He exhales, stepping closer. The taut lines of his shoulders speak of lingering strain. “There is no victory yet. I still have to fight the orc champion in three days.”
I tilt my chin, trying to mask the conflicting emotions swirling inside me. “You’re certain you’ll win.”
“I’m certain I must.” His tail flicks behind him, a sign of frustration or maybe determination. “I won’t let the orcs march on this city.”
“And that’s your sole reason for going along with the Senate’s plan?” I ask, voice laced with skepticism. “To protect your people?”
He meets my gaze, unwavering. “Yes. And to protect you, whether you believe that or not.”
The words stir something within me—reluctant gratitude tangled with stubborn resentment. “I don’t need your protection if it comes with the label of ‘spoil.’”
He presses his lips together, struggling for the right response. “I’m aware that term disgusts you. It disgusts me, too.”
My chest tightens. I glance away, noticing the fountain’s water trickling over carved stone. I feel raw, as though my anger is a thin cover over a deeper fear. “If you hate it so much, why don’t you defy the Senate?” I keep my voice low, but I can’t hide the challenge.
His expression hardens, though not with anger. “I did. They overruled me. The orcs made their conditions clear. The Senate’s convinced we need to uphold every aspect of the old champion’s duel tradition to avoid insulting them. Otherwise, blood spills.”
“And that’s more important than how I feel?” I snap.
His tail swishes with renewed agitation. “It’s not more important,” he says quietly. “But it’s bigger than both of us.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. I take him in once more—his formidable build, the polished curve of his horns, the scar on his chest that seems to catch every stray beam of sunlight. He’s not the monstrous brute I initially assumed. If anything, he carries a burden that weighs heavily in his stance. Yet he’s still the reason I’m forced to endure public humiliation.
I step closer, lowering my voice so the staff peering from the edges of the courtyard can’t hear. “I stood in that arena, surrounded by thousands who think I’m a commodity. They cheered, Remanos.” I bite out his name, not sure if it’s a condemnation or a plea. “You talk about honor, but do you realize what it costs me to have no say in my own fate?”
He rumbles a quiet response. “I do.” There’s a painful sincerity in his eyes. “I’m trying to find a way that doesn’t end in more suffering, for you or for Milthar.”
A complex swirl of emotion churns within me. I want to despise him for being the champion who upholds these archaic customs, but I also sense that he never wanted this. My heart thumps an uncomfortable beat, and I realize, with unsettling clarity, that the tension between us is electric. Enemies by circumstance, but drawn to each other by something that feels beyond logic.
He glances down at my wrists. “They healed? No fresh bruises from the guards?”
“It’s fine,” I say, though the skin is still a little tender. “Your guard didn’t bind me this time, if that’s what you’re asking.”
His nod is curt. “Good. You shouldn’t be treated like a prisoner.” Then his voice quiets further. “Even if the Senate insists you remain in my custody.”
Custody. That word drags an exasperated sigh from my lips. I rake my fingers through my unwashed hair, which still smells faintly of dust and sweat from my captivity. “I don’t know how much more of this I can stomach. Being forced to stand on that arena floor while they chant your name… it’s like something out of a nightmare.”
A flicker of remorse crosses his features. “I can’t change the city’s hunger for spectacle. But I swear I won’t allow them to degrade you again, if it’s within my power.”
Despite everything, I sense he means it. The sincerity in his voice tugs at something fragile inside me. I can’t afford to trust too quickly, but I can’t keep ignoring the possibility that he might be my only ally in this labyrinth of politics and tradition.
Before I can frame a response, Vaelen’s voice rings out from the courtyard’s threshold. “Ah, champion. Attending to your spoil so diligently?”
I jerk around to see the senator approaching. A few attendants trail behind him, carrying scrolls and small wooden boxes. Vaelen’s polished horns and embroidered robe suggest hecame straight from some official proceeding. His gaze flicks to me, lips curving in a faint, smug grin.
“Why are you here?” Remanos asks, tension rippling through his shoulders.
Vaelen spreads his hands. “Why, to ensure the arrangements for our upcoming celebration are in order, of course. The Senate wants no mishaps.” He flicks a glance at me. “We can’t have our prized guest wandering off, can we?”
I bristle at his condescending tone. “I’m not wandering anywhere under your watchful city.”
He gives a low laugh. “Precisely. I’d advise you to stay by Remanos’s side. It’s the safest place you’ll find here.”
Remanos steps forward, putting himself between Vaelen and me. “She’ll remain in my estate. That’s final.”
The senator cocks his head, arching a brow. “Protective, are we? Good. We need you in top form for the duel, champion. Our entire economy rides on a swift victory. Failure would mean the orcs seize supplies, farmland, maybe even—” He gestures vaguely toward me. “—this lovely little bargaining chip.”
I clench my fists at his blatant dismissal of my autonomy. There’s a cold, calculating edge to Vaelen that sets me on alert more than any chain-wielding orc. At least the orcs wore their brutality openly; he masks his with polite smiles. “You talk about me like I’m a bag of coins,” I mutter.
