Page 15

REMANOS

M orning light spills through my estate’s courtyard, gilding the marble columns and setting the shallow fountain’s waters aglow.

I stand at the edge of the paving stones, turning over a piece of parchment in my hands.

The words scrawled across it are crisp, bearing the Senate’s emblem in red ink.

Their message is direct: They want a public demonstration of my so-called victory spoils—namely Mira.

I crumple the letter and feel my tail flick in agitation.

They treat her like an ornament to be displayed at will, and the notion grates on every principle I hold.

The Senate’s arrogance surges to new heights each day.

If they had any sense of decency, they’d focus on rumors of sabotage infecting our docks rather than staging forced celebrations.

“Mira is not some entertainment piece,” I mutter under my breath.

The distant clang of weapons in the training yard echoes, reminding me that she was last seen reading more shipping logs in the record room.

After a talk with the seamstress, she’d retreated there, apparently determined to uncover more about the missing shipments.

She’s more tenacious than I gave her credit for initially.

That tenacity tugs at something inside my chest, even though I know it complicates everything.

Footsteps approach from behind. Turning, I see a member of the Bavkus—Senator Ortem—stepping into the courtyard. His cloak drapes over one shoulder, the gold trim shimmering against brown fur shot with gray. He rests one hand on a polished staff.

“I assume you’ve read the Senate’s request.” His voice holds a layer of forced politeness. “We need the people to see the human. To confirm our champion’s triumph.”

I let the crumpled parchment drop to my side. “You’re asking me to parade her around like a captured beast.”

He arches his brow. “I understand your distaste. But the orc warband demanded we receive her as a trophy. If we refuse to show her, we insult them and undermine our own victory. The city expects to see the champion uphold tradition.”

My chest tightens. “Honor shouldn’t be twisted into humiliating someone who fought for her life.”

He straightens his staff, tapping it once on the ground. “You know how precarious our alliances are, Remanos. If the orcs catch wind that we’re hiding her away, they’ll interpret it as an affront. The Senate must maintain unity.”

I glance at the mosaic beneath my hooves—a swirl of blue and gold patterns depicting ancient minotaur ships at sea.

“Unity,” I echo, voice heavy with disbelief.

“Meanwhile, I hear rumors of sabotage in our docks. Missing supplies, suspicious shipments… Perhaps the Senate should unify around solving that, instead of flaunting an unwilling ‘trophy.’”

Ortem’s face stiffens. “We investigate such matters, champion. But the city’s morale matters, too. A public demonstration of your triumph ensures the people stay confident in our leadership.”

My jaw aches from clenching. “I refuse to treat Mira as a show animal. If you want her to stand at some feast or ceremony, she will do so on her terms. Otherwise, I’m not cooperating.”

He tugs his cloak tighter. “Very well. But let the Senate know if your refusal causes unrest. We can’t have a champion ignoring tradition.”

I suppress a bitter snort. “We’ll see.”

He nods stiffly and leaves the courtyard, staff tapping a brisk rhythm on the stone.

I watch him disappear through the gate. A wave of relief flows through me once he’s gone, though it’s tempered by the knowledge that Vaelen and others of the Vakkak class likely share Ortem’s stance.

They crave a spectacle that I have no intention of providing.

I open my fist, staring at the wrinkled letter, then toss it onto a nearby table. My side twinges from the orc’s poison-tinged wound, still healing beneath bandages. Instinct begs me to stretch or train, but the medic’s orders echo in my head: No strenuous exertion for at least a few more days.

I cross into a side corridor, heading toward the record room.

I suspect Mira is there, sifting through shipping ledgers.

My mind drifts to her determined face, the defiance in her eyes whenever the Senate is mentioned.

She’s not the quiet prisoner they expected.

The more I see of her, the more I realize she’s nobody’s property—she’s a traveler forced by orcs into captivity, then thrust under my guardianship.

Her presence is unsettling, but not in a way that leaves me cold. If anything, it sparks a strange mix of protectiveness and reluctant admiration.

When I step into the record room, dust motes swirl in the sunbeams streaming from a high window.

Shelves of scrolls and bound logs line the walls.

She stands at a wooden desk, bent over a thick ledger, slender fingers tracing the lines of script.

A single stool is behind her, but she remains upright, intent on her task.

