. Say it again." I move closer, letting my full height cast a shadow over their pathetic huddle.
Silence stretches between us, thick with fear and the acrid smell of their panic sweat. The cooking fire pops, sending sparks spiraling into the darkness.
"Do you think the goddess is wrong?" I let the question hang in the air, watching them squirm. "The eternal flame burns for three days now. Three days of divine fire that your buckets of water can't touch. And you think she's made a mistake in choosing me, an honored warrior?"
"It's just..." One of the younger orcs stammers, his tusks clicking together nervously. "The girl... How can—"
"How can what?" I step closer until he has to crane his neck to meet my eyes. "How can the Harvest Goddess choose who she blesses? Since when do you question divine will?"
Koreth finds his voice, though it wavers. "We were just talking, Galthan. Just wondering about the meaning—"
"You were plotting against me." The words come out as a growl. "Against someone marked by our patron goddess."
"It was a joke," another voice pipes up desperately. "Just nervous talk, nothing more—"
I let out a bark of laughter that makes them all flinch. "Weak-minded fools. The goddess lights an eternal flame and you respond with schemes to spill blood."
They scatter like startled crows, mumbling apologies and excuses as they stumble over tent stakes in their haste to escape. Koreth shoots me one last uncertain look before disappearing into the maze of canvas and rope.
I stand alone beside their abandoned fire, my hands shaking with barely controlled rage.
The next day crawls by like a wounded animal.
I watch from across the festival grounds as Rytha forces Thalia to scrub the stone steps of the council platform with nothing but a scrap of torn fabric and a bucket of cold water.
The rough stone tears at her already blistered palms, leaving streaks of red in the dirty water.
Thalia doesn't complain. Doesn't even wince. She just kneels there, methodically working at stains that will never come clean, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face.
"Faster," Rytha snaps from her cushioned chair above. "The ceremony is tonight and I won't have stains marring the sacred space."
The irony makes my stomach turn. Sacred space. As if anything about this mockery honors the goddess.
By midday, Rytha has Thalia hauling water from the creek in buckets too heavy for her slight frame.
I watch her shoulders shake with exhaustion as she stumbles up the muddy bank, water sloshing over the rim to soak her already filthy dress.
When she trips, sending half the bucket's contents spilling into the dirt, Rytha's laughter rings across the clearing like broken glass.
"Clumsy creature. Start over."
Each cruel task makes me sicker. Each bruise on Thalia's perfect skin feels like a personal insult. The goddess marked her, chose her, and yet allows this torment to continue. Why? If the Harvest Goddess truly blessed our connection, why doesn't she protect what belongs to her?
The questions gnaw at me as I pace my tent that evening. The gods abandoned the orcs generations ago, leaving us to scrape by on fading magic and half-remembered rituals. So why appear now, on this strange human world, and choose me? Choose us?
What does she want from me that I'm too blind to see?