Page 17

Her words stir a flicker of warmth despite the tension. “Then we’ll do it together. We’ll find who sent that crate, gather evidence, and bring it to the Senate before they bring false charges against me.”

She nods, gaze intense. “All right. You lead; I’ll follow.”

I bite back a grin at the unintentional meaning behind her phrase. “You are no follower, Mira. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

We reenter the estate, where the guard and worker deposit the crate in a secure storeroom just off the main hall.

I stoop by the open lid, examining the swords more carefully.

Each blade bears identical forging marks, rough hammered edges, and a faint smear of dried mud that suggests land travel before it ever reached a boat.

I pick one up, weigh it in my palm. The balance is poor, typical of orc weaponry mass-produced for raids.

I turn to Mira. “We should visit the harbor personally. See if the dockmaster knows who declared this cargo. Maybe we can trace it backwards.”

She nods. “We can go now, if you’re up for it.”

My side twinges, but I push through the discomfort. “Let’s do it. The Senate might sniff around soon. Better we have answers first.”

I beckon two guards to accompany us, then lead Mira out the front gates.

The morning sun climbs higher, warming the sandstone streets.

We navigate a path down wide avenues framed by ornate columns, citizens parting to let me pass.

There’s still an undercurrent of awe in their expressions—after all, I’m the champion who defeated the orcs.

But rumor travels fast. Some cast sidelong glances at Mira, others openly gawk, as if expecting her to be shackled.

She ignores them, posture tense but unyielding.

Reaching the harbor, we cross a broad plaza bustling with vendors hawking fish, spices, and trinkets.

Sailors haul crates off moored vessels, the tang of salt and seaweed thick in the air.

A large warehouse stands at the far side of the docks, near a row of anchored ships.

Above its doors, the minotaur crest is carved into the lintel.

This is where cargo is processed, the domain of the city’s dockmaster.

We push through the open double doors. Inside, the air is cooler, shafts of light spilling through high windows.

Stacks of crates crowd the space, and a handful of workers sort goods with practiced efficiency.

The dockmaster, a short but stocky minotaur with chipped horns, notices me and snaps to attention.

“Champion,” he greets, voice gruff. “Here on official business?”

I glance around, noticing a few curious glances from the workers. “I need to know about a crate that arrived last night, addressed to me, containing contraband orc blades.”

He blinks. “Contraband? That’s serious. Let me see the manifests.”

We follow him to a side desk littered with ledgers. He flips through pages, scanning entries for the relevant arrivals. Mira stands next to me, keeping a watchful eye. I sense her tension—she’s acutely aware that if the Senate twists this, both our lives get more complicated.

The dockmaster jabs a thick finger at a line. “Here. Four crates off a barge called The Ivory Current. Marked for Remanos Ironhide. No mention of weapons. The ledger says ‘ceramic tiles for courtyard renovation.’ That’s what we were told.”

I grit my teeth. “Ceramic tiles, indeed.”

Mira leans in. “Who arranged the shipping?”

He flips another page. “Says it was paid in advance by—” He hesitates, brows furrowing. “There’s no name, just a sigil. A boar’s head. Someone paid a clerk to expedite the shipment. The clerk who handled that transaction is on break right now.”

I share a look with Mira. A boar’s head forging mark was on those swords. Now it’s on the shipping ledger, too. This points to a single source, likely connected with orcs. “We need to speak to that clerk,” I tell the dockmaster.

He nods, pushing up from the desk. “I’ll fetch them. They were taking a meal out back.”

As he leaves, the workers continue their business, though some cast suspicious eyes our way. I move to a quiet corner of the warehouse, beckoning Mira to follow. The guards remain at a slight distance, scanning for threats.

“This boar’s head symbol keeps appearing,” Mira murmurs, voice low. “And it’s the same orc clan mark you recognized on the swords. Could be a smear campaign, or a direct infiltration to discredit you.”

I cross my arms, ignoring the pain blooming in my torso. “If they want me discredited, they’re playing a dangerous game. Unless they have allies in the Senate who’ll push the story further.”

Her eyes spark with intensity. “You suspect Vaelen?”

I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t trust him. Doesn’t mean he’s behind it. But if he’s not, someone else in the Senate might be. They gain power by removing me or tarnishing my image.”

