I meet her eyes, my heart pounding for a different reason now. “Yes.” Quiet gratitude pulses through me. She’s unwavering, even with the Senate breathing down her neck. I place my hand over hers, gently. “Thank you for standing by me.”
Emotion flickers across her face. “We stand by each other, remember?”
The honesty in her voice stirs a fresh wave of protectiveness. I squeeze her hand once, then force myself to let go, mindful that any staff could see and fuel rumors. She steps back, eyes reflecting an unspoken understanding. We share a silent vow to keep forging ahead, no matter the Senate’s threats.
She helps me to my feet, and I sense the weight of the next day’s hearing pressing on us. If I refuse to hand her over,if I continue supporting her investigations, the Senate may well strip me of my rank. Yet to do anything else would be unthinkable.
We leave the training yard, side by side. My chest still aches, but not just from the wound—it’s the dread that tomorrow’s hearing might tear me from everything I’ve built. The only certainty is that I can’t betray Mira, can’t let the Senate break her spirit or hand her to orcs. The cost to my champion’s title is irrelevant compared to that. She’s become more than a passing cause. She’s a spark that ignites a longing for something better than the Senate’s hypocrisy.
Nightfall arrives far too quickly, and with it, the knowledge that our meeting with merchants might be the last chance to gather the critical mass needed to challenge Vaelen. My mind churns with contingency plans. If I lose my seat, if the city turns on me, if orcs reemerge—so many ifs. But one truth anchors me: I’ll stand in the fray, with Mira at my side, no matter how violently the Senate rages.
Tomorrow, Vaelen will demand my compliance. I’ll give him none. Let him try to dethrone me. The champion’s mantle was meant to protect Milthar’s people, not facilitate corruption. If I must choose between my rank and doing what’s right, I choose what’s right. Mira’s faith in me has rekindled that determination. If that seals our fate, I’ll face it with steel in my spine.
For now, I muster the flicker of hope that our merchant allies might tip the balance. My chest still flutters with the memory of her gentle hands on my wound, the unwavering conviction in her voice. Whatever the Senate tries next, we’ll fight it. And if we fall, we’ll fall together—two souls bound by a fragile alliance that might yet save Milthar from the darkness creeping at its core.
11
MIRA
Morning light spills across the cobbled streets of Milthar, painting the marble columns and sloping roofs in a gentle glow. I slip through the quieter avenues, keeping my hood partially raised to obscure my face. Remanos insisted I stay within the estate for my own safety, but the leads I’ve gathered won’t wait. We need more solid evidence if we’re to stop Vaelen from branding both of us conspirators—or worse, shipping me off to the orcs. I refuse to be caged while the Senate weaves false accusations.
Despite the tension twisting in my stomach, I move with purpose toward the city archives, a sprawling complex of arched doorways and carved friezes depicting ancient battles. Two minotaur sentries stand guard at the main entrance, each wearing the standard uniform of Milthar’s civil record keepers. My heart thuds as I approach, worried they might stop me for being human. But they appear tired or bored, and no immediate flicker of recognition crosses their faces. They let me pass with only a cursory glance.
Inside, the grand hall opens into towering shelves, the topmost levels accessible only by ladders. Rows of scrolls andbound volumes line each shelf, creating a labyrinth of recorded history: trade treaties, property deeds, genealogical ledgers, and everything in between. A hush pervades the air, broken only by the soft scrape of the archivists’ sandals. My senses prickle with anticipation. This is precisely the environment I need: a place where old truths might lie hidden, waiting to be uncovered.
I keep my head down as I weave between shelves, searching for the archivists’ catalog. The faint smell of dust and papyrus tickles my nose. The few minotaur librarians I see seem preoccupied with their tasks—sorting brittle scrolls, carefully labeling newly arrived volumes. They’ve likely never had cause to suspect a human might rummage among their records for city secrets. Even so, I remain cautious, occasionally glancing over my shoulder.
I find a small alcove lined with drawers, each labeled with an intricate code. From Remanos’s notes and my own guesses, older treaties might be stored under sections referencing “historic foreign relations.” That means anything involving orc clans, older Vakkak decrees, or expansions to Milthar’s maritime reach. I run my finger across the engraved labels:Vakkak Land Grants, Border Wars, Orc Conflicts: Historical Accounts.The last drawer draws my attention. I tug it open, scanning the index inside.
