A cry rings out from near the sacks: The third conspirator I spotted earlier emerges, brandishing a crossbow. My stomachdrops. “Get down!” I bark. Mira and I dive behind a barrel as a bolt thuds into the crate behind us, splinters of wood raining down. The two men we left sprawled scramble for cover, cursing. I realize they’re not aiming at them—they’re aiming at us.
Mira’s chest heaves as we crouch side by side, the faint lamplight catching the sweat beading on her forehead. “How many are there?” she gasps.
I swallow hard. “At least three. Maybe more.” My heart hammers. We’re pinned in the middle of a clandestine ring, outnumbered if reinforcements appear.
She clenches the dagger’s hilt. “We can’t leave without proof.”
I scan the warehouse. The crossbow-wielder is reloading, crouched where the wooden boxes pile high, occasionally peering over. If I can draw his aim, perhaps Mira can slip around to find the documents. “We split,” I whisper. “I’ll keep them busy.”
Her eyes flare with alarm. “Are you insane? You’re wounded. You can’t fight them all.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not letting them fill you with crossbow bolts, either. Trust me. I’ve fought in worse conditions.” My voice comes out rough with adrenaline. “Just find the records.”
She hesitates, searching my face. Then she nods, a flicker of reluctant belief shining in her gaze. “Fine. Don’t you dare die.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “I’ve survived the arena. This is child’s play.” It’s bravado, but it steels us both.
I gesture for her to move. She slides away in a low crouch, circling behind a row of sacks. I pop up from behind the barrel, letting the crossbow-wielder glimpse me. Another bolt whistles past, striking a lantern overhead. The iron fixture sways, flickering dangerously.
“Come on,” I growl under my breath, stepping out from cover. The crossbow-user curses, dropping the weapon tograpple for a dagger. I charge before he can aim, ramming him into a stack of crates. Wood splits, releasing a cascade of straw and cloth bundles. He howls, clawing at my bracers. I seize the dagger’s hilt, twisting it away. My side throbs again, but I push the pain down, gripping the conspirator’s collar. He thrashes, but my strength prevails. I toss him aside. He lands hard, moaning.
A glance around reveals the other two men stirring. The tall one, still half-stunned, staggers upright. The second, the one who pinned Mira, now brandishes a short sword in a trembling grip. I roll my shoulders, trying not to cringe at the tug of my bandaged wound. “Stand down,” I snarl. “Or this ends badly for you.”
They exchange a look, uncertain. In that moment, I remember the torch lying forgotten on the floor. Flames lick at spilled straw. Smoke curls up. My stomach lurches—this place could go up in fire if we’re not careful. The tall conspirator apparently shares my alarm; he drags the torch away from the pile, stamping on it to smother the embers. Still, the faint reek of burned straw hangs in the air.
“Last chance,” I announce, horns lowered. “Tell us who’s behind this, or next time I won’t hold back.” I don’t expect them to cooperate, but it’s worth a shot.
Their eyes flick past me, and I realize they see movement behind the crates: Mira searching for documents. They lunge with renewed desperation. I brace as the short-sword wielder slashes at my arm, slicing the leather of my bracer. Sparks of pain zip through me. I strike back, hooking his wrist so that the blade clatters free. He rams a knee into my thigh, but I maintain my grip, subduing him with a twist of my forearm around his neck. He gasps for air, slumping. The tall man tries to intervene, only to receive a swift elbow to the face. He reels, blood spraying from his muzzle.
A distant crash echoes, as if someone’s knocked over a stack of crates. Fear spikes in my gut. Mira might be cornered. Leaving these two subdued, I sprint toward the sound, weaving through the maze of boxes. Flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows. My ears ring with the pulse of adrenaline. She’s nowhere in sight. A cold dread gnaws at me.
I hear a muffled thud from behind a towering crate near the far wall. Rounding it, I almost run into Mira, who stands panting over the unconscious form of a burly minotaur. She clutches a rolled parchment in her hand. Relief surges through me. “You’re all right?”
She nods, chest heaving. “He surprised me. I improvised.” She gestures to the man at her feet, who’s out cold. Then she waves the parchment. “I found a trunk locked up. Smashed the lock. Look.” Her voice trembles with excitement. “It’s an arms ledger, referencing orc mercenaries and shipments of stolen steel. Signed by Vaelen.”
My breath halts. “You’re sure?”
She unfurls the parchment just enough for me to glimpse the scrawled signature and a seal in red wax—Vaelen’s personal signet. My stomach twists in disbelief. He’s the one orchestrating arms deals with orcs. Or at least complicit. This could be the final proof we need to topple the Senate’s illusions.
Before I can respond, movement flickers in the corner of my eye: The tall conspirator, somehow recovered, charges from behind a crate with a stolen crossbow. My heart seizes. He aims for Mira’s unguarded flank. Fear rips through me, and I roar, throwing myself in front of her. The bolt streaks out, slamming into my armored bracer. A spray of sparks, the impact jarring my arm. Pain bites through me, but it’s not fatal. I land in a half-crouch, snarling.
Mira reacts instantly, spinning around with her dagger raised. The conspirator tries to reload, but she closes thedistance, slashing across his forearm. He howls, dropping the crossbow, blackish blood spattering the floor. My own breath comes ragged, adrenaline surging. I lung forward, hooking the crossbow with my foot and kicking it away. He slumps, cursing in frantic gasps.
Smoke from the earlier torch smolders in the corner, but the immediate threat is subdued. We stand panting, shoulder to shoulder, the tension so thick it hums in the air. Crates lie toppled, men moan on the floor. The warehouse stinks of sweat, smoke, and the copper tang of fresh blood.
I turn to Mira, heart pounding. “You—did he hurt you?”
She shakes her head, wide-eyed, a pulse hammering visibly in her throat. The battered parchment still clutched in her fist. “I’m fine. Thank you for blocking that shot.”
My own arms tremble with leftover adrenaline. We exchange a look, the aftermath crashing over us in a wave. We fought side by side, synergy crackling in every blow. Something unspoken sparks between us, raw and powerful. Heat flares across my chest, mingling with the lingering pain of my wound. But the intensity in her eyes draws me in, winding up all the tension from the fight into a single taut moment.
I realize I’m standing too close. Her breathing stutters, and I can’t tear my gaze away from the flush blooming on her cheeks. The old wariness that once marked our every interaction has shifted into something else—charged, intimate, ripe with possibilities. The battered crates around us fade from my awareness, replaced by a pounding rush of gratitude, relief, and an unexpected surge of desire.
She wets her lips, voice low. “That was… reckless. You took a bolt for me.”
I swallow thickly. “It barely skimmed me. Rather that than watch you fall.”
Her eyes flick down to my bracer, where the bolt left a ragged dent. “You saved me, Remanos.” Something about the way she says my name sends a jolt through me.
