Chapter 24 Galthan
GALTHAN
Sleep eludes me like an enemy scout—always just beyond reach, slipping away the moment I think I've cornered it.
I lie on my back, staring at the canvas ceiling of my tent while my mind churns with thoughts I shouldn't be having.
Her bandaged hands. The way she didn't flinch when I kissed her.
The golden vine that marked her as something sacred, something mine.
The taste of her still lingers on my lips, sweet as honey mead and twice as intoxicating.
I roll onto my side, then my stomach, searching for a position that doesn't remind me of how perfectly she fit against me.
The bedroll beneath me feels like stone, every thread in the rough fabric an irritation against my skin.
My braids tangle around my shoulders, the bone beads clicking together with each restless movement.
The festival grounds have finally quieted—no more drunken singing or the clash of practice weapons. Just the whisper of wind through canvas and the distant crackle of dying fires. Even the Harvest Goddess's eternal pyre seems muted tonight, its glow barely visible through the tent walls.
I close my eyes and immediately see her face—the way she looked at me in that flickering candlelight, vulnerable and fierce all at once. The memory sends heat shooting through my belly, pooling low and urgent. I curse under my breath and sit up, running scarred hands through my hair.
This is madness. I'm a warrior, not some lovesick whelp mooning over a female I can't have. Yet here I am, pacing my tent like a caged beast while she sleeps mere yards away.
The tent flap rustles, and Tarnuk's grizzled face appears in the opening. His broken tusk catches the dim light as he grins, taking in my disheveled state with obvious amusement.
"Restless night, brother?"
I grunt and reach for my water skin, hoping the cool liquid will wash away the taste of her that still clings to my mouth. "Festival noise. Hard to sleep with all the celebration."
"Festival will start soon." He steps fully into my tent, his stocky frame filling the space with familiar presence. The missing fingers on his left hand tap against his thigh—a nervous habit he's carried since the border wars. "You look like you've been wrestling bears."
"Feel like it too."
Tarnuk settles onto the ground across from me, his gray-green skin looking pale in the dim light. We've shared enough campaigns that he can read my moods better than most, which makes him dangerous company when I'm trying to hide something.
"Love-sick warriors are a sight to behold," he says, voice rich with mirth. "All that pacing and sighing. Makes me glad I never caught the fever myself."
I shoot him a glare that would send most orcs scrambling for cover. "I'm not love-sick. Just thinking about clan negotiations."
"Right." His grin widens, showing the gap where his broken tusk used to be whole. "Diplomacy. That's what's got you looking like you've been struck by lightning."
The tent flap stirs again, and two more warriors duck inside—Krugg and Grask, both veterans of my border patrol. They settle beside Tarnuk with the easy familiarity of soldiers who've bled together, their eyes bright with the kind of mischief that usually ends with someone getting punched.
"Heard our fearless leader can't sleep," Krugg says, his voice a low rumble. A fresh scar runs from his left temple to his jaw, souvenir from our last skirmish. "Must be all that diplomatic pressure weighing on him."
"Or maybe," Grask adds with a leer that makes my fists clench, "our boy Galthan has finally come around to his bride-to-be. About time too—Rytha's been giving him looks that could melt steel."
The others laugh, the sound filling my tent with masculine amusement. Tarnuk slaps his knee, wheezing with mirth. "That's it! Our stone-hearted warrior finally spent a night with that ash-skinned beauty and discovered what the rest of us have been telling him all along."
"She must have changed his mind about something," Krugg agrees, waggling his eyebrows. "Got him all twisted up inside like a green recruit."
The image of being intimate with Rytha hits me like a punch to the gut—her cold amber eyes, her possessive hands, the way she looks at Thalia like she's something to be crushed underfoot.
My stomach turns, bile rising in my throat.
But I keep my expression neutral, letting them believe whatever keeps them from asking harder questions.
"Maybe you're right," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady.
This sends them into fresh peals of laughter. Grask makes a crude gesture with his hands while Krugg pounds his fist against his thigh. Even Tarnuk grins like he's solved some great mystery, nodding with satisfaction.
Let them think this restlessness comes from Rytha. Let them believe I'm finally embracing my duty as a future chieftain. It'll give me time to figure out what in the War God's name I'm actually doing—and how I'm going to protect the small human who's managed to turn my world upside down.
The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly on the festival grounds, turning the air thick and oppressive.
Sweat drips between my shoulder blades as I make my way through the maze of tents and temporary structures, ostensibly checking on security preparations for tonight's ceremony.
Really, I'm hunting for a glimpse of dark hair and golden eyes.
I find her near the weapon racks behind the training pavilion, bent over a collection of dulled practice swords that gleam with fresh oil.
Her movements are methodical, efficient—each blade cleaned with the same careful attention she gave to my wounds that first night.
The sleeves of her rough-spun tunic are pushed up to her elbows, revealing the bandages still wrapped around her wrists.
My jaw tightens at the sight. Rytha's latest round of "discipline" has left its mark, but Thalia works without complaint, her focus absolute. She doesn't look up when my shadow falls across the weapons, though I see her shoulders tense slightly.
"Thorran security needs these ready for tonight's drills," I announce loudly enough for the nearby guards to hear. Two Vaskyr warriors lounge in the shade of the pavilion, paying us little attention as they share a skin of fermented mare's milk.
Thalia straightens, finally meeting my gaze with those impossible golden eyes. "Of course, my lord. They'll be ready within the hour."
Her voice carries the perfect note of subservience, but there's something else underneath—a warmth meant only for me. I step closer, ostensibly to examine her work, and pretend to test the edge of a cleaned blade. The metal catches the sunlight, throwing fragments of light across her face.
"This one needs more attention," I say, setting the sword back on the rack. As I do, I let my fingers brush against hers where she grips the cleaning cloth. The contact lasts barely a heartbeat, but electricity shoots up my arm like lightning.
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Her skin is warm despite the bandages, soft against my scarred knuckles. For a moment, the festival grounds fade away—no guards, no politics, no impossible futures stretching between us like an unbridgeable chasm.
"Later," she whispers, her voice so low I almost miss it. "Same place."
I nod once, a barely perceptible movement that could be mistaken for approval of her work. Then I'm walking away, forcing my steps to remain steady and measured when everything inside me wants to turn back and claim her mouth right here in front of the entire festival.
The guards don't even look up as I pass.