Chapter 19 Thalia
THALIA
Iwake to the scent of fresh bread cutting through the stale air of my tent.
My body protests as I push myself upright, every muscle screaming from the day's abuse. The canvas walls flicker with dying firelight from somewhere outside, casting shadows that dance like restless spirits across the rough fabric.
There, beside my bedroll where nothing existed when I collapsed hours ago, sits a small collection of items that shouldn't be here.
A loaf of bread, still warm. Clean bandages rolled tight. A clay pot of ointment that smells faintly of mint and something else I can't identify.
I know who brought these. The knowledge settles in my chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through parts of me I'm trying to keep locked away.
My hands tremble as I reach for the bread. Not from hunger, though my stomach clenches at the sight of real food. Not from pain, though my palms throb where the stone steps carved trenches in my flesh.
They shake because someone cared enough to risk being seen. To think of me when the rest of the world would prefer I disappear.
I tear off a piece of bread and chew slowly, letting the warmth spread through my empty belly. It tastes like safety. Like something I'm not supposed to want.
When I finish eating, I unwrap the bloody cloth from my hands. The fabric sticks to the worst cuts, making me bite my lip to keep from crying out. The wounds look angry in the flickering light, edges raised and weeping.
But it's not the cuts that steal my breath.
The golden vine that first appeared on my forearm has spread.
Delicate tendrils now curl around my wrist, spiraling down to trace patterns across my palm and fingers.
On my other hand, where no mark existed before, new vines circle my wrist like jewelry made of light.
I've tried to cover them for days, but it's become more and more difficult with Rytha's relentless tasks.
I turn my hands over, studying the intricate patterns that seem to pulse with their own inner fire. The marks don't hurt. If anything, they feel warm against my skin, like sunlight after a long winter.
"This is impossible," I whisper to the empty tent.
But even as I say it, I know impossible doesn't mean untrue. I've seen the eternal pyre burn for days despite buckets of water. I've felt something ancient stirring in the valley's wind. I've watched Galthan look at me like I matter.
All impossible. All real.
The Harvest Goddess. A deity I've never prayed to, never believed in, never even heard much about beyond scraps of overheard conversation. Orcs don't share their religious practices with human servants. We're told to stay quiet, stay useful, stay invisible during their rituals.
So why me? What could a goddess want with someone who's spent her entire life being told she's worthless?
I reach for the clay pot of ointment, my fingers trembling as I remove the lid. The scent that rises makes my throat tight. Mint and chamomile, yes, but underneath that—something uniquely him. Like leather and steel and the wild places beyond the valley.
I have my own herbs. Salves I mixed myself from plants I know better than my own heartbeat. Remedies that would heal these cuts faster and cleaner than anything he could find.
But I dip my fingers into his ointment anyway.
The cool paste soothes my torn skin as I spread it carefully over each wound. I wind his bandages around my palms, taking care not to cover the golden marks that seem to glow brighter in the darkness.
Each gentle touch feels like rebellion. Like choosing to accept care I don't deserve from someone who shouldn't risk giving it.
My chest aches with something I can't name. Something bigger than gratitude, deeper than fear.
The summons comes before dawn.
I'm dragged from my tent by two Vaskyr guards who don't bother with gentleness. My freshly bandaged hands throb as they haul me across the camp, past dying cook fires and sleeping orcs who don't spare me a glance.
Rytha's pavilion looms ahead, its crimson banners snapping in the pre-dawn wind. The guards shove me through the entrance flap and force me to my knees on the thick rugs that cover her floor.
She sits in a carved chair that might as well be a throne, her ash-gray skin gleaming with oils and her ceremonial tattoos freshly darkened. Amber eyes study me like I'm something unpleasant she's scraped off her boot.
"Look at me."
I lift my head, keeping my expression carefully blank. Years of practice have taught me how to arrange my features into perfect submission.
"Do you think you're special?" Her voice carries the kind of casual cruelty that comes from absolute power.
I bow deeper, letting my hair fall forward to hide my face. "I'm just a servant, mistress. Nothing more."
"Just a servant." She rises from her chair, circling me like a predator. "Then explain something to me, little ant. When my father and I told you to disappear—to run before this situation became... complicated—why didn't you listen?"
The question leaves silence in its wake. I can feel her waiting, can sense the trap hidden beneath her seemingly reasonable tone.
"I..." My throat feels dry as sand. "I know nothing other than this life, mistress. Nothing other than serving you. You are my master. I wouldn't know how to exist without—"
But my voice cracks on the last word. Just slightly. Just enough.
Rytha stops circling.
The silence stretches until my skin crawls. I can hear her breathing, slow and controlled, can smell the expensive perfumes that cling to her skin.
"Interesting." The word drops like a stone into still water. "That little tremor in your voice. That hesitation."
I keep my head down, willing myself to become smaller, invisible. But there's nowhere to hide from those amber eyes.
"You see, I've owned you for how long now? Since you were what—twelve? Thirteen?" She crouches beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. "I know every expression you make. Every little tell when you're lying."
My hands clench in my lap, the fresh bandages pulling tight across my wounds.
"So when I ask why you didn't run, and you give me that perfectly rehearsed answer about knowing nothing else..." She reaches out, grips my chin with fingers that feel like iron, and forces me to meet her gaze. "I know you're not telling me the whole truth."
The golden marks beneath my bandages seem to pulse with warmth, as if responding to her proximity. I pray she doesn't notice the faint glow seeping through the white cloth.
"I serve you," I whisper. "That's all I know how to do."
She releases my chin and stands, towering over me. "Be very careful, little ant. Even the smallest insects get crushed beneath boots when they forget their place."
My heart thumps impatiently, but not with fear this time. No, with something angry and impatient. And I worry it's only growing.