Page 19

MIRA

I slip through the market stalls, careful to keep my hood raised so I don’t draw too much attention.

Minotaur shopkeepers call out their wares, the thick vowels of their language blending with the chatter of travelers and the shuffle of hooves across flagstones.

The day feels unseasonably warm, sunlight reflecting off gleaming marble columns and glinting across metal trinkets laid out on tables.

My heart thuds in a steady pulse as I scan my surroundings, alert to any sign of sabotage or subterfuge that Remanos and I haven’t yet uncovered.

He’s back at the estate, dealing with an endless stream of Senate demands, but I couldn’t just sit idle.

After rummaging through more shipping logs, I discovered a few references to crates that should’ve arrived in the city’s southern district.

The notes claimed those deliveries never made it to official storehouses.

That’s exactly the sort of anomaly we suspect points to an inside job.

If orcs truly have collaborators among the minotaur, it might show up in these smaller, out-of-the-way markets where contraband can be shuffled unnoticed.

My borrowed cloak swishes around my legs.

Despite Milthar’s heat, I keep it on to hide the fitted tunic that marks me as part of Remanos’s household—some of his staff recognized me in it just yesterday, sending waves of curiosity through the estate.

I’d rather not announce to every vendor here that I’m “the champion’s so-called spoil,” especially since I’m hoping to glean actual information.

I pass a fruit stand, inhaling the sweet smell of ripe melons.

Nearby, a grizzled minotaur is displaying dried herbs in neat bundles.

Beyond that, I see lines of barrels, each painted with a crest indicating the local trade guild.

My gaze snags on a row of crates stacked against a wall, half concealed by a fraying canvas awning.

Each crate bears a black stamp that looks like an upside-down bull’s head, but something about the shape is faintly off—as if the stencil or brand had been tampered with.

Curiosity tugs me closer. I drift past a stall selling carved bone necklaces, then meander toward the stacked crates, pretending to show interest in a jar of spiced honey set on a nearby table.

The older merchant behind the table peers at me with mild suspicion but doesn’t comment.

From this vantage, I can see the stamp more clearly.

It’s definitely a bull’s head insignia, but a corner of the shape is smudged with fresh tar or black paint.

An attempt to alter it? My mouth goes dry as I recall the boar’s head forging mark we discovered on the contraband weapons.

Could someone be disguising that boar crest as a bull’s head to blend in with local shipments?

I edge closer, shifting so the merchant can’t spot my prying eyes.

The wooden crates are nailed shut, each labeled in a hasty scrawl.

The markings read: “Clay bricks—handle with care.” But the lines of the words are crooked, too sloppy for official trade.

My pulse picks up. This might be precisely the sort of tampering Remanos and I have been trying to find.

As I lean in to see if the nails have been fiddled with, I hear the low murmur of voices behind the awning.

I risk a glance around the corner. Two minotaurs stand close, both wearing plain tunics rather than the typical market vendor attire.

One points at a folded parchment, the other gestures to the crates.

Their conversation is hushed, but I catch phrases like “delay the next shipment” and “the orc clan demands higher bribes.” My stomach clenches.

These two must be involved in funneling goods or forging documentation to help the orcs.

If they’ve put a false champion’s crest on the crates, it could cast suspicion on Remanos next.

My instincts scream that this is a valuable lead.

I shift my weight, trying to remain invisible beneath the draping canvas.

The second minotaur, a lean individual with a spiral brand on his forearm, lowers his voice.

“That noble friend of ours says we need to ramp up pressure. If the champion starts sniffing too close, direct blame to him. Make sure these crates look like they’re part of his estate’s expansions. ”

Rage flares through me. This is exactly how they tried to smear Remanos with those orc-forged swords.

Now they’re disguising even more shipments as his property.

The mention of “noble friend” sends a jolt of alarm.

Could it be Vaelen? Or someone else from the Vakkak upper class, orchestrating sabotage to profit from orc connections?

A shift of the wind ruffles the canvas, and one minotaur’s ear flicks in my direction. I freeze, heart pounding. He peers at the awning, suspicious. I step backward, softly as possible, but my sandals scrape on a loose stone. His eyes snap to the movement. “Who’s there?” he growls.

I swallow a surge of panic. My best option is to pretend ignorance.

I swirl around to face the fruit vendor, hoping they’ll assume I’m a random customer.

I murmur a question about the fruit’s price, trying to appear casual, but I sense them stepping from behind the awning.

The lean minotaur with the spiral brand moves closer, scanning the area like a predator.

I keep my hood partially lowered to hide my human features.

He eyes me, brow furrowing. “You, girl. What are you doing here?”

My heart thrums. “Just browsing,” I say in a meek tone, deliberately letting my voice tremble. “I was looking at the honey and got turned around.”

He snorts, unconvinced. “You’re not from this district. Pull back your hood.”

I stiffen, risking a quick glance at the vendor who’s studiously focusing on their fruit, clearly unwilling to intervene.

Exposing my face could blow everything. Once they see I’m human—and possibly connect me to Remanos’s estate—this lead vanishes or becomes dangerous.

I take a step back. “I don’t want any trouble. ”

He advances, but the second minotaur grabs his arm. “Leave her. Might just be a drifter.”

Relief wars with panic as I spin and hurry away, keeping my cloak tight around me.

Though my instinct says to flee outright, a stronger drive propels me onward: I won’t let them vanish without confirming the traitorous arrangement.

From a safer distance, I glance back. The two are hissing urgent words at each other, then one takes off into the crowd.

The other lifts a small crate, seemingly in a hurry.

My stomach flips at the possibility of losