I hold his gaze, searching for any lie. “The ledger mentions an ‘unknown sponsor’ paying extra for shipments to be diverted. That sounds shady.”
He glances away, lips tightening. “It does. I’ve suspected a few shipments were rerouted outside official channels. We found crates unaccounted for at the docks a few weeks back, but the Senate brushed it off as a simple oversight.”
A surge of curiosity mingles with triumph at being right. “So you suspect sabotage?”
He exhales, crossing his arms over that broad chest. “Something is happening, yes. I don’t know who’s behind it. The Senate would prefer to pretend everything is fine. But missing cargo could weaken Milthar’s economy—and our ability to defend ourselves if more orcs come knocking.”
For a moment, the tension between us eases as we acknowledge a shared concern. Then I remember where we stand. I shut the ledger with a soft thud and look around, noticing the thick dust on some volumes, as if they haven’t been touched in months.
“Why do you handle shipping ledgers?” I ask, curiosity driving me. “Isn’t that a job for bureaucrats?”
He gives a small shrug. “I wasn’t always a champion. My family is Zotkak class—we used to run a modest trading business. When I rose in the arena, I kept the business active, albeit under managers. Sometimes the Senate tasks me with receiving shipments from allied ports because they trust me not to skim from the top.” His voice hardens. “Yet it seems someone else is doing that behind the scenes.”
I study him more closely. The champion is at odds with parts of the Senate, which might be why he doesn’t revel in the politicsor the spectacle they thrust upon him. He’s broad and imposing, sure, but there’s a steadiness in his gaze that suggests he’s more than muscle and a hammer swing. It strikes me again that he truly hates this arrangement. If that’s the case, we have a strange overlap of interests: neither of us wants to remain locked in this forced dynamic.
I slide the ledger back onto the shelf. “Thank you for not forcibly dragging me out of here. I half-expected a guard to do it.”
He gives me a measured look. “Your presence here is uneasy enough without me assigning you a personal warden. As long as you remain on the grounds, you’re free to move about.”
The remark coaxes out a harsh laugh. “So I’m a bird in a bigger cage. Good to know.”
A flicker of contrition crosses his face. “I’m trying to make it less of a cage, at least.” He gestures around the room. “Explore, read. I have nothing to hide in my personal records. If you find a clue about who’s interfering with shipping, maybe we can figure out a solution.”
That last statement lingers in the air, a small olive branch. I shift on my feet, recalling how bristly I felt upon first meeting him. “You realize if we do uncover something, the Senate might bury it. They seem invested in their illusions.”
His mouth quirks in a humorless half-smile. “Yes. That’s why I want proof. Something they can’t ignore.”
I nod slowly, crossing my arms. “All right. I’ll keep reading. See if any other shipments stand out.”
He inclines his head. “You can do that here, or you can join me in the courtyard for a walk. My leg is stiff, and my side aches.” He glances down at the fresh bandage visible under his tunic’s laces. “The medic insists I move to keep the muscles from tightening.”
I hesitate, uncertain why he’d extend such an invitation. “And why would I do that?”
His dark eyes settle on me with an intensity that almost steals my breath. “Because you’ve been cooped up too, and I imagine you’re restless.”
He’s not wrong. The tension in my shoulders begs for motion. I weigh my options, then set the ledger aside. “A short walk.”
He leads the way out of the record room. As we stroll down the corridor, the hush of the estate envelops us. A few staff members pass by with respectful nods to Remanos, their eyes flicking to me with curiosity. We enter the main courtyard—a spacious square paved with stone tiles, surrounded by colonnades. I spot a training yard beyond an archway, where practice dummies stand near racks of wooden weapons.
Remanos notices my gaze. “I train there daily—at least, I did before the orc duel. My injuries need a little more time.”
“Should you be up and about already?” I ask, not bothering to hide my doubt. “The wound was deep.”
He grimaces. “I’ve fought with worse.” But I detect a subtle limp in his gait, even if he tries to hide it. The extent of his stamina is impressive, though I can’t quite shake the worry that he’s pushing himself too hard.
We circle the courtyard, passing a modest fountain set with carved bull heads that trickle water into a stone basin. The sunlight warms the tiles and glints off Remanos’s horns, which still show faint scuffs from the colosseum battle. I catch a hint of dried herbs or salves in the bandage under his tunic, presumably to help with poison residue.
When I glance up, I catch him studying me. The eye contact sends a ripple of heat through my cheeks. “What?” I ask, squinting against the brightness.
He shifts his stance, tail swishing lightly. “You seem less frightened than before.”
I stiffen. “I wasn’t frightened. I was furious.”
“Both can exist,” he says, voice even, but there’s a calm empathy beneath it. “I wouldn’t blame you for either.”
My fists clench, recalling the humiliations of being dragged around in front of thousands of onlookers. “Rage is easier than fear,” I admit, words emerging more candidly than intended. “Anyway, I’m not cowering in a corner, if that’s what you expected.”
His shoulders relax minutely. “I never took you for someone who cowers.” The statement is quiet, almost an acknowledgment of respect.