She glances up at my entrance. Her hazel eyes, flecked with green, reflect a guarded curiosity. “Another letter from your beloved Senate?”

“An order, more like.” I lean against the doorframe, arms loosely folded. “They want me to display you in a public ceremony. I refused.”

She arches an eyebrow. “They won’t like that.”

“Too bad,” I reply, voice harsh with the residue of anger. “I’m not forcing you to stand on a platform to satisfy their spectacle.”

Her posture softens marginally. “That… helps, I guess. I was expecting you to drag me out there anyway.”

I exhale, stepping deeper into the room. “Mira, I’m not your enemy.”

She pauses, the ledger resting under her hand. Her hair, pinned loosely at the nape of her neck, shifts as she tilts her head. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember that, champion.”

There’s no venom in her words—just a resigned acceptance of a complicated truth. I close the distance, resting my injured side against the desk’s edge. “Did you find anything in those shipping logs?”

She rubs her temple in thought. “Yes and no. Some ledgers mention the same ‘unknown sponsor’ funneling coin to reroute shipments. Then other entries reference supplies simply vanishing between loading docks and final destinations.”

My tail flicks. “I wonder if it’s orcs buying off traders to sabotage our resources. But there’s no guarantee that’s the whole story.”

She flips a page, scanning rows of figures. “Could be a group of minotaurs working with orcs for a profit. Or an outside faction. Hard to say. I saw a note that certain shipments have been ‘redirected’ near harbor warehouses. Your own managers flagged it, but no investigation was noted.”

I grind my teeth. “The Senate keeps dismissing these anomalies as clerical errors. But if you suspect orc allies, that means infiltration in the city. It could be a Trojan horse for a future assault.”

She nods thoughtfully. “It’s possible. Though we might need more than suspicious ledgers to confront the Senate.” Her gaze flits across my face, lingering on the scar near my brow. “You’re not looking so good. Did your wound bother you?”

“I’ve had worse. The venom from that orc blade was mild enough that the medic neutralized most of it. Hurts, but I can manage.” The admission tastes bitter. I’ve never been fond of letting someone see weakness, but with her, I sense more judgment in pretense than honesty.

She sets the ledger aside, crossing her arms. “If you’re refusing the Senate’s demand to parade me around, they might push back. Don’t they hold your champion status in their hands?”

I shrug, ignoring the slight twinge in my ribs. “Possibly. But I’ve built enough goodwill that they won’t dethrone me overnight. The city admires me for fending off the orcs. The Senate uses that admiration whenever it suits them. If they try to undermine me, the commoners might revolt.”

“So they’re bound by your popularity?” She releases a short laugh that lacks humor. “Good for you.”

I catch an undercurrent of bitterness there, and a pang of guilt stirs. “I know you have no stake in champion politics. But I’d like to see you treated with dignity, not paraded around as a ‘triumph.’”

Her eyes flicker, an unspoken emotion crossing her face. “You mean that?”

“Yes.” The word leaves my mouth more forcefully than intended. “I hate this arrangement. I’m playing along only as much as necessary to protect you from orc retribution—and to keep the Senate from labeling you a threat.”

She studies me for a moment, then glances down at the ledger. “Fine. I won’t fight you on this one, as long as you don’t try to display me like some prized horse.”

A faint relief seeps into my chest. “Agreed.”

She steps back from the table, and for a heartbeat, our gazes lock. The tension is palpable, charged with remnants of our earlier hostility and something more potent. I swallow, suddenly aware of how close we stand in this dusty room, how her presence feels bigger than the space should allow.

She breaks eye contact first, clearing her throat. “You said we need more evidence to confront the Senate. Any idea how to gather it?”

I angle my head, thinking. “We could look in the harbor district. If shipments are disappearing, that’s probably where we’ll find leads. But it’s risky. The Senate might see it as meddling in official trade business.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not afraid of risk.”

A hint of a smile tugs at my mouth. “I gathered that.”

The distant clip of hooves on polished stone draws our attention. A guard’s voice echoes in the corridor, announcing visitors. I sigh, stepping away from the desk. “Stay here, if you like. I’ll see who it is.”

She nods, exhaling a breath that lifts some of the tension. “I’ll keep reading. Maybe there’s a shipping manifest we missed.”