Page 10

My hammer hovers over the orc’s broad chest. I draw a ragged breath.

He stares up at me with defiance blazing in his eyes, chest heaving, one arm pinned beneath my hoof.

Every muscle in my body screams to finish him and end the threat to Milthar.

I hesitate, though, mindful that we’re to show some modicum of honor in victory.

His lips curl back. “Finish it, bull-man,” he spits in halting Common.

I press down, feeling the heat of blood trickling from my wounds.

The poison from his blade leaves a burning tingle along my side.

But the orc champion is at my mercy. If I kill him, the orc warband will be forced to withdraw.

If I hesitate, they might see that as weakness.

I clench the hammer and swing. It meets his skull with a blunt, sickening impact. He goes limp under my hoof.

Silence stretches for a heartbeat, then the colosseum explodes in thunderous noise.

The stands erupt in cheers, chants of my name, and frenzied applause.

Weapons clash against armor, and voices rise in a collective roar.

The orcs near the gate snarl and shake their fists in impotent rage, but they do not storm the field. Their champion is beaten.

My vision swims as I step off the corpse.

I can’t ignore the stabbing ache in my side, the sticky warmth of blood saturating my fur.

Even my lungs feel strained, each breath rattling.

Ortem’s voice somehow carries above the din: “Remanos Ironhide is the victor! The orc warband must honor the agreement and withdraw!”

The crowd’s roar intensifies, shaking the walls.

I steady myself with the hammer’s handle, leaning on it.

My tail flicks in agitation, but I can’t quell the dizziness threatening to topple me.

One or two city attendants rush forward, offering to support me, but I shake my head.

If I collapse under the gaze of the whole city, it’ll invite further chaos.

I must stand, at least until the orcs formally acknowledge defeat.

Their chieftain, a massive figure with ornate bones braided into his hair, stomps onto the sand.

He spares a glance at the dead champion, then glares at me.

We both know I won by a hair’s breadth. The tension in my arm and side throbs, reminding me how close I came to losing.

“We will withdraw,” he says, voice guttural, “for now. But your city will not remain safe forever.”

A spasm of pain twists through my ribs. “Go,” I manage, swallowing a cough. “Take your warband and leave.”

He bares sharpened teeth, then gestures for his orcs to file out.

Several of them pry the champion’s body from the sand, carrying it with an angry reverence.

The ring of orcs disperses, heading back the way they came.

I fight the urge to sag in relief. The city is spared for a time, though I suspect more troubles lurk.

Orcs rarely let defeat pass without seeking retribution. But that is tomorrow’s problem.

My eyes drift over the crowd until they land on Mira again.

She stands behind a pair of Senate guards, her posture taut.

She’s watching me with a fierce intensity that makes my heart hammer.

My palm finds it way to my side, wincing at the jolt of pain, and force my legs to move toward the dais where Ortem, Vaelen, and the rest of the Senate gather.

The roar of the crowd follows me, wave upon wave of thunderous celebration.

“Mira,” I breathe her name under my breath, though I’m not sure she can hear me above the clamor. At the dais, Vaelen steps forward, wearing a triumphant grin. He motions to the herald, who blasts the curved horn again, quieting a portion of the stands.

“Citizens,” Vaelen proclaims. “Our champion has prevailed! The orcs are vanquished. In accordance with ancient custom, the spoils are now bestowed upon Remanos Ironhide.” He sweeps a hand toward Mira. A handful of guards push her forward, ignoring her protests.

She tries to wrench free. “Get off me,” she snaps, her voice furious. “I can walk on my own, I’m not an invalid.”

One guard attempts to clamp a hand on her arm, but she spins out of reach, stepping into the open near me.

Her eyes blaze with anger, and I see how her fingers tighten into fists, as though she’s weighing the risk of punching a guard while the entire Senate look on.

My breath catches at the raw defiance in her face.

I want to tell her not to fight them—she’s in a precarious position—but at the same time, I admire her backbone.

This is a woman who doesn’t surrender easily.

Vaelen nods at me with a self-satisfied smile. “Champion, claim your reward.”

A black haze invades my peripheral vision for a moment, the wound in my side flaring.

Everything in me recoils from calling Mira a reward, but I choke back my revulsion and stride closer, each step a jolt of agony.

