Chapter 33 Thalia
THALIA
The world bleeds away in crimson fragments.
Each shallow breath sends fire racing through my ribs where Rytha's boots found their mark, and the taste of copper coats my tongue like a funeral shroud.
The chains bite deeper into my wrists with every heartbeat, but even that sharp pain feels distant now, muffled beneath the growing darkness that creeps in from the edges of my vision.
My knees buckle against the stone floor. The cold seeps through my torn dress, but I can barely feel it anymore. The torchlight wavers like candleflame in a storm, and somewhere far away I hear my own breathing grow shallow and desperate.
The last thing I see before consciousness abandons me is a spider of blood spreading across the gray stone beneath my face.
Then—nothing.
I wake standing barefoot in a field of wheat that stretches beyond the horizon like a golden ocean.
Each stalk burns with inner fire, their tips crowned with flames that dance without consuming.
The grain waves in a breeze that carries the scent of harvest bread and something wilder—like lightning and rich earth after rain.
My bare feet sink into soil so dark it's almost black, warm against my skin despite the impossible flames surrounding me. The torn dress and chains are gone. Instead, I wear simple linen the color of fresh cream, soft as spider silk and clean as morning dew.
Above me, the sky blazes with the deep amber of sunset, though no sun hangs in the endless expanse. The light seems to rise from the wheat itself, from the very earth beneath my feet.
"Finally."
The voice rolls across the field like distant thunder, rich with the authority of mountains and the warmth of hearth fires. I turn, heart hammering against my ribs, and find myself face to face with divinity.
She towers above me, easily eight feet of muscle and grace wrapped in skin the color of spring moss.
Tusks curve from her lower jaw like polished ivory, and her hair falls in waves of copper and gold past shoulders broad enough to bear the weight of worlds.
Vines thick as my wrist spiral around her arms and torso, their leaves shifting between emerald and flame-orange as they move with her breathing.
Her robes burn without being consumed—fabric woven from living fire that dances and flows around her massive frame like liquid light. Where the flames touch the wheat, the grain glows brighter, singing with a sound like wind chimes made of crystal.
But it's her eyes that steal my breath. Ancient beyond measure, they hold the wisdom of countless harvests and the terrible compassion of someone who has watched civilizations rise and fall like wheat before the scythe.
"Harvest Goddess." The words whisper from my lips without conscious thought.
Her smile holds the warmth of summer afternoons and the inevitability of autumn frost. "All seeds must burn before they grow."
I drop to my knees in the soft earth, the wheat stalks bending around me like protective arms. "I don't understand.
Why me? Why now?" My voice cracks, raw with desperation.
"I'm nothing. I've never been anything but a servant, a tool to be used and discarded.
What could you possibly want with someone like me? "
The Goddess moves closer, her flaming robes casting dancing shadows across the golden field. Each step she takes leaves small flowers blooming in the dark soil. "Because you still choose love."
I shake my head violently, tears streaming down my cheeks. "But I'm no one. I clean floors and mix herbs and bow my head when they tell me to. I've never made a choice that mattered in my entire life."
Her massive hand reaches toward me, and I expect to be burned alive by those living flames. Instead, her touch is warm as fresh bread, gentle as a mother's caress. She places her palm against my chest, directly over my heart, and I feel something deep inside me unfurl like a flower greeting dawn.
"Come."
She guides me through the wheat toward a sound I hadn't noticed before—the gentle lapping of water against shore. We emerge at the edge of a lake so clear it might be made of crystal, its surface perfectly still despite the breeze that sets the grain dancing.
"Look."
I peer into the water, expecting to see my own familiar reflection—hollow cheeks, tangled hair, the permanent shadows of exhaustion beneath my eyes. The scrawny slave who learned long ago to make herself invisible.
Instead, I gasp.
The woman staring back at me has curves that speak of proper meals and peaceful sleep.
Her hair falls in lustrous waves around shoulders that hold themselves straight with quiet confidence.
Her skin glows with health, unmarked by bruises or the permanent grime of servitude.
The simple cream dress fits her perfectly, emphasizing the graceful lines of her body.
She's beautiful. Not in Rytha's sharp, predatory way, but with a warmth that draws the eye like candlelight in a dark room.
"This is impossible," I whisper.
The Goddess kneels beside me, her reflection joining mine in the crystal water. "Look at that, and when my son looks at you, tell him that he is seeing nothing. Because this is what he sees. This, child, is who you are."
The world fractures.
I wake on cold stone, tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Galthan," I sob, the word getting stuck in my throat.