Remanos’s gaze lingers, and for a moment, I imagine he actually cares. But then, that fleeting thought shrivels. Why would a champion minotaur care about one human among thousands? “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You’ve been caught between two worlds.”
A flare of bitterness surges. “Your apology doesn’t change anything.”
He nods, unoffended. “No, it doesn’t. But let me do what I can.” He turns to a tall minotaur guard with a dark muzzle and silver-studded bracers. “See her to the guest quarters in the east wing. Make sure she has fresh water and a meal. She’s not to be harmed or restrained.”
The guard inclines his head, though I detect a faint quirk of dissatisfaction. He beckons me to follow, and I do, if onlybecause it’s better than standing there in a silent standoff with Remanos. As I pass him, I catch a whiff of polished leather and a faint hint of something earthy, like fresh timber. It stirs an unwanted awareness inside me that leaves me unsettled.
Halfway to the corridor, I pause and glance back. Remanos is still watching. His posture is rigid, but his gaze seems thoughtful. I speak softly, my voice echoing in the chamber. “I am nobody’s prize.”
A flicker of something crosses his face—agreement, regret, maybe both. “You won’t need to remind me.”
I let that hang in the air, then continue into the corridor behind the guard. My thoughts swirl. I’m in a minotaur city, unarmed and exhausted, at the mercy of a Senate that sees me as a political pawn, and an orc warband that’s threatening war. My best chance for freedom might lie in collaborating with Remanos, but trust does not come easily. Not after everything I’ve endured.
As we walk, I notice the hush that settles once we’re out of the main hall. We pass through a colonnade, glimpsing a courtyard where a handful of minotaurs gather. They’re speaking in low tones about strange thefts at the docks—words like “missing supply crates” and “disappearing shipments” filter to my ears. The pieces of some puzzle float around me. Something deeper is happening in this city, beyond the spectacle of a champion’s duel.
I can’t help but wonder if that might be the key to my escape—uncovering whatever is amiss and using it as leverage. Survival in an unfamiliar place often depends on quickly grasping the power plays at work. With each step, I vow to learn more. I refuse to languish in forced captivity, even if my new jailer is a tall, stoic champion with a gaze that can steal the breath from my lungs.
The corridor leads to a modest suite, the walls painted in a muted ocher hue. There’s a wide window on one side, shuttered with carved wooden panels. The guard points at a cot in the corner, a table set with clay pitcher and cups, and a small trunk. “You’ll find fresh garments.” He studies me like I’m some curious beast. “Someone will come by later with food.”
I move to the window, open the shutters, and peer out. The city sprawls below, a tapestry of sandstone buildings and marble temples. In the distance, beyond the rooftops and the colosseum’s curved walls, a glittering expanse of turquoise sea stretches to the horizon. My breath catches at the sight—it’s strangely beautiful, even if it’s my prison for now.
When I turn back, the guard is gone, leaving me in the hush of this temporary lodging. I walk to the table, pour water from the pitcher into a cup, and down it greedily. It tastes clean, a vast improvement from the half-stagnant water the orcs forced me to drink. I wipe my mouth, ignoring the sting of the raw skin around my wrists. I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the knots in my muscles.
I let myself sink onto the cot. My gaze flicks around, noticing the faint glow of evening light creeping through the window. Outside, I hear the soft hum of the city: minotaurs calling to one another in their resonant language, the distant clang of metal on metal, perhaps from some blacksmith forging armor. Above it all, my heart pounds with unspent anger and a current of determination.
I think of that older senator with the staff, the orc emissary with his threats, and then Remanos Ironhide—bearing the weight of a champion’s responsibility while I bear the weight of chains now cut but not truly gone. Questions swarm my mind. How long until the duel? What if Remanos loses? Would the orcs reclaim me? Would the city even care?