One more reason to despise the Senate’s theatrics.

As I approach her, she stands rooted, trembling with rage and something that might be concern.

She can’t be unaffected by the blood streaking my torso or the tremor in my stance.

I manage a low, urgent whisper, leaning close so only she can hear, “I won’t treat you like property. But we have to go through with this charade.”

Her jaw clenches, color high on her cheeks. “Your performance is convincing enough.” She motions at the stands where minotaurs chant, “Remanos!” with a kind of fanatic glee. “They’re practically salivating over your victory.”

I swallow down a retort because the crowd’s eyes are on us.

Instead, I press my palm gently to her upper arm in a show of so-called ownership that makes me sick.

Her skin is warm beneath my hand, and the contact ripples up my arm like a shock.

Our gazes lock. I see distrust and fury swirling in her hazel eyes, but there’s also something else—an undercurrent I can’t name, maybe fear or curiosity. Maybe both.

She stands stiff as a board. I speak just loud enough for those nearby to hear. “You will come with me.” The words taste bitter. I hate how it sounds like a command.

She gives a derisive laugh, but I sense the slight tremor in it. “Like I have a choice.”

The crowd erupts in fresh cheers, misinterpreting our exchange as acceptance of tradition.

Some even throw flower petals onto the sand, which swirl around us in bursts of color.

My side throbs, my forearm is slick with blood, and the swirl of sweet petals forms a grotesque contrast to the carnage on the arena floor.

Vaelen raises both arms, basking in the applause. “Behold the champion and his spoil! Let all Milthar honor this day of triumph!”

I turn, ignoring the Senate’s theatrics, and gesture for Mira to walk with me.

She hesitates, then moves alongside me, her posture bristling.

Two guards flank us, possibly to ensure she doesn’t bolt.

My own men approach, concerned about my injuries.

I wave them off, determined to exit under my own power.

We pass through the gate that leads under the colosseum stands.

A chorus of roars and clapping continues behind us, echoing as though the gods themselves applaud.

My knees threaten to buckle, the poison’s burn intensifying with every moment.

Finally, a city official ushers us into a quieter corridor lined with storage rooms and medical alcoves.

A donkey brays in the distance, and the tang of stale hay replaces the stench of blood-soaked sand.

Mira glances at me, eyes scanning my wounds. “You’re bleeding heavily.”

I grunt, placing a steadying palm on my side. “I’ve had worse. The arena medics can patch me up.”

Her brows pull together. “You’re trembling.”

I swallow. She’s right. My breathing comes in shallow bursts, and my arms feel heavier than stone.

I half-collapse onto a nearby bench, leaning the hammer against the wall.

The corridor’s torchlight flickers across her face, highlighting the concern that she tries to mask.

She looks about to speak, perhaps to hurl another sharp remark, when an older minotaur medic arrives, his apron already stained with past battles.

“Champion,” he says, voice urgent. “We need to tend to that cut.”

I nod, gesturing to Mira so the medic doesn’t assume she’s a threat.

She folds her arms, scanning the corridor warily, but remains near me.

The medic kneels, peeling back the leather straps of my battered armor.

I hiss through clenched teeth as he cleans the wound, the antiseptic burn making me want to bellow.

Blood seeps onto the corridor’s stone floor.

The medic frowns. “It’s deeper than it looks, and I sense something in the edges of the tissue. Poison, maybe. I’ll have to draw it out. This will hurt.”

He rummages in his bag, retrieving a small clay jar, a needle, and some powdered herbs. I brace myself, and sure enough, when the paste touches the wound, it feels like acid scouring my flesh. My vision grays at the edges. The corridor swims.

Mira watches, her expression going from furious to alarmed. “Is he going to be all right?” The question bursts from her in a rush.

The medic doesn’t glance at her. “Yes, if we address this quickly. Champion, try to hold still. We’ll flush the poison before stitching the wound.”

I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to roar as he injects a liquid that stings fiercely.

My heart pounds, and I focus on Mira’s face, on the parted shape of her lips, on the flicker of anxiety in her eyes.

She’s no friend, but for some reason, that worry keeps me anchored, reminding me that falling unconscious here isn’t an option.

My men are counting on me. She’s counting on me, whether she admits it or not.