The medic clears his throat pointedly. “Champion, you should rest.”
I wave him off. “I need to speak with the Senate about next steps, then I’ll head home.”
He mutters a curse about bullheaded pride, but he can’t stop me. I begin my slow walk back toward the colosseum’s grand hall, where the senators wait to finalize the aftermath of the duel. Each step sends a flare of agony through my ribs, yet my mind buzzes with the memory of Mira’s eyes. The distrust in them is a knife to my conscience, and the undeniable spark I sense whenever we’re forced into conversation ties my thoughts in knots.
It’s the first time in all my years as champion that a so-called victory has tasted so bitter. The city rejoices, hailing me as a savior, yet I feel more like a warden. In the arena, I can handle the clarity of battle: two opponents, one winner, one loser. Out here, the lines blur. Politics coil around me like serpents, and Mira’s presence is a constant reminder that not everything can be solved with a swing of my hammer.
My hand touches the bandaged gash at my side. The pain is real, tangible, easier to handle than the turmoil in my chest. As I trudge deeper into the colosseum’s corridors, another cheer erupts from above. They chant my name again, “Remanos! Remanos!” urging me to appear and celebrate. If only they knew how hollow that accolade feels right now.
I press on, telling myself that I’ll figure out a way to free Mira from this arrangement. But as the Senate’s shadow looms, I suspect the path to that outcome may be more treacherous than any orc champion I’ve ever faced. And the more I standnear her, the more I realize I’m drawn to something about this fierce, unyielding human. Sparks flicker whenever we clash, and though it complicates everything, I can’t deny it ignites a part of me I’ve long kept contained.
For now, I steel myself for the Senate’s endless praises and demands. My body screams for rest, but I push forward, clenching my jaw. The city might view me as a hero, but I feel like I’m standing on a razor’s edge. One wrong move, and I could lose everything—and Mira would pay the price alongside me.
I brush aside a heavy curtain leading to the Senate’s reserved chamber. With every step, I vow that, no matter what, I won’t let her become a casualty of Milthar’s hunger for spectacle. Even if it means fighting battles far more insidious than any I’ve faced in the arena, I’ll find a way to honor my conscience—and guard hers in the process.
5
MIRA
Iwake to the soft glow of morning light slanting through unfamiliar shutters. My eyes adjust, and I realize I’m still in Remanos’s estate, sprawled on a firm pallet in a chamber that smells faintly of polished leather and the faint tang of citrus from the courtyard outside. It’s the same room where I spent the night after he won the duel, ensuring the orcs slunk away from the city instead of marching through its gates. Technically, that means I’m safe—for now. But the memory of how he was hailed as a hero while I was handed over like an afterthought rakes across my mind.
I push aside the thin blanket and wander to the window, hooking my fingers under the shutters. Outside, a walled courtyard opens to bright sunshine. There’s a stone path lined with carefully trimmed shrubs and a fountain at the center, water trickling in a subdued burble. It would all look serene if not for the pair of minotaur guards stationed near the entrance gate. They’re armed with spears and broad-bladed swords at their hips, effectively reminding me that I can’t walk out freely.
I run my palms over my rumpled tunic, one of the pieces borrowed from Remanos’s household. The cloth is practical,mid-thigh length, cinched at the waist with a braided sash. It’s better than the tattered travel clothes I arrived in, but every time I see my reflection in the small brass mirror perched on the table, I feel a stab of homesickness. I miss my own garments, that sense of belonging to no one. Here, all I see is a reflection of a woman caught in someone else’s fight.
A light knock at the door draws my attention. Before I respond, a young minotaur—barely out of adolescence by the looks of his shorter horns—pushes the door open. He sets a pitcher of water and a covered bowl on a small table. His eyes flick to me, then quickly down.
“Mistress Mira,” he says, voice subdued. “Your breakfast. Shall I fetch anything else?”
The title rankles me. Mistress implies some level of respect, or at least status, but I know it’s a veneer. Still, the boy looks nervous, so I keep my voice steady. “No. Thank you. This is fine.”
