Her gaze flicks to my bandaged side, concern darkening her features. “And who protects you?”
I grimace, brushing aside the pang. “I’ve managed on my own for years. But tonight, it helped having you fight beside me.”
She exhales, tension in her posture unwinding slightly. For a moment, I sense the same magnetic pull as before—a hush settling, our hearts pounding. But my men shift outside the corridor, reminding us we’re not alone. She inclines her head, stepping back a pace, as if catching herself.
“We should rest,” she murmurs, voice unsteady. “If we’re to confront Ortem or any other senator in the morning, we need a plan.”
I nod, ignoring the stab of disappointment. “Yes… I’ll see you at dawn. In the record room, perhaps. We can finalize how to present this ledger.”
She agrees, turning away. I watch her retreating form until she disappears behind the arch leading to her quarters. My chest tightens, memories of the near-kiss flooding my thoughts: the brush of our breaths, the faint hitch in her voice. Perhaps it’s for the best that we pulled back. With Vaelen’s plot unraveling, any misstep threatens to unravel us too.
Yet as I stand there, leaning against the wall, I can’t deny how she sparks life in me beyond the stoic champion façade. The city celebrates me as a warrior, but in that dim warehouse, it was the synergy with her that made me feel more than a tool of the Senate. As if for once, I fought for something—someone—who reciprocated my conviction.
A gust of night air drifts through the corridor, cooling the beads of sweat on my fur. I roll my shoulders, wincing at the ache, and push off the wall. Tomorrow, we face a new battle in the Senate’s halls. Tonight, I’ll carve out a few hours of rest, though I doubt sleep will come easily. The memory of Mira’scloseness, the intensity in her eyes, will linger long after the warehouse’s echoes fade.
Walking slowly, I head for my own quarters. My footsteps echo in the hushed estate. Each stride reminds me of the savage leaps I took to protect her from crossbow bolts, the raw fear of possibly losing her. I’ve never let a single person’s wellbeing matter so much. The thought unsettles me as much as it stirs a quiet warmth deep in my bones.
At my door, I pause, glancing at the corridor that leads to her room. A swirl of conflicting desires churns in my chest. But I force myself inside, shutting the door behind me. Releasing a weary breath, I move to light a small lamp. My reflection in the polished metal mirror reveals a bruise forming on my muzzle, blood drying on the edge of my bracer. I see a champion tested not only by political conspiracies, but by an unexpected bond forging with a fearless human who refuses to be anyone’s property.
I peel off my armor, methodically cleaning the bracer’s dent from the crossbow bolt. Each scuff is a reminder of the fight, of how dangerously close we came to losing. Yet we won. We even discovered Vaelen’s direct involvement. My lips curl into a grim smile—he doesn’t realize the vulnerability he’s created by leaving that ledger in a half-secure trunk. Soon, his illusions of control will be shattered.
But even as I plot the Senate’s downfall, I can’t escape the memory of Mira’s face. I recall the moment her eyes fluttered, the brush of her breath on my lips, and how my heart slammed against my ribcage. That moment teetered between a leap into unknown territory and a hasty retreat. If we’d kissed, what then? A thousand tangled consequences swirl in my mind. She’s no docile spoil; she’s a fierce presence with a mind of her own. And I—my life is chained by Senate decrees, champion duties, and the guilt of every battle I’ve fought.
I undress further, cleaning a scratch along my ribs with a cloth dampened by the basin’s water. It stings, but I welcome the pain as a reminder I’m alive and forging my own path, no matter what the Senate demands. My reflection stares back, resolute. A champion who defies the tradition that tried to claim Mira as a trophy. A man wrestling with the longing her presence awakens.
Shivering slightly in the cool air, I extinguish the lamp, letting the darkness blanket me. I settle onto the bed, eyes closed, but images of tonight flicker relentlessly: Mira’s grin when we snuck inside, the clang of steel, the near-kiss radiating an electric thrill that surpasses any arena roar. Exhaling, I remind myself we have an entire city’s fate at stake, a conspiracy that threatens to unravel Milthar’s fragile peace. This can’t devolve into personal indulgence.
But the echo of her whisper resonates in my memory: “You saved me, Remanos.” And in that single statement, I felt something shift, as if we crossed a threshold. I let that thought carry me into uneasy rest, planning how to strike Vaelen before he strikes us, clinging to the quiet hope that together, we can shatter the web of deception strangling Milthar—and maybe, in the aftermath, find something real between us beyond forced alliances and political strife.
Eventually, I drift, half-dreaming of moonlit warehouses and straw-littered floors. In my mind’s eye, her face appears again, unwavering in the face of danger. My heart stirs, an unsteady beat in the quiet of the night. Tomorrow, the Senate. Tomorrow, Vaelen. And at my side, the woman who challenges everything I thought I knew about war, honor, and the precarious boundaries of my heart.
9
MIRA
Istand outside Remanos’s receiving chamber, heart pounding at the knowledge that Vaelen waits just beyond these doors. Light streams in through a high, arched window, illuminating the corridor’s mosaic floor in shifting patterns. My palms feel clammy despite the relative coolness of the estate. We’ve requested this audience, hoping the ledger we recovered from the warehouse—and the other partial evidence we’ve gathered—will shake Vaelen into backing down. But I know better than to expect an easy confession.
Remanos appears at my side. His expression is grim, yet resolute. The subtle tension in his jaw speaks of how close we both are to simply bursting in there and accusing Vaelen of treason on the spot. But we need caution. One misstep and Vaelen might claim we forged the ledger or brand us traitors ourselves.
“You’re certain you want to do this?” he murmurs, voice pitched so only I can hear.
I nod, clenching the folded parchment in my hand—tangible proof of arms deals with orcs and the forging of Remanos’s crest on illicit shipments. “Yes. We can’t let him control the narrativeany longer. At least if we confront him first, we’ll see how he reacts. Maybe it’ll rattle him enough to slip.”
His tail gives a single, taut flick. “If he threatens you, I’ll handle it.”
I exhale. “I can handle myself. But… thank you.”
Our eyes meet for a moment, a flicker of that quiet synergy sparking. Neither of us mentions what nearly happened last night after the ambush. I can still feel the ghost of his breath against my cheek, the heat in his gaze. My thoughts keep drifting back to that moment, equal parts longing and confusion twisting in my gut.
He inclines his head, then pushes open the double doors. Inside, Vaelen stands by a carved marble table, flanked by two lesser senators. He greets us with a smile that never reaches his cold eyes. The table is set with a small pitcher of spiced wine and three cups—far too courteous an arrangement for a meeting we all know is laced with hostility. I keep my hood lowered, though not enough to hide my face. He wants a show of docility, but I’m not giving it.
“Champion,” Vaelen says, voice silken. His gaze flicks to me, then back to Remanos. “I received your summons. Something about irregularities in the city’s shipments, was it? I’m ever so curious to hear your theories.”
Remanos crosses the threshold, shoulders squared. “We appreciate your time.” He shoots me a quick glance before continuing. “We’ve discovered evidence that orc mercenaries have been colluding with certain individuals, funneling contraband shipments disguised with my crest.”
Vaelen’s thin smile grows sharper. “That’s quite an accusation.”
I step forward, heart thumping. “We found a ledger. It lists arms deals, weapon inventories, and bribes paid to orc clans.Many documents carry a distinctive mark—your personal seal. We want an explanation.”
