Before we part ways, he takes a step closer, voice low. “Thank you… for helping me search for answers.” A flicker of gratitude glints in his eyes, overshadowed by the weight of ourpredicament. I push away the thought of overshadow. “You didn’t have to.”
“It’s in my interest,” I say, but my chest warms unexpectedly. “If sabotage tears this city apart, I’m stuck in the rubble.”
He nods. “I’ll find you in the record room later. Show you more logs from the last season, in case we missed something.”
For a tense beat, we stand face to face. His presence crowds the space—broad shoulders, horns that reflect the corridor’s lamplight. My pulse thrums again, unbidden, at the memory of him in the arena, unstoppable. Now, I see the vulnerability in how he rubs his bandaged side, a grimace flicking across his features. The champion is mortal after all, locked in an uneasy alliance with me.
I break the moment with a quick pivot, stepping away. “I’ll be there.” My voice carries a clipped edge, as if I can slice through the tension that threatens to pull me in.
He watches me go, and for one instant, I feel his gaze linger, a curious heat stirring at my nape. A swirl of conflicting emotions churns through me: frustration, fascination, the faint glimmer of understanding. I steel my spine and head for the seamstress’s domain, ready to fight any attempt to reduce me to a docile puppet. Whatever sparks flicker between Remanos and me, I can’t forget the shackles of tradition that still bind us both.
Yet as I walk, my mind drifts to how he confided in me about those shipping ledgers, letting me see the cracks in this city’s polished façade. Maybe we can use those cracks to find a path out of this forced captivity. And if, along that path, my anger at him cools into something more complicated… I’ll handle that obstacle when it arises.
For now, I push open a door at the far end of the corridor, bracing myself to confront a seamstress with a tape measure—and a Senate agenda. My freedom might be distant, but I’ve survived worse odds. If Remanos truly wants to help meunravel the sabotage, maybe—just maybe—we can dismantle the Senate’s illusions from within. The thought kindles a small flicker of hope in my chest. A hope I’ll guard as fiercely as any spear.
6
REMANOS
Morning light spills through my estate’s courtyard, gilding the marble columns and setting the shallow fountain’s waters aglow. I stand at the edge of the paving stones, turning over a piece of parchment in my hands. The words scrawled across it are crisp, bearing the Senate’s emblem in red ink. Their message is direct: They want a public demonstration of my so-called victory spoils—namely Mira.
I crumple the letter and feel my tail flick in agitation. They treat her like an ornament to be displayed at will, and the notion grates on every principle I hold. The Senate’s arrogance surges to new heights each day. If they had any sense of decency, they’d focus on rumors of sabotage infecting our docks rather than staging forced celebrations.
“Mira is not some entertainment piece,” I mutter under my breath.
The distant clang of weapons in the training yard echoes, reminding me that she was last seen reading more shipping logs in the record room. After a talk with the seamstress, she’d retreated there, apparently determined to uncover more about the missing shipments. She’s more tenacious than I gave hercredit for initially. That tenacity tugs at something inside my chest, even though I know it complicates everything.
Footsteps approach from behind. Turning, I see a member of the Bavkus—Senator Ortem—stepping into the courtyard. His cloak drapes over one shoulder, the gold trim shimmering against brown fur shot with gray. He rests one hand on a polished staff.
“I assume you’ve read the Senate’s request.” His voice holds a layer of forced politeness. “We need the people to see the human. To confirm our champion’s triumph.”
I let the crumpled parchment drop to my side. “You’re asking me to parade her around like a captured beast.”
He arches his brow. “I understand your distaste. But the orc warband demanded we receive her as a trophy. If we refuse to show her, we insult them and undermine our own victory. The city expects to see the champion uphold tradition.”
My chest tightens. “Honor shouldn’t be twisted into humiliating someone who fought for her life.”
He straightens his staff, tapping it once on the ground. “You know how precarious our alliances are, Remanos. If the orcs catch wind that we’re hiding her away, they’ll interpret it as an affront. The Senate must maintain unity.”
I glance at the mosaic beneath my hooves—a swirl of blue and gold patterns depicting ancient minotaur ships at sea. “Unity,” I echo, voice heavy with disbelief. “Meanwhile, I hear rumors of sabotage in our docks. Missing supplies, suspicious shipments… Perhaps the Senate should unify around solving that, instead of flaunting an unwilling ‘trophy.’”
Ortem’s face stiffens. “We investigate such matters, champion. But the city’s morale matters, too. A public demonstration of your triumph ensures the people stay confident in our leadership.”
My jaw aches from clenching. “I refuse to treat Mira as a show animal. If you want her to stand at some feast or ceremony, she will do so on her terms. Otherwise, I’m not cooperating.”
He tugs his cloak tighter. “Very well. But let the Senate know if your refusal causes unrest. We can’t have a champion ignoring tradition.”
I suppress a bitter snort. “We’ll see.”
He nods stiffly and leaves the courtyard, staff tapping a brisk rhythm on the stone. I watch him disappear through the gate. A wave of relief flows through me once he’s gone, though it’s tempered by the knowledge that Vaelen and others of the Vakkak class likely share Ortem’s stance. They crave a spectacle that I have no intention of providing.
I open my fist, staring at the wrinkled letter, then toss it onto a nearby table. My side twinges from the orc’s poison-tinged wound, still healing beneath bandages. Instinct begs me to stretch or train, but the medic’s orders echo in my head:No strenuous exertion for at least a few more days.
I cross into a side corridor, heading toward the record room. I suspect Mira is there, sifting through shipping ledgers. My mind drifts to her determined face, the defiance in her eyes whenever the Senate is mentioned. She’s not the quiet prisoner they expected. The more I see of her, the more I realize she’s nobody’s property—she’s a traveler forced by orcs into captivity, then thrust under my guardianship.
Her presence is unsettling, but not in a way that leaves me cold. If anything, it sparks a strange mix of protectiveness and reluctant admiration.
When I step into the record room, dust motes swirl in the sunbeams streaming from a high window. Shelves of scrolls and bound logs line the walls. She stands at a wooden desk, bent over a thick ledger, slender fingers tracing the lines of script. A single stool is behind her, but she remains upright, intent on her task.