He nods, then hesitates like he wants to say more. When I raise an eyebrow, he just mumbles a farewell and slips out. The door closes behind him with a faint thud. Once I’m sure I’m alone, I lift the lid on the bowl—some kind of grain porridge and a few slices of what looks like roasted squash. It’s not the hearty meal I’d pick for myself, but I’m hungry enough to inhale the first spoonful without complaint.
As I eat, my mind drifts to the day ahead. The Senate has decreed I remain in Remanos’s custody, presumably so the city can flaunt its champion’s “trophy.” The thought sparks my temper again. I push it down, telling myself that anger won’t open these walls. If I want freedom, I need to be tactical. Remanos hinted that there’s more going on—missing shipments, the possibility of sabotage within the city. That might be my only angle to gain leverage.
I recall him staggering after the duel, wounded but trying to hide it. Part of me hates how he insisted he never wanted meas a spoil, yet he still let them present me like a prize. Another part of me can’t ignore that he fought the orc champion to keep Milthar safe from an onslaught—and, by extension, to keep me from falling back into orc hands. Maybe both truths can exist. It’s enough to make my head spin.
When I finish the porridge, I peer around the room again. No window bars, but the shutters open onto a courtyard that’s guarded. No alternate exit. My chest tightens. This morning, I refuse to feel like I’m stuck. If I can’t leave the estate, I’ll explore it. I need to understand the environment in which I’m held.
I step into the hallway, each footstep echoing on polished tiles. The corridor is simpler than I’d expect for a champion’s home. The walls are painted in muted earth tones, and every few yards there’s a niche displaying a small statue or a vase with fresh greenery. No gaudy decorations, no lavish tapestries. The minimalism feels intentional, like Remanos invests his wealth in something else—perhaps the training yard, or supporting the staff? The corridor branches left and right. I spot a minotaur guard posted at an intersection. He watches me with cautious eyes, but doesn’t bar my way.
I choose the left hallway, passing shuttered windows and carved wooden doors. One door is ajar, revealing a large room with shelves crammed full of scrolls and ledgers. Curious, I slip inside. It smells of parchment, ink, and old wax. Dust motes dance in a streak of sunlight from a high window. As I step closer, I notice the writing on some scrolls is in the common tongue, while others bear the spidery script of Vakkak minotaur—twisting lines that I can only decipher a bit of.
My heart quickens. The Senate is predominantly Vakkak nobles, so maybe these are official records or shipping manifests. If there’s sabotage in the city, perhaps something here indicates a pattern. I run my finger lightly over one open ledger, scanning the columns of goods, ports, and destinations.The script transitions between Common and Vakkak, giving me enough context to guess this is an inventory of trade shipments—grain, metal, textiles. Some lines have symbols next to them that look like exclamation marks or urgent notations. It might mean those shipments are delayed or stolen.
I flip a page and find more scrawling. The date references last month, listing a consignment of copper ingots to be shipped across the sea. There’s a note in Vakkak script: “Divert. Payment from unknown sponsor.” A chill prickles along my arms. Unknown sponsor? Could that be part of the sabotage Remanos suspects?
Something behind me shifts, the faintest rustle of fabric. I spin, heart thudding, half-expecting a guard or scribe to scold me for prying. Instead, I’m face to face with Remanos himself. The breadth of his chest nearly fills the doorway, the short fur around his neck still recovering from his bandaged wound. He’s wearing a loose tunic that accommodates his healing injuries. I notice how the fabric stretches over powerful shoulders, the diagonal scar on his pectoral visible where the laces are undone.
He lifts an eyebrow at me, tail flicking. “Snooping?”
My cheeks flame with a mix of embarrassment and defiance. “Exploring,” I correct, letting the ledger slip closed. “You did say I’d be stuck in your estate, so I’m making myself at home.”
He steps inside, moving with more grace than someone with a fresh injury should. “I have guards posted in case you try to leave, not to confine you to one room,” he says, voice carefully neutral. Then his gaze darts to the ledger. “Though I see you found my records.”
I fold my arms. “You keep logs of black-market shipments here?”
His tail lashes once, betraying a flicker of tension. “They’re not black-market,” he counters, though I hear uncertainty in his tone. “At least, not intentionally. My estate manages someshipping contracts for the Senate. Goods come in from across Milthar, then we distribute them to ports. If something is missing, we note it.”