Before she can respond, the dockmaster returns with a jittery young minotaur clerk in tow, a battered ledger tucked under his arm. His eyes flick between me and Mira as though he’s stepped into a minefield.

“Tell us about the crate labeled for me,” I say, voice stern but calm. “You processed the shipping, correct?”

He swallows, fiddling with the ledger. “Y-yes, champion. A masked courier arrived before dawn, paid with a heavy pouch of coin, asked me to ensure the crates got priority loading onto a cart for your estate. I didn’t ask questions, the pay was generous.”

A masked courier. My tail lashes behind me. “Did you catch a name? A voice, accent, anything?”

He trembles slightly under my scrutiny. “They spoke in Common with a harsh rasp, but I couldn’t place an orc accent. They might’ve been disguised. The only other thing I recall is a symbol on their belt—a boar’s head pin.”

I flick a look at Mira and our gazes lock. The same boar’s head emerges yet again. She speaks up, voice firm. “This courier. Did they mention the Senate or any official references?”

He shakes his head. “No, only said it was urgent that the champion receive the goods. I assumed it was something to do with your renovations, champion.” A nervous chuckle escapes him. “Didn’t realize it was contraband.”

My jaw tightens. “Next time, question suspicious shipments. You could’ve landed us both in a sea of trouble.”

He lowers his gaze, nodding weakly. “Understood.”

I dismiss him with a gesture, turning to Mira. “So we have a boar’s head symbol, a masked courier, a suspicious payment, and crates disguised as tiles. This is more than random sabotage.”

Her gaze flicks to the open warehouse doorway, where gulls wheel over the harbor. “Some group is orchestrating an attempt to undermine your standing. If they can pin orc collusion on you, the Senate might remove you from the champion’s seat. That leaves Milthar vulnerable to further infiltration.”

I grunt in agreement. “We have to share these findings with someone who’ll listen. But if we pick the wrong senator, the conspirators might catch wind and hush this up.”

She runs a hand over the battered ledger’s cover. “What about Ortem? He seemed less conniving than Vaelen, even if he’s fixated on tradition.”

I consider it. “Ortem is stern, but loyal to Milthar. Still, he might prioritize protecting the city’s image over exposing the truth. We could try him—just be cautious.”

The clerk wanders off, leaving us with the dockmaster. We confirm a few details about the barge’s schedule, then exit the warehouse. Outside, midday sun glints off the water, and the tang of salt thickens the air. Mira squints at me, concern etched in her expression.

“You’re breathing heavier,” she says softly.

I roll my shoulders, wincing at the ache in my ribs. “I’ll manage. We should head back, piece this together, then decide how to present it to Ortem. If Vaelen’s involved, we must avoid him until we have proof.”

She nods, stepping aside to let me pass, though her stance suggests she’d catch me if I stumbled.

I grimace at the unspoken worry in her eyes.

This infiltration is bigger than I hoped, and the city’s illusions keep tangling around us.

For a brief moment, I wonder if stepping down as champion would free me from these entanglements—but then who would protect Mira from Senate or orc machinations?

We make our way through the bustling harbor plaza, the crowd thick with merchants shouting their wares.

A group of minotaur youths trails behind us, whispering excitedly about the champion.

I pretend not to notice, but the weight of eyes on my back intensifies my headache.

Mira keeps pace with me, occasionally glancing at the passersby who ogle her.

A few bold onlookers call out compliments or snide remarks, uncertain if she’s my property or a curiosity.

She lifts her chin and ignores them all.

Approaching the uphill road to my estate, I glimpse a Senate guard detachment at a corner intersection, scanning the crowd.

I steer Mira down a side alley to avoid them.

Paranoid, maybe, but I can’t risk a confrontation now.

We navigate a winding route, slipping into narrower streets lined with humble shops and modest dwellings.

The air here carries the scent of fresh bread and simmering stew, a comforting reminder that not all of Milthar is dominated by the Senate’s pomp.

Eventually, we emerge onto a quieter lane that leads to my gates. The moment we step inside, I exhale a shaky breath. My side throbs from the exertion, but the relief of returning to a familiar space anchors me.

In the courtyard, Mira pauses, shading her eyes from the sun. Her gaze roams over the columns, the fountain, the carefully maintained landscaping. “Even if this place feels like a prison sometimes, it’s… peaceful.”

I nod. “I built it to be a haven from the arena’s chaos. Didn’t imagine it would become another type of battleground.”