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MIRA

I stumble as the orc guard yanks the chain attached to my wrists, forcing me to keep pace with their steady, brutal march.

The iron cuffs are biting into my skin, and I can already feel welts forming beneath the metal.

My arms ache, my ankles threaten to give out, but I push through the haze of exhaustion.

I refuse to collapse in front of these creatures.

Hot sun scorches the cobblestone road beneath my feet.

The scent in the air is a heady mix of salt—coming from the ocean, I suspect—and something else, something pungent and animal.

As we pass beneath an enormous gatehouse, I tilt my chin up to see carved reliefs of bull heads.

The arch’s marble columns are streaked with ivy, a testament to age and a climate that roils between sun and storm.

I’ve heard rumors about Milthar, the island realm of the minotaur, but nothing prepared me for the sheer magnitude of this entryway.

Two enormous statues—stone minotaurs clutching tridents—tower on either side, as if they stand guard over the city’s future and judge the worthiness of everyone entering.

My guard snarls something in Orcish to one of his companions.

I don’t speak their tongue fluently, but I catch the gist: “Don’t let the human slow you down.

” I force my weary legs to move faster. My hair, a light brown that used to shimmer with faint copper tones in friendlier climates, is matted from days of travel.

Dust and grime cling to every strand. The orcs have given me precious little water, and my lips are cracked.

Despite all that, I hold my head high, determined not to show weakness.

I’m wearing what remains of my traveling clothes—a loose-fitting tunic and trousers—torn in several places from rough handling.

My skin, normally sun-kissed from years on the road, is filthy with streaks of dried mud.

My hazel eyes, flecked with green, remain focused forward.

I learned long ago that if I look like I’m plotting an escape, they’ll take it as an invitation to tighten the chains or deliver a backhanded blow.

We cross into an open courtyard, and that’s when I see them.

Minotaurs. Perhaps twenty or so line the perimeter.

Most are tall, although “tall” feels like a puny word for something so massive.

Their towering frames exude a presence that reminds me of ancient trees in a sacred forest—imposing, immovable.

Many have forward-curving horns, polished to a sheen.

Thick fur runs around their necks and down their chests, though their faces are more humanoid than the fully bestial orcs who captured me.

Some minotaurs wear decorative bronze bracers and short leather kilts.

Others don full chest armor, its bronze plates inscribed with swirling patterns that remind me of tidal currents.

Beneath that armor, muscles ripple in a way that leaves no doubt about their prowess in battle.

My captor stops abruptly, jerking me to a standstill.

I dig my heels in the stone to keep from toppling.

He steps forward, dragging me to the center of the courtyard.

Banners of burgundy and gold flutter overhead, each stamped with a stylized minotaur crest. Everywhere I look, I see columns carved with mythological scenes: a horned warrior locked in battle with serpentine creatures, an arena thronged with minotaur spectators, a mosaic of swirling waves that must depict their revered Lady of Light.

Milthar is nothing like the human enclaves I’m used to.

The architecture alone is grander, more labyrinthine, with tiered balconies that overlook the courtyard from three or four stories above.

Citizens lean over railings, watching our procession below.

Their gazes burn with curiosity, some with disquiet, and a few with outright disdain.

A hush falls when a group of minotaurs in fine cloaks steps forward.

Their garments are made from a heavy, ivory-colored cloth draped over one shoulder.

I don’t have to guess who they are—political leaders or some form of aristocracy.

One stands in front. He’s older, his fur shot with gray, his posture rigid.

His horns have gold tips, and he rests both hands on a carved staff.

“We greet the orc warband in the name of Milthar,” he announces in a voice that rumbles like approaching thunder. “We trust you have come in peace—and with an explanation for why you bring a bound human to our gates.”

An orc steps forward. He’s taller and broader than the rest, wearing bits of leather armor across his chest and arms. Scars pattern his greenish skin.

He lifts his chin in a gesture of pride.

“We come to deliver a gift—and a warning. Your city stands in the way of our warband’s route.

Tribute is due.” He motions toward me. “This one is part of that tribute. A sign of what we offer if your people appease us.”

