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His gaze narrows, not with anger, but with the intensity of someone who hates feeling powerless.

“I don’t want you forced to remain here.

But until I understand who’s behind these missing shipments—and how the Senate is profiting from them—I can’t unravel your predicament.

If I free you without cause, they’ll punish both of us, or use it as a pretext to escalate tensions. ”

I fold my arms. “How do I know you’re not just spinning pretty lies to keep me docile?”

He holds my stare, his dark eyes unreadable. “Because if I wanted a docile captive, I could have kept you bound. I chose not to.”

That answer punches me in a place I don’t expect, the logic undeniable.

My pulse skitters. I hate that my anger is losing ground to the flicker of respect simmering for him.

He’s not lying about letting me walk freely in his estate, read his records, discover the sabotage clues.

“Fine,” I manage, voice brittle. “I’ll keep reading your ledgers. Maybe we can figure something out.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

Heat flares in my chest at how sincere he sounds.

I turn away, pretending to focus on the training dummies.

My gaze slides along the yard, noticing the detail in every worn practice sword, every battered shield.

Each is a testament to the countless hours he’s spent perfecting his skill, forging a reputation that binds him to political forces beyond his control.

In an odd twist, we’re both bound by the city’s expectations, though in different ways.

I shuffle toward a wooden dummy, lifting a short practice spear from a nearby rack. Balancing its weight, I test the wood, noticing it’s not as heavy as an orc spear. “Mind if I vent my frustration?”

He steps aside, allowing me space. “Go ahead. But that spear has seen better days.”

I roll my eyes. “So have I.” Then, twisting my grip, I stab the dummy’s midsection.

The impact reverberates up my arms, a satisfying jolt.

I strike again, channeling the pent-up anger roiling inside.

Each thrust sinks the spear tip into the straw-filled torso, sending bits of straw fluttering.

My breathing quickens, but the motion tempers my rage.

When I pause, Remanos observes me with an unreadable expression. “You’re not unskilled.”

“I’ve fought off thieves on the road,” I say, lowering the spear. “I’m no champion, but I survive.”

His mouth curves slightly, almost a shadow of admiration. “Survival is no small feat in Protheka.”

Something about his tone makes my pulse flutter, an unsteady warmth creeping along my skin.

I realize we’re standing alone in this yard, not quite enemies, not exactly allies.

He’s huge, formidable, clearly used to commanding respect.

Yet he’s speaking to me like I’m an equal.

I swallow the unexpected swirl of emotions.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” I ask, half-challenging, half-curious.

He blinks, the tuft of his tail flicking. “Like I want to fight you or defend you?”

I snort. “Either. Both. Can’t tell.”

A low rumble vibrates in his chest, not quite laughter. “Maybe I do. You’re certainly skilled enough to hold your own, but I also—” He breaks off, the admission slipping away unsaid.

My heartbeat lurches. Part of me wants him to finish that sentence. Instead, he angles his head toward the corridor. “We should head back. I need to check on those ledgers. If you want to keep reading, I’ll give you free rein in that room.”

I straighten, returning the spear to its rack. “Fine. But if you’re planning to stand behind me, hawk-like, I might stab you.”

He huffs again in that near-laugh. “I’ll keep a safe distance.” He gestures for me to walk ahead.

We leave the training yard, making our way back through the courtyard.

The air feels charged, as though lightning crackles between us with every step.

I can’t ignore how the tension pulls taut whenever we stand too close.

It’s ridiculous—and infuriating. This is the champion who holds me as a trophy, yet everything about him suggests he wishes it weren’t so.

The contradiction yanks me in conflicting directions, one foot in distrust and the other edging toward uneasy companionship.

When we reenter the estate’s main corridor, we find one of his staff waiting.

She’s an older minotaur with greying fur around her temples.

She inclines her head. “Champion, a messenger from the Senate arrived. They request Mira’s presence for a fitting.

Some seamstress is here to measure her attire for the upcoming feast.”

My spine stiffens. “They’re forcing me to wear minotaur fashion now?”

Remanos’s jaw clenches. “Seems so. The Senate wants you to look the part.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not dressing up for their spectacle.”

His brow furrows. “If you refuse, they’ll likely drag you there anyway. Let’s handle it with minimal confrontation. I’ll accompany you. We can put them in their place if they push too hard.”

My annoyance flares, but I know he’s right. The Senate wields enough power to squash my protests if I fight them on every front. Still, the idea of being paraded in minotaur attire makes me want to scream. “Fine,” I snap. “But the second they try to lace me into some humiliating costume, I’m out.”

He almost smiles, a tired tilt of his lips. “I’ll keep them in line as best I can.”

I rub my nape, mulling over how this entire day is shaping up. Submitting to a seamstress, scanning ledgers for sabotage clues, and living under the champion’s watchful gaze. I take a breath, trying to steady myself. No matter how claustrophobic this estate feels, I refuse to let them break me.

Before we part ways, he takes a step closer, voice low. “Thank you… for helping me search for answers.” A flicker of gratitude glints in his eyes, overshadowed by the weight of our predicament. I push away the thought of overshadow. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s in my interest,” I say, but my chest warms unexpectedly. “If sabotage tears this city apart, I’m stuck in the rubble.”

He nods. “I’ll find you in the record room later. Show you more logs from the last season, in case we missed something.”

For a tense beat, we stand face to face.

His presence crowds the space—broad shoulders, horns that reflect the corridor’s lamplight.

My pulse thrums again, unbidden, at the memory of him in the arena, unstoppable.

Now, I see the vulnerability in how he rubs his bandaged side, a grimace flicking across his features.

The champion is mortal after all, locked in an uneasy alliance with me.

I break the moment with a quick pivot, stepping away. “I’ll be there.” My voice carries a clipped edge, as if I can slice through the tension that threatens to pull me in.

He watches me go, and for one instant, I feel his gaze linger, a curious heat stirring at my nape.

A swirl of conflicting emotions churns through me: frustration, fascination, the faint glimmer of understanding.

I steel my spine and head for the seamstress’s domain, ready to fight any attempt to reduce me to a docile puppet.

Whatever sparks flicker between Remanos and me, I can’t forget the shackles of tradition that still bind us both.

Yet as I walk, my mind drifts to how he confided in me about those shipping ledgers, letting me see the cracks in this city’s polished facade.

Maybe we can use those cracks to find a path out of this forced captivity.

And if, along that path, my anger at him cools into something more complicated…

I’ll handle that obstacle when it arises.

For now, I push open a door at the far end of the corridor, bracing myself to confront a seamstress with a tape measure—and a Senate agenda.

My freedom might be distant, but I’ve survived worse odds.

If Remanos truly wants to help me unravel the sabotage, maybe—just maybe—we can dismantle the Senate’s illusions from within.

The thought kindles a small flicker of hope in my chest. A hope I’ll guard as fiercely as any spear.