Chapter 25 Thalia
THALIA
The ceremonial paint jars gleam like jewels in the lamplight, their contents thick as blood and twice as precious.
I dip my cloth into the cleaning solution, working methodically to remove the dried residue from each vessel's rim.
The scent of crushed berries and ground minerals fills Rytha's private chambers, mixing with the heavier musk of oiled leather and amber incense.
My hands move without conscious thought, muscle memory guiding me through tasks I've performed countless times.
Refill the crimson paste used for war markings.
Clean the brushes meant for delicate facial designs.
Polish the silver applicators until they shine like moonlight.
Each motion brings a strange comfort—the familiar rhythm of service that has defined my entire existence.
Rytha's quarters dwarf my tent like a palace compared to a hovel.
Rich tapestries depicting orcish victories hang from the walls, their threads catching the light from oil lamps positioned throughout the space.
Carved wooden chests overflow with ceremonial garments, each piece more elaborate than anything I've ever touched.
The bed dominates one corner, draped in furs and silks that probably cost more than most humans see in a lifetime.
I reach for the next jar—deep blue paint made from crushed sapphire dust—when footsteps whisper across the carpet behind me. The sound makes my shoulders tense despite myself, though I don't turn around. In my peripheral vision, I catch the flutter of silk robes as Rytha moves closer.
"You've been acting strange."
The words slice through the air like a blade, each syllable sharp with accusation. I keep my eyes fixed on the paint jar, forcing my breathing to remain steady as ice floods my veins. The cloth in my hands trembles slightly before I clench my fingers tighter around the fabric.
I bow my head, letting my hair fall forward to shield my face. "I've been tired. The festival is demanding."
"Has it?"
Her voice carries that particular tone I've learned to recognize—the one that precedes punishment, correction, reminders of my place in her world. Footsteps circle me now, deliberate and predatory. I remain perfectly still, kneeling beside the low table where her cosmetics wait in neat rows.
"The festival has many... requirements," I add, hoping to fill the growing silence with something resembling normalcy. "The preparation, the cleaning, your many—"
"You have been missing from your tent some nights."
My hand freezes halfway to another jar, the cleaning cloth suddenly feeling heavy as chain mail in my grip. How does she know? Has someone been watching me? Reporting my movements?
"Where do you go?"
Each word drops into the room like stones into still water, creating ripples of tension that seem to expand outward from where she stands.
I can feel her presence behind me now, close enough that the silk of her robes brushes against my shoulder.
Close enough that I catch the scent of the expensive oils she uses to perfume her skin.
My mind races, searching for an explanation that won't damn me completely. The truth would mean death—not just for me, but possibly for Galthan as well. Images flash through my memory: his hands in my hair, his mouth against mine, the way he whispered my name in the darkness by the river.
"I was in the herb tent," I lie, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "Restocking poultices for the wounded from the border skirmishes. The healers requested additional supplies for—"
"Look at me when you speak."
The command cuts through my explanation like an axe through wood. I lift my head slowly, meeting her amber eyes with what I hope resembles calm submission rather than the terror currently clawing at my throat. Rytha's face is a mask of controlled fury.
"Restocking," she repeats, the word dripping with skepticism. "In the middle of the night. Alone."
"I can hardly complete herb work during the day when I'm occupied with the many tasks you've assigned me these past few days."
The words slip out before I can catch them, carrying just enough edge to cut through the heavy air between us.
I watch her amber eyes narrow to slits, the ceremonial tattoos around them seeming to darken as her expression shifts.
The silence stretches like a bowstring pulled taut, and I realize I've made a mistake—a small one, perhaps, but mistakes with Rytha tend to compound like interest on a debt.
She tilts her head, studying me with the focus of a predator examining wounded prey. "Many tasks?"
Heat crawls up my neck as I scramble to soften the barb I've just delivered. "I only meant—"
"You meant to remind me that I've been keeping you busy." Her voice carries the dangerous quiet that precedes storms. "As if serving your betters is somehow... burdensome?"
The paint jar grows slick in my sweaty palms. I set it down carefully, buying myself a moment to think while my heart races. The lamplight flickers across her face, casting shadows that make her expression even more unreadable.
But then something shifts. Her shoulders relax slightly, and she lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. The tension doesn't disappear entirely, but it loosens enough for me to breathe again.
"You're too dull to lie that well."
The insult stings, but relief floods through me nonetheless. I've survived whatever test she just administered, though I'm not entirely sure how. Rather than dwell on my narrow escape, I pivot toward safer ground—the familiar territory of my own inadequacy.
"Have my services been unsatisfactory?" I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "If I've failed in my duties—"
"You can always do better." She crosses her arms, the silk of her robes whispering against itself. "You can always serve better."
The word 'serve' drops from her lips like a stone into deep water, heavy with implications and reminders of exactly what I am in her world. Not a person with needs or desires or a will of my own, but a tool to be used, maintained, and discarded when it no longer functions properly.
I bow my head, letting the familiar weight of submission settle over my shoulders like a well-worn cloak. "I apologize. I will do better from now on."
The words taste like ash in my mouth, each syllable a small death. But this is the dance I know, the steps I've practiced since childhood. Bend. Submit. Survive. The alternative—rebellion, defiance, claiming space I haven't been given—leads only to pain and destruction.
"You will." Her tone suggests the matter is closed, but she doesn't move away. "See that you do."
I remain kneeling beside her cosmetics table, head bowed, waiting for dismissal while my mind churns with darker thoughts.
This is the only life I know, the only existence I've ever been permitted.
And despite the humiliation burning in my chest, I'm acutely aware that my situation could be infinitely worse.
In a world where humans are barely tolerated at best, I have shelter, food, and a master who usually keeps her cruelty within bounds.
Things could be far worse. That's what I've lived my life telling myself. But… somehow… it doesn't seem enough anymore.