Of course he does. “Where is he?”
“Awaiting you in the audience chamber, near the main hall.”
I rub a hand over the base of my horn, a gesture of irritation. “Lead the way.”
They guide me through my own estate—an ironic chore, but I let them. The audience chamber is a broad room with windows framing the courtyard. Vaelen stands at the center, flanked by a pair of well-dressed minotaur scribes. His horns are etched with intricate designs that mark his Vakkak rank. The cloak he wears is embroidered with silver threads, highlighting a regal posture. If he notices the tension in my stance, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he greets me with a thin, perfunctory smile.
“Remanos. I trust the day finds you well.”
I come to a halt before him, arms crossed. “If this is about forcing Mira into a public display, my answer remains no.”
His smile never falters, but I sense annoyance in the twitch of his tail. “We can’t simply discard tradition. The orc warband offered her as tribute. Our city needs to see that tribute honored properly.”
“Honoring a tribute doesn’t have to mean putting her in a cage,” I growl. “I’ll bring her to the upcoming feast, show them she’s here. That should suffice.”
He taps a slim baton against his palm, eyes narrowing. “The Senate wants more than that. We prefer an open promenade through the city. Let the people witness you and your prize together, reaffirming Milthar’s might. It will reassure everyone that the orcs hold no threat.”
My teeth grind. “You’re asking too much.”
“And you’re forgetting your station,” Vaelen snaps, baton pointing at my chest. “You serve Milthar. If we require you to walk the city streets with your spoil, you will do it.”
I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. “You’ll have your champion at the feast, senator. Beyond that, I exercise my own judgment.”
His lips thin. One of the scribes behind him fidgets nervously. I sense Vaelen is used to getting his way without friction. “The city depends on unity, champion.”
“You keep saying that,” I say, letting the edge in my tone show. “Yet all I see are Senate demands. Where is your concern for the rising sabotage? Missing goods, questionable shipping logs—these issues weaken us more than any refusal to parade Mira.”
Vaelen’s tail flicks again, a sign of his irritation. “I have heard the rumors. We’re investigating. But do not change the subject. The city’s morale is paramount.” He extends a parchment with the official Senate seal. “Sign here, pledging your compliance for a public promenade. We’ll handle the route, times, and announcements. It will be a grand affair to celebrate your recent duel.”
My blood practically boils. “You want me to sign that, guaranteeing I’ll treat Mira as an exhibit?”
He shrugs in a way that sets my nerves on edge. “Your personal feelings are irrelevant. The Senate’s authority is not.”
I stare at the parchment, the fancy calligraphy proclaiming‘A Celebration of the Champion’s Victory’in the swirling lines of Common. There’s a space at the bottom for my signature, as if that alone can confirm my subjugation to their whims. I refuse to pick up the quill. Silence stretches, tension thick as a thundercloud.
Vaelen meets my eyes, arching an imperious brow. He clearly expects me to yield eventually. But a sharp memory flashes in my mind: Mira’s posture in the arena, glaring at me with fury and betrayal, believing I was no better than the orcs. I can’t do that to her again.
“No,” I say, short and decisive. “I’ll attend the feast with her, and that’s it.”
The senator’s nostrils flare. “You defy the Senate at your peril, champion.”
I hold my ground, chest tightening. “I stand by my decision.”
He lowers his baton, eyes cold. “Very well. I’ll inform the Senate of your refusal. Let us hope your reputation outweighs the scandal of ignoring our request.”
Without another word, he turns, cloak swishing behind him. The scribes scurry after him, casting anxious glances my way. Once they vanish, I release a pent-up breath. Each time I clash with them, I risk further consequences. But I can’t hold Mira’s chain simply because the Senate demands a public show.
Footsteps sound from the corridor behind me. I twist around to see Mira pausing at the threshold of the audience chamber. She must have heard the tail end of our argument, because her brows draw together. “What was that about?”
I rub the base of my skull. “Vaelen wants us to parade through the city, hand in chain, or something equally demeaning. I refused.”
She searches my face, as though gauging sincerity. “You fought with him over me?” Her tone wavers between skepticism and something softer.
“I fought with him over the principle,” I correct gently. “But yes, it’s about you.”
She steps closer, crossing into the sunlit circle at the center of the room. I notice how the new attire from the seamstress fits her, hugging her waist and flaring at the hips in a style reminiscent of minotaur design, though adapted for a human shape. The mild embroidery along the hem suggests it’s meant to show a level of refinement. She doesn’t look uncomfortable, but there’s a tension in her posture that underscores how forced the arrangement is.
“You didn’t have to stand up for me,” she says, voice edged with caution. “I can handle their insults.”