I clench my fists. I am not property. I can’t let them decide my fate like I’m a piece on a board. My mind drifts to the mention of sabotage or missing shipments. Perhaps that’s a clue to the tension simmering below the surface. If I’m going to earn any freedom, I need to gather information. The Senate might keep me under watch, but that doesn’t mean I can’t observe and plan.
Light fades, pulling the city into twilight. Through the open shutters, the horizon darkens to a deep cobalt, and torches flicker to life across Milthar’s streets. Part of me—some stubborn, persistent fragment of my spirit—longs to see everything beyond these walls. If I wasn’t here under such dire circumstances, I might marvel at the architecture, the columns, the intricate frescos. I might explore the markets. I might find a way to sail away from here entirely.
For now, I inhale, slow and steady, letting the fresh ocean breeze calm my nerves. Remanos’s parting words whisper through my mind, haunted by the sincerity in his voice: “You won’t need to remind me.” Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s genuine in his revulsion at calling me a “trophy.” But sincerity alone won’t set me free.
I let my eyes close. My body sags, exhaustion digging claws into my bones. When they open again, I vow to carve out a path that leads me home—wherever that might be—without being owned by minotaur or orc.
Before sleep claims me, one final thought flickers: I caught a glimpse of him, and for an instant, I wanted to trust. That impulse terrifies me more than any chain. If I let hope tether me to a champion with those dark eyes, I might lose the resilience that’s kept me alive this long.
I breathe in again. No. I really am nobody’s prize. And tomorrow, I’ll prove it.
2
REMANOS
Ican still smell the salt of the ocean drifting in from the open-air corridors, but the scent feels strangely stale in my nostrils tonight. It’s as though the usual brine tang carries a weight that settles across my shoulders. I stand at the entrance of the Senate Hall—an imposing structure of white stone with towering columns carved into the shapes of ancient minotaur heroes. Each pillar depicts a champion from centuries past, horns raised, weapons lifted. They stare outward, frozen in triumph, as if judging anyone who dares enter.
I adjust the leather strap crossing my chest and roll my shoulders to prepare for what I know awaits me inside. My body aches with tension ever since I left Mira in the east wing, escorted by the guards. The memory of her fierce glare stays with me. She’s a mere human in a land of bull-kin, yet she wields a presence that unsettles me in ways I’m not used to. I remember the way her eyes sparked with anger—like flint scraping stone. She made it clear that she thinks this city is just another cage, and I can’t fault her for that opinion.
The guard at the massive bronze door inclines his head when he sees me. He steps aside so I can enter the grandhall. My hoofsteps echo across polished marble floors. Half a dozen pillars line the interior, each draped in burgundy-and-gold banners. In a recessed alcove sits an oval table of dark wood where members of the Bavkus gather. They’ve likely been awaiting my arrival.
I draw closer and observe the faces of those present. Senator Ortem is there, the older minotaur with gray in his fur who greeted the orcs in the courtyard earlier. His horns are gilded at the tips, a sign of both rank and a certain vanity that has never sat well with me. Next to him stands Senator Vaelen, a Vakkak noble with an air of preening self-importance. His horns curve outward, thinner than mine but adorned with intricate etchings. Vaelen’s skin is a lighter hue of leathery brown, while the short fur around his neck is an almost copper color—an unusual shade among our people. He offers me a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his cold eyes.
As I step forward, my tail flicks in annoyance. I straighten to my full height, nearly seven feet, though I’m mindful not to project too much open hostility. These senators, for all their pomp, hold the reins of governance. My role as champion places me under their watchful eye.
“Ah, Remanos Ironhide,” Vaelen says in a voice that drips fake warmth. “Thank you for joining us so quickly.”
I incline my head. “I was told to come at once.”
Ortem sets his staff against the table, leaning on it as if he needs the support. His gaze roams over me, perhaps noting the diagonal scar across my chest from a past orc fight. “We have many matters to discuss regarding the orc warband.” His eyes narrow. “They made their demands quite clear this afternoon.”
