Chapter 35 Thalia
THALIA
The door crashes open with a sound like breaking bones. I don't flinch—my body has nothing left to give, every nerve already screaming from Rytha's attentions. Blood crusts the corner of my mouth where her rings split my lip, and my ribs protest each shallow breath.
"On your feet, chosen one."
The guard's voice drips mockery. Rough hands haul me upright before I can comply, rope burns from my bindings making my wrists slick with fresh blood. The hemp cuts deeper with each movement, but I've learned not to struggle. Struggling only makes them laugh.
They drag me through corridors that blur together in a haze of torchlight and jeering faces. Servants I once worked beside press themselves against the walls, some weeping, others staring with the hollow eyes of those who've seen their own futures written in someone else's suffering.
The first drops of rain hit my face as we emerge into the festival grounds. Storm clouds roil overhead like angry bruises, pregnant with lightning that flickers but doesn't strike. The air tastes of copper and ozone, heavy with the promise of violence.
"Look what the storm brought us," one guard chuckles. "Even the sky wants to piss on her."
But the Harvest Flame burns.
Despite days of buckets of water thrown by terrified humans, the sacred fire blazes as bright as the moment the goddess first lit it. Golden tongues of flame dance against the darkening sky, untouched by wind or weather. The sight makes my chest tight with something between terror and wonder.
A wooden post rises before the pyre like a blackened finger pointing accusations at the heavens. Fresh-cut timber, still weeping sap that gleams in the firelight. They've built it tall enough that everyone in the crowd will have a clear view when I burn.
The crowd gathers like carrion birds drawn to fresh meat. Hundreds of orcs press forward, their voices rising in a cacophony that splits between bloodlust and uncertainty.
"Burn the witch!"
"False prophet!"
"Let her burn!"
But other voices cut through the chanting, creating discord in what should be unified hatred.
"The flame still burns."
"What if she really is chosen?"
"The goddess hasn't abandoned us—look at the fire!"
Thunder rolls across the valley, a deep rumble that seems to rise from the earth itself. The sound makes several orcs glance nervously at the sky, then at the Harvest Flame that refuses to acknowledge the storm's authority.
"Afraid of a little rain?" I ask the guard gripping my arm.
He backhands me without breaking stride. "Shut your mouth, human."
Blood fills my mouth again, warm and metallic. I spit it into the mud at our feet, watching it disappear into the churned earth where so many boots have trampled the festival grounds into a battlefield.
They shove me against the post, the rough wood scraping against my spine through the thin fabric of my torn dress. More rope appears, binding me tight against the timber while the crowd presses closer, their faces a sea of tusks and scars and hungry eyes.
The Harvest Flame crackles behind them, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. Untouched. Unquenched.
Eternal.
The rope bites into my wrists as they secure the final knots, pulling so tight that my fingers tingle with lost circulation. The post's rough bark scrapes against my skull when I try to shift position, splinters catching in my hair like tiny wooden teeth.
My torn sleeves have fallen away, exposing the golden vine sigil that winds down my arm like living fire. Even in the storm's dim light, the mark blazes with its own illumination, pulsing in rhythm with my racing heart. The sight draws gasps from the crowd—some awed, others disgusted.
"Look how it glows," someone whispers.
"Unnatural," another spits. "Abomination."
The rope around my chest makes breathing difficult, each shallow gasp burning my bruised ribs. But I force myself to lift my head, to scan the crowd for the one face that matters.
I find him across the square.
Galthan kneels chained to a stone platform, massive shackles binding his wrists and ankles.
Three warriors hold him down—one pressing his shoulders, two gripping his arms—but even restrained, his body radiates coiled violence.
Muscles strain against his bonds with each breath, and fresh blood streams from his split lip where someone struck him for struggling.
Our eyes meet across the churning sea of orcs.
His gaze burns with fury so pure it makes my chest ache. Not at me—never at me—but at the world that brought us to this moment. At the chains that keep him from reaching me. At his own powerlessness in the face of tribal law.
Tears blur my vision, but I don't look away.
If these are my final moments, I want to spend them memorizing the fierce love in his green eyes, the way his jaw clenches with desperate rage, the promise written in every line of his scarred face that he would tear the world apart to save me if he could.
He mouths my name, and the sound carries across the square despite the crowd's roar.
I want to speak, to tell him this isn't his fault, that I would choose him again even knowing it would end here. But my throat closes around words too precious to waste on the ears of those who would burn me.
Instead, I memorize him. The way firelight catches the bone beads in his braids. The protective fury that transforms his features from handsome to devastating. The love that blazes brighter than the goddess's own flame.
A figure steps forward, breaking our connection. The torchbearer—an elder I don't recognize, his face painted with ceremonial ash. He carries a long brand wrapped in oil-soaked cloth, flames dancing at its tip like eager spirits.
"By order of both clans," his voice booms across the square, "the false prophet burns."