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He gives me a measured look. “Your presence here is uneasy enough without me assigning you a personal warden. As long as you remain on the grounds, you’re free to move about.”

The remark coaxes out a harsh laugh. “So I’m a bird in a bigger cage. Good to know.”

A flicker of contrition crosses his face. “I’m trying to make it less of a cage, at least.” He gestures around the room. “Explore, read. I have nothing to hide in my personal records. If you find a clue about who’s interfering with shipping, maybe we can figure out a solution.”

That last statement lingers in the air, a small olive branch. I shift on my feet, recalling how bristly I felt upon first meeting him. “You realize if we do uncover something, the Senate might bury it. They seem invested in their illusions.”

His mouth quirks in a humorless half-smile. “Yes. That’s why I want proof. Something they can’t ignore.”

I nod slowly, crossing my arms. “All right. I’ll keep reading. See if any other shipments stand out.”

He inclines his head. “You can do that here, or you can join me in the courtyard for a walk. My leg is stiff, and my side aches.” He glances down at the fresh bandage visible under his tunic’s laces. “The medic insists I move to keep the muscles from tightening.”

I hesitate, uncertain why he’d extend such an invitation. “And why would I do that?”

His dark eyes settle on me with an intensity that almost steals my breath. “Because you’ve been cooped up too, and I imagine you’re restless.”

He’s not wrong. The tension in my shoulders begs for motion. I weigh my options, then set the ledger aside. “A short walk.”

He leads the way out of the record room.

As we stroll down the corridor, the hush of the estate envelops us.

A few staff members pass by with respectful nods to Remanos, their eyes flicking to me with curiosity.

We enter the main courtyard—a spacious square paved with stone tiles, surrounded by colonnades.

I spot a training yard beyond an archway, where practice dummies stand near racks of wooden weapons.

Remanos notices my gaze. “I train there daily—at least, I did before the orc duel. My injuries need a little more time.”

“Should you be up and about already?” I ask, not bothering to hide my doubt. “The wound was deep.”

He grimaces. “I’ve fought with worse.” But I detect a subtle limp in his gait, even if he tries to hide it. The extent of his stamina is impressive, though I can’t quite shake the worry that he’s pushing himself too hard.

We circle the courtyard, passing a modest fountain set with carved bull heads that trickle water into a stone basin.

The sunlight warms the tiles and glints off Remanos’s horns, which still show faint scuffs from the colosseum battle.

I catch a hint of dried herbs or salves in the bandage under his tunic, presumably to help with poison residue.

When I glance up, I catch him studying me. The eye contact sends a ripple of heat through my cheeks. “What?” I ask, squinting against the brightness.

He shifts his stance, tail swishing lightly. “You seem less frightened than before.”

I stiffen. “I wasn’t frightened. I was furious.”

“Both can exist,” he says, voice even, but there’s a calm empathy beneath it. “I wouldn’t blame you for either.”

My fists clench, recalling the humiliations of being dragged around in front of thousands of onlookers. “Rage is easier than fear,” I admit, words emerging more candidly than intended. “Anyway, I’m not cowering in a corner, if that’s what you expected.”

His shoulders relax minutely. “I never took you for someone who cowers.” The statement is quiet, almost an acknowledgment of respect.

We walk in silence for a moment longer. Then I notice a large archway leading toward the training yard.

Without waiting for permission, I veer in that direction.

Remanos follows, so the guards who linger at the courtyard perimeter let us pass.

The yard is sectioned off by a waist-high stone wall, the ground coated in pale sand.

Wooden targets are lined up at one end, battered by repeated strikes from blunt swords and spears.

On a rack near the entrance, I see an array of real weapons carefully secured with locks—probably the champion’s personal arsenal.

I exhale slowly, inhaling the tang of worn leather and the faint iron smell that pervades any place weapons are regularly used. “How often do you train here?”

Remanos shrugs. “Usually every morning, then again at dusk if I’m preparing for a major event.” He gestures with one thick arm at the battered practice dummies. “Right now, I’m meant to rest, but I can’t stay idle.”

A wry smile pulls at my lips. “Big men with big pride?”

He huffs an unamused breath, but a faint spark lights his eyes. “Something like that. Fighting is in my blood, for better or worse.”

