Page 12

MIRA

I wake to the soft glow of morning light slanting through unfamiliar shutters.

My eyes adjust, and I realize I’m still in Remanos’s estate, sprawled on a firm pallet in a chamber that smells faintly of polished leather and the faint tang of citrus from the courtyard outside.

It’s the same room where I spent the night after he won the duel, ensuring the orcs slunk away from the city instead of marching through its gates.

Technically, that means I’m safe—for now.

But the memory of how he was hailed as a hero while I was handed over like an afterthought rakes across my mind.

I push aside the thin blanket and wander to the window, hooking my fingers under the shutters.

Outside, a walled courtyard opens to bright sunshine.

There’s a stone path lined with carefully trimmed shrubs and a fountain at the center, water trickling in a subdued burble.

It would all look serene if not for the pair of minotaur guards stationed near the entrance gate.

They’re armed with spears and broad-bladed swords at their hips, effectively reminding me that I can’t walk out freely.

I run my palms over my rumpled tunic, one of the pieces borrowed from Remanos’s household.

The cloth is practical, mid-thigh length, cinched at the waist with a braided sash.

It’s better than the tattered travel clothes I arrived in, but every time I see my reflection in the small brass mirror perched on the table, I feel a stab of homesickness.

I miss my own garments, that sense of belonging to no one.

Here, all I see is a reflection of a woman caught in someone else’s fight.

A light knock at the door draws my attention. Before I respond, a young minotaur—barely out of adolescence by the looks of his shorter horns—pushes the door open. He sets a pitcher of water and a covered bowl on a small table. His eyes flick to me, then quickly down.

“Mistress Mira,” he says, voice subdued. “Your breakfast. Shall I fetch anything else?”

The title rankles me. Mistress implies some level of respect, or at least status, but I know it’s a veneer. Still, the boy looks nervous, so I keep my voice steady. “No. Thank you. This is fine.”

He nods, then hesitates like he wants to say more.

When I raise an eyebrow, he just mumbles a farewell and slips out.

The door closes behind him with a faint thud.

Once I’m sure I’m alone, I lift the lid on the bowl—some kind of grain porridge and a few slices of what looks like roasted squash.

It’s not the hearty meal I’d pick for myself, but I’m hungry enough to inhale the first spoonful without complaint.

As I eat, my mind drifts to the day ahead.

The Senate has decreed I remain in Remanos’s custody, presumably so the city can flaunt its champion’s “trophy.” The thought sparks my temper again.

I push it down, telling myself that anger won’t open these walls.

If I want freedom, I need to be tactical.

Remanos hinted that there’s more going on—missing shipments, the possibility of sabotage within the city.

That might be my only angle to gain leverage.

I recall him staggering after the duel, wounded but trying to hide it.

Part of me hates how he insisted he never wanted me as a spoil, yet he still let them present me like a prize.

Another part of me can’t ignore that he fought the orc champion to keep Milthar safe from an onslaught—and, by extension, to keep me from falling back into orc hands.

Maybe both truths can exist. It’s enough to make my head spin.

When I finish the porridge, I peer around the room again.

No window bars, but the shutters open onto a courtyard that’s guarded.

No alternate exit. My chest tightens. This morning, I refuse to feel like I’m stuck.

If I can’t leave the estate, I’ll explore it.

I need to understand the environment in which I’m held.

I step into the hallway, each footstep echoing on polished tiles.

The corridor is simpler than I’d expect for a champion’s home.

The walls are painted in muted earth tones, and every few yards there’s a niche displaying a small statue or a vase with fresh greenery.

No gaudy decorations, no lavish tapestries.

The minimalism feels intentional, like Remanos invests his wealth in something else—perhaps the training yard, or supporting the staff?

The corridor branches left and right. I spot a minotaur guard posted at an intersection.

He watches me with cautious eyes, but doesn’t bar my way.

I choose the left hallway, passing shuttered windows and carved wooden doors.

One door is ajar, revealing a large room with shelves crammed full of scrolls and ledgers.

Curious, I slip inside. It smells of parchment, ink, and old wax.

Dust motes dance in a streak of sunlight from a high window.

As I step closer, I notice the writing on some scrolls is in the common tongue, while others bear the spidery script of Vakkak minotaur—twisting lines that I can only decipher a bit of.

My heart quickens. The Senate is predominantly Vakkak nobles, so maybe these are official records or shipping manifests.

If there’s sabotage in the city, perhaps something here indicates a pattern.

I run my finger lightly over one open ledger, scanning the columns of goods, ports, and destinations.

The script transitions between Common and Vakkak, giving me enough context to guess this is an inventory of trade shipments—grain, metal, textiles.

Some lines have symbols next to them that look like exclamation marks or urgent notations.

It might mean those shipments are delayed or stolen.

I flip a page and find more scrawling. The date references last month, listing a consignment of copper ingots to be shipped across the sea.

There’s a note in Vakkak script: “Divert. Payment from unknown sponsor.” A chill prickles along my arms. Unknown sponsor?

Could that be part of the sabotage Remanos suspects?

Something behind me shifts, the faintest rustle of fabric.

I spin, heart thudding, half-expecting a guard or scribe to scold me for prying.

Instead, I’m face to face with Remanos himself.

The breadth of his chest nearly fills the doorway, the short fur around his neck still recovering from his bandaged wound.

He’s wearing a loose tunic that accommodates his healing injuries.

I notice how the fabric stretches over powerful shoulders, the diagonal scar on his pectoral visible where the laces are undone.

He lifts an eyebrow at me, tail flicking. “Snooping?”

My cheeks flame with a mix of embarrassment and defiance. “Exploring,” I correct, letting the ledger slip closed. “You did say I’d be stuck in your estate, so I’m making myself at home.”

He steps inside, moving with more grace than someone with a fresh injury should. “I have guards posted in case you try to leave, not to confine you to one room,” he says, voice carefully neutral. Then his gaze darts to the ledger. “Though I see you found my records.”

I fold my arms. “You keep logs of black-market shipments here?”

His tail lashes once, betraying a flicker of tension.

“They’re not black-market,” he counters, though I hear uncertainty in his tone.

“At least, not intentionally. My estate manages some shipping contracts for the Senate. Goods come in from across Milthar, then we distribute them to ports. If something is missing, we note it.”

I hold his gaze, searching for any lie. “The ledger mentions an ‘unknown sponsor’ paying extra for shipments to be diverted. That sounds shady.”

He glances away, lips tightening. “It does. I’ve suspected a few shipments were rerouted outside official channels. We found crates unaccounted for at the docks a few weeks back, but the Senate brushed it off as a simple oversight.”

A surge of curiosity mingles with triumph at being right. “So you suspect sabotage?”

He exhales, crossing his arms over that broad chest. “Something is happening, yes. I don’t know who’s behind it. The Senate would prefer to pretend everything is fine. But missing cargo could weaken Milthar’s economy—and our ability to defend ourselves if more orcs come knocking.”

For a moment, the tension between us eases as we acknowledge a shared concern. Then I remember where we stand. I shut the ledger with a soft thud and look around, noticing the thick dust on some volumes, as if they haven’t been touched in months.

“Why do you handle shipping ledgers?” I ask, curiosity driving me. “Isn’t that a job for bureaucrats?”

He gives a small shrug. “I wasn’t always a champion.

My family is Zotkak class—we used to run a modest trading business.

When I rose in the arena, I kept the business active, albeit under managers.

Sometimes the Senate tasks me with receiving shipments from allied ports because they trust me not to skim from the top.

” His voice hardens. “Yet it seems someone else is doing that behind the scenes.”

I study him more closely. The champion is at odds with parts of the Senate, which might be why he doesn’t revel in the politics or the spectacle they thrust upon him.

He’s broad and imposing, sure, but there’s a steadiness in his gaze that suggests he’s more than muscle and a hammer swing.

It strikes me again that he truly hates this arrangement.

If that’s the case, we have a strange overlap of interests: neither of us wants to remain locked in this forced dynamic.

I slide the ledger back onto the shelf. “Thank you for not forcibly dragging me out of here. I half-expected a guard to do it.”