The older minotaur lifts a brow ridge, glancing at me momentarily. “And if we refuse?”

“Then our clan answers with blood,” the orc says, voice edged with menace. “But we prefer to let your champion settle this in your fancy colosseum. One champion against another. A fair fight. If you win, we withdraw. If you lose, we expect resources—and the city’s full cooperation.”

I bristle at the mention of the colosseum.

Of course, the orcs think of little else but battle and conquest. I was captured by them three weeks ago, snatched from a desert outpost as they tore through unguarded caravans.

They never explained why they kept me alive.

Now I see: I’m a living bargaining chip.

The older minotaur sweeps his staff out, addressing the crowd around us. “The Bavkus will convene to discuss terms. Until then, you are guests under watch. The champion’s duel is a sacred tradition. We abide by it—but do not presume we will cower.”

I lift my chin, scanning the faces of the minotaurs in attendance.

A few stand out with expensive jewelry, some with plainer attire.

Then I see him at the far edge of the square.

He’s nearly seven feet, with a body honed by obvious years of combat.

His horns are thick and curve forward, polished so they glint in the sunlight.

A diagonal scar mars his pectoral, stretching beneath the leather straps that secure a bronze pauldron across his right shoulder.

Dark fur frames his neck and travels down his chest, tapering off near his midsection.

He carries himself like a warrior who has conquered enough battles that fear doesn’t touch him anymore.

For a moment, our eyes meet. His are a deep brown, nearly black, with an intensity that makes my breath falter.

There’s something unreadable there, a calm judgment that seems to take me in from head to toe.

Heat rises in my face, anger and perhaps a flicker of confusion. I yank my gaze away, unsettled.

The orc guard wrenches the chain again, prompting me to step closer to the group of minotaur leaders. The older one leans forward, examining me. “You claim she’s a gift. Why? Our traditions do not involve enslaving humans for entertainment.” His voice is lined with displeasure.

The orc sneers. “We do not question your codes, so do not question ours. Take her as you will—if your champion is victorious. Consider it an offering of good faith.”

I clench my fists, biting back the urge to shout. The minotaur senator’s expression darkens, but he recovers quickly. “Very well. We accept the gesture for now. She will remain under our oversight until the duel. Guards, take her.”

A pair of minotaur guards steps forward. One unlocks the chain from the orc’s grip. The orc shoves me forward, letting the heavy links fall away from his gauntleted hand. I stagger, catching myself before landing face-first on the stones.

I itch to hurl a curse at them all, but the dryness in my throat is a harsh reminder that I’ve survived by picking battles carefully.

For the time being, I hold my tongue—though my heart pounds with fury.

These minotaurs are simply continuing the orcs’ cruelty, just in a more polished form.

A fine show in a marble courtyard is still captivity.

The older minotaur, who must be a high-ranking official of the Bavkus, addresses the crowd. “Observe, citizens of Milthar. In three days, the champion’s duel shall take place in the Grand Colosseum. Let all see that we do not fear orcish demands. We will rise to meet their challenge with valor.”

A roar sweeps through the onlookers. Several minotaurs pound fists against their broad chests. Others call out, “For the Senate! For Milthar!” A wave of excitement and tension ripples through the courtyard, sending a few smaller creatures—perhaps travelers or merchants—scurrying away.

I glimpse movement just off to the side and spot a minotaur with a thick gold ring piercing his nose stepping to one side, whispering urgently to a colleague.

They share a look of concern. Behind them, a smaller group seems equally uneasy.

I pick up snippets of their hushed conversation: “Missing shipments… sabotage… can’t keep ignoring…

” They quickly stop talking when a Senate guard passes by.

I file away that information, curious about these “missing shipments.” Something’s already amiss here, though I’m not certain how it ties in with my presence.

The older senator gestures for me to be led away.

My mouth thins to a line as I force myself to stay upright and walk between the guards.

They’re minotaurs, so each stands a full head taller than me—maybe more.

Their arms are as thick as tree limbs, and I notice a faint snort from one as he glances in my direction. I wonder if it’s amusement or derision.