My gaze skims over the yard, lingering on a practice sword with nicks along its edge, a battered shield with Remanos’s bull-head crest. Then I spot a large wooden trunk propped against the wall.

The lid is slightly ajar. Curiosity tugs at me, and I walk toward it, ignoring the faint warnings my mind conjures.

If he wanted me to stay away, he should keep it locked.

Inside the trunk, I see an assortment of trophies: a cracked orc war club, a chipped minotaur glaive, even what appears to be a worn banner with dark stains at the edge.

They’re souvenirs from battles or duels he’s won, presumably.

My stomach twists at the sight—proof of his lethal skill, but also a testament to a society that prizes conflict over peace.

“You keep your memories in a box?” I murmur, running my fingertips over the battered war club. “Like a war shrine?”

He steps behind me, voice quiet. “They remind me of the cost of victory. It’s not meant to be a shrine, more a caution.”

I glance over my shoulder, noticing how his tall frame looms. “A caution against what?”

“Against letting the Senate use me as a weapon without question,” he replies. “It’s easy to lose yourself when every fight is for some grand cause. This helps me remember the consequences.”

A flicker of empathy surfaces. I recall how he told me he never wanted to claim me, that the Senate forced his hand.

It’s one thing to say it, but here he’s showing me the tangible weight of a champion’s life: old weapons that once belonged to enemies, keepsakes that speak of blood spilled on the colosseum sand.

“I guess they’re not the decorations I expected in a champion’s training yard,” I remark softly.

He gives a low snort. “Would you prefer gold statues and lavish banners? That’s not who I am.”

“Clearly.” My gaze drifts over the war club again, then slides across the trunk. “At least you’re honest about it.”

He nods, tail flicking once. We stand in silence, the late-morning sun warming our shoulders, a light breeze ruffling stray tendrils of my hair.

There’s a subtle shift in the air, a tension that coils between us, neither purely antagonistic nor entirely comfortable.

It feels like a fragile thread bridging resentment and something else—maybe understanding.

I close the trunk lid and straighten, turning to face him fully.

He’s close, the breadth of his shoulders a silent reminder of his power.

Yet there’s a weariness in his stance that tugs at my chest. He’s still healing, and I see the faint tremor in his arm when he adjusts the cloth at his bandaged side.

“Why not listen to your medic and rest?” I ask, swallowing the unexpected concern in my voice.

His expression flickers. “I?—”

Before he can finish, a minotaur guard hurries into the yard, carrying a small scroll. “Champion, a messenger brought this. It bears the Senate seal.”

Remanos grunts, taking the scroll with a slow nod. He tears the wax seal and scans the content, brow furrowing. “They want to see me tonight. Some new decree about the feast.” He crumples the parchment with a controlled squeeze.

I stiffen. “Feast?”

He casts me a sidelong glance. “They’re throwing a celebration to honor my victory, naturally. They’ll likely demand your presence to show the city that the orc trophy is under control.”

The words make my stomach churn. “Wonderful. Another chance to treat me like a prop.”

His tail flicks in irritation, but he doesn’t dispute my statement. Instead, his tone softens. “I’m sorry.”

It grinds at me, because I suspect he means it. “Look,” I say, voice hardening, “I didn’t ask to be your problem. I’d rather get out of here and figure out my own life. But the Senate apparently has a talent for ignoring what either of us wants.”

His jaw clenches. “They’re determined to maintain the orcs’ notion of a rightful spoil, presumably to avoid insulting them. And if we resist too overtly?—”

“Another war,” I finish bitterly.

He nods. “Yes. Or a wave of sabotage from orc sympathizers. It’s not just about orcs either. Some minotaurs might see your release as weakness.”

A flare of anger tightens my chest. “So I have to wear a nice dress and smile at your side while they toast your conquest, or your people will call you weak?”

He steps closer, enough that I catch a whiff of that earthy scent clinging to his fur. “I don’t expect you to smile. Just… appear. Let them think we’re complying. Once we have leverage, maybe we can renegotiate your situation.”

Sparks dance in the space between us, my frustration meeting his.

“You keep implying we’re in this together, but we’re not.

You stand in the champion’s arena. I’m stuck in his shadow.

” I refuse to use the word that describes that overshadowing effect.

I grit my teeth. “Give me a reason to trust your claim that we can change anything.”