Chapter 23 Thalia
THALIA
The candlelight wavers in my tent like a dying breath, casting shadows that dance across the canvas walls.
I sit cross-legged on my thin bedroll, unwinding the bloodied strips of cloth from my palms with careful precision.
Each layer peels away like old skin, revealing the raw meat beneath—torn flesh that weeps clear fluid and throbs with every heartbeat.
"Goddess," I whisper to the flickering flame, my voice barely audible above the distant sounds of the festival winding down. "I don't understand what you want from me."
The silence stretches long enough that I almost convince myself she's abandoned me entirely.
That whatever divine attention I caught was fleeting as morning mist, gone now that the novelty has worn thin.
I reach for the clean linen strips I've prepared, the movement sending fresh waves of pain shooting up my arms.
"I'm not brave," I continue, wrapping the first bandage with practiced efficiency despite the tremor in my fingers. "I'm not strong. I don't even know why you chose me when there are so many others who—"
The tent flap tears open and sends the candle flame guttering wildly. I freeze, half-wrapped bandage dangling from my palm, expecting Rytha's fury or worse. Instead, Galthan fills the entrance like a storm given flesh.
He's drenched in sweat that makes his dark green skin gleam like polished jade in the candlelight.
His chest rises and falls with the deep, measured breaths of someone who's been fighting—or restraining himself from fighting.
The thick braids that normally frame his face hang loose and disheveled, a few of the carved bone beads missing entirely.
One dangles by a single thread, swaying with each movement of his massive frame.
Blood stains his knuckles. Fresh blood, still wet enough to catch the light.
He doesn't speak. Just stands there filling my tiny space with his presence, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
The broad tusks that jut from his lower lip catch the candlelight, and for a moment they look less like weapons and more like something carved from ivory by a master sculptor.
I should tell him to leave. Should remind him that being found here means death for both of us. Instead, I watch as he lets the tent flap fall closed behind him, sealing us into this small bubble of warmth and flickering light.
He moves with surprising care for someone his size, lowering himself to sit across from me on the packed earth floor.
His legs fold beneath him with the fluid grace of a predator at rest, but tension radiates from every line of his body.
The scars that crisscross his torso tell stories of battles won and lost—some old enough to have faded to pale lines, others still pink and raised.
We don't speak. The silence between us feels heavy with unspoken words, thick as honey and twice as sweet.
I continue wrapping my hands while he watches, his dark eyes tracking every movement with the intensity of a hunter studying prey.
But there's no threat in his gaze. Only something that makes my chest tighten and my breath catch.
The candlelight plays across the planes of his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the way his brow furrows with concentration. He's beautiful in the way that mountains are beautiful—dangerous and imposing, but undeniably magnificent.
The weight of his presence fills every corner of my small tent, making the air feel thick and charged. I finish wrapping my left hand, tucking the end of the linen strip with movements that feel clumsy under his intense gaze.
Finally, I can't bear it anymore.
"Why are you here?"
The words come out barely above a whisper, but they might as well be shouted for how they shatter the quiet. His dark eyes find mine across the flickering candlelight, and something raw passes between us—something that makes my stomach flip and my pulse quicken.
"Because I don't feel like myself unless I am."
The honesty in his voice hits me like a physical blow.
No deflection, no clever words—just truth delivered with the kind of quiet intensity that makes my chest ache.
His scarred hands rest on his knees, knuckles still stained with blood that belongs to someone else.
Someone who probably said something about me that he didn't like.
The thought sends warmth spreading through my belly, dangerous and intoxicating.
I should tell him he's being foolish. Should remind him that we're playing with fire in a world made of kindling. Instead, I find myself leaning forward, my bandaged hand reaching out to touch his shoulder.
The moment my palm makes contact with his skin, it's like breathing again after being underwater. His flesh is warm and solid beneath my touch, the muscle tense with barely contained energy. A shudder runs through his massive frame, and his eyes flutter closed as if my touch causes him actual pain.
"Thalia." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer, rough and desperate.
He moves faster than something his size should be able to, surging forward to capture my mouth with his.
The kiss is hard and hungry, full of aching need and frustration that tastes like copper and want.
His tusks brush against my cheek as he tilts his head, one massive hand coming up to cup the back of my neck with surprising gentleness.
I kiss him back for one perfect, stolen moment—letting myself drown in the taste of him, the way his thumb traces the line of my jaw with reverent fingers. But reality crashes back like cold water, and I pull away with a gasp.
"Not here."
The words tear from my throat, raw with regret. He freezes, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the space between us. I can feel the war raging inside him—the same one that's been tearing me apart since the goddess marked me as something more than a servant.
We hold each other like that for one heartbeat longer than wisdom allows. His hand trembles against my neck, and I memorize the weight of it, the callused texture of his palm. Then he's pulling away, rising to his feet with the fluid grace of a predator.
He doesn't look back as he slips through the tent flap, leaving me alone with the guttering candle and the ghost of his touch burning against my skin.
The moment he's gone, I clutch my chest where my heart hammers. The ache there feels like it might split me open, spill all my carefully guarded secrets onto the dirt floor.
This can't go on. We both know it, even if neither of us has the courage to say it aloud.