I exhale slowly, recalling the conversation in the courtyard. The orcs brought that human captive Mira—and threatened war if we refuse to comply with their terms. “They’re insisting ona champion’s duel,” I say. “And it seems I’ve been elected to represent Milthar once again.”
Vaelen nods. “Exactly. The orcs challenge us to single combat as an alternative to all-out war. If you win, they withdraw. If you lose, they claim certain—resources.”
“Resources,” I echo bitterly. “You mean our iron ore, our farmland produce, or maybe they want to open up a shipping route that benefits them. There’s always a catch with orcs.”
“They also brought a gift,” Vaelen replies. “That human woman. A bargaining chip, as they say. Presumably to sweeten the deal.” He watches me carefully, likely to see how I react.
My jaw clenches. The memory of Mira’s wrists bound with rope is fresh in my mind. “They treat her like cargo. I fail to see how that’s a sweetener.”
“She’s a spoil,” Ortem interjects, though his voice is somewhat gentler. “It’s tradition for orcs to offer a living prize to the victor. Their ways are barbaric, but we must respect their custom if it means protecting our city.”
I feel my tail lash behind me in a sign of agitation. “Honor without choice is just another cage. We stand on lofty principles, yet we’re willing to parade a human being for the sake of some archaic ritual?”
Vaelen shifts on his hooves. “I understand your frustration, but the people expect a decisive stance. If we reject the orcs’ offer, we risk a full-scale attack. You’ve seen how they mass outside our gates.”
I picture the orc warband. Their numbers weren’t tremendous, but they’ve allied with other clans before. Our city could handle a direct assault, yet it would cost countless lives—both minotaur and otherwise. My entire life, I’ve tried to follow a moral code: fight with honor, protect the weak, stand as a symbol for the city. But now, the Senate demands I accept a living “reward” if I emerge victorious. A piece of me wants to tossmy war hammer at their feet and refuse the duel altogether. But that would leave us vulnerable.
“You know you’re Milthar’s greatest fighter,” Vaelen says, lifting his chin. He’s a fraction shorter than me, but his self-importance makes him stand as if he towers above. “The Senate trusts your skill in the arena. This arrangement ensures minimal bloodshed and reaffirms our strength to the orcs. Surely you can see the logic.”
I fix my gaze on him. There’s something in his expression that puts me on edge—a cunning glimmer, as if he has a personal stake in the outcome. “You want me to kill their champion, accept the human as my property, and wave the banner of victory as if everything is fine?”
Ortem clears his throat. “We want you to do what’s best for Milthar. The orcs will insist on transferring the captive to you. We cannot offend them by refusing. You know how their code works. A refusal of a war spoil might be seen as an insult, which they could twist into reason for further aggression.”
A long silence stretches as I weigh the implications. I hate every piece of this. “She will be under my protection,” I say quietly, though my voice resonates in the spacious hall. “I won’t allow her to be mistreated.”
Vaelen’s carefully manicured brow rises. “You sound defensive, champion. Have you already grown attached to the human?”
My fists tighten at my sides. “I don’t become ‘attached’ to a prisoner. But I won’t treat her as a lesser being.”
“So you plan to keep her caged behind locked doors?” Vaelen’s question drips with a mocking tone. “I wonder if she’ll see your code of honor as an improvement over an orcish chain.”
Heat climbs up my neck. “I ordered the guards to give her a suitable room. She’s not chained now, and I aim to ensure she isn’t used as a—spectacle.” I recall Mira’s furious glare when sheaccused me of complicity. Her words stung because they had a kernel of truth; by accepting the Senate’s orders, I am complicit. But refusing could doom the city to a savage onslaught.
Ortem lays a massive hand on the table, thick fingers tapping the polished surface. “We appreciate your dedication, Remanos. Truly. But you must proceed with the duel. The people expect it. The orc champion has arrived with his warband. They’ll remain just outside the city walls for three days until the colosseum event.”
My lips press together in frustration. “Three days is not enough time to prepare fully.”
Vaelen’s gaze sweeps over me. “You’re our champion for a reason. Or have you lost your edge?”
I nearly snarl at his suggestion. “I won my last five official matches in the colosseum, including that orc gladiator who left me with this scar.” I gesture to the diagonal mark across my pectoral. “If any minotaur can handle this challenge, it’s me. But that doesn’t make the situation right.”
“Sometimes we do what must be done,” Vaelen says, his voice carrying a note of finality. “Speak no more of moral quandaries. We need to protect this city. You’ll fight for us, and you’ll accept the orcs’ tribute. All we ask is that you maintain the dignity of our traditions.”
I look from Vaelen to Ortem, then to the other silent senators around the table. Each one stares at me with an expectancy that makes my tail flick in irritation. They’re content to let me carry the burden, stepping forward only to reap the benefits or applaud my victory.
“Very well,” I say. “I’ll fight.” The words taste bitter. “When the time comes, I’ll enter the arena and do what’s necessary.”
Ortem inclines his head. “We place our faith in you, champion. Do not forget that it is the will of Milthar you serve.”
I resist the urge to snort at that phrasing. I’ve been used as a symbol for far too long, paraded whenever the Senate needs to boost morale or quell unrest. And now, they expect me to shoulder the guilt of taking a human captive as though I want the poor woman in my keep. Yet I can’t see a path that doesn’t end in worse bloodshed if I defy them. The orcs wouldn’t hesitate to use the slightest insult as justification for war.
Vaelen glances at me, crossing his arms over his chest. “You may go. Prepare yourself. The city looks to your success.”
I step back from the table, jaw set. “Three days, then.”
Before anyone can say more, I pivot and stride out of the hall, my hooves thudding on the marble. The second I pass through the enormous bronze doors, I inhale a breath of the cooler night air. Torches line the courtyard, casting dancing shadows on the walls. I pause beneath one flickering flame, letting the hush of the evening settle my mind.
Honor without choice is just another cage. I recall uttering those words in the courtyard earlier. Now, they ring even truer.