Years of rummaging through old libraries with my father taught me how to decode references quickly. My eyes catch an entry labeledTreaty of Renghar (Vakkak–Orc Trade Leverage), Year 207.A faint pulse of excitement quickens my heartbeat. This might be exactly the kind of ancient record proving how certain noble families manipulated orc threats for profit. If Vaelen’s lineage is tied to those families, we can strengthen our case that his current actions are no coincidence.
I jot the reference on a scrap of parchment, then carefully search the shelves. It takes me a good while, scaling a ricketyladder to the higher level. Up here, the air feels stale, as though these scrolls haven’t been disturbed in years. I run my fingers along the spines of volumes until I spot a thick treatise labeled with archaic script. My breath catches:Treaty of Renghar,exactly what I need. My pulse thrums as I lift the heavy tome and climb back down, ensuring I don’t topple off the ladder.
At a lone table in a secluded corner, I settle the volume. Its worn cover crackles beneath my palm. Gently, I flip it open, scanning the minotaur script interspersed with occasional orcish runes. My eyes pick out references to “Vakkak dignitaries,” “coerced trade quotas,” and even the phrase “levied threats by orc warbands, invited under cover of forced alliances.” The further I read, the more damning it appears. Centuries ago, certain Vakkak nobles basically “invited” orc raids to intimidate middle-class Zotkak merchants into compliance. They’d swoop in as saviors, forging lopsided deals that favored the wealthy. This is the exact historical precedent Remanos and I suspect Vaelen is replicating.
My hands tremble with a mix of fury and triumph. If we show the city that Vaelen’s current actions mirror these old manipulations, perhaps enough senators or commoners will believe he’s repeating his ancestors’ tactics. People might realize the orc infiltration is orchestrated rather than random.
Lost in my reading, I almost miss the faint shuffle of footsteps behind me. Instinct prickles. I freeze, focusing on my peripheral senses. Footfalls pause, as though the person tries not to be noticed. A cold jolt of alarm climbs up my spine—someone’s watching me. Slowly, I turn the page, pretending to remain absorbed in the text. The presence lingers.
I swallow, conscious that I’ve lingered too long in this archive. If Vaelen’s men recognized me entering, they could easily trap me here. My pulse spikes. Closing the tome gently, I slip it into a satchel I brought for this purpose. There’s no timeto fully memorize or copy everything; I’ll have to smuggle the treatise out. The archivists might protest, but I can’t leave this behind. Not now.
Rising from the table, I keep my posture casual, meandering toward the nearest shelf to mask the volume hidden under my cloak. The footsteps shift again, trailing at a distance. My stomach knots. If I bolt too soon, they’ll be sure of my guilt. I pass a row of wooden racks, turning a corner that leads to a dimly lit corridor, hoping I can find a side exit.
The corridor is lined with locked cabinets. Unused candelabras stand in the corners, the air stale. My breath quickens. This is not a main route, which might be good for slipping away, but also means fewer eyes around if Vaelen’s henchmen corner me. Anxiety ratchets higher with each step. I carefully press forward, scanning for a door. At last, I glimpse a small archway leading to a lesser-used storeroom, its door cracked ajar. Possibly an exit beyond it?
Behind me, footsteps accelerate. My heart leaps into my throat. I glance back—two bulky minotaurs appear, plain-clothed but radiating intimidation. One lifts his chin, eyes fixing on me with that predator’s gleam. My pulse hammers. Vaelen’s men, no doubt.
I push through the storeroom door, skirting around crates. The room is cramped, dust swirling in the faint light filtering from a high window. A single door on the far side appears locked. Panic flutters in my chest. If I’m trapped, they’ll take me to Vaelen, or claim I’m stealing archives. I slip between crates, hoping to find another way out. My thoughts race. Did they see me grab the treatise? If they confiscate it, all the evidence is lost.
A heavy thud behind me—a crate knocked aside. I hear one of the men grunt, “Check the corners. We must bring her in quietly.”
I hold my breath, pressed against a stack of old scroll boxes. My eyes dart around. A single window high on the far wall might be large enough for me to squeeze through, but it’s an impossible climb without a ladder. If I stay here, they’ll sniff me out. My pulse roars in my ears. I risk creeping around the edge of the crates, hoping to circle behind them. The squeak of my sandal on the floor makes me freeze again, heart stuttering.
One of them whips around, catching a glimpse of me. “There she is!”
Swallowing a surge of terror, I dash between crates, clinging to the treatise. A strong arm lunges, snagging my cloak. I wrench free, ignoring the tear of fabric. I manage a desperate pivot, flinging a loose crate in his path. He staggers, but the second minotaur cuts off my route to the door.
“End of the line, human,” he growls, voice dripping with cold triumph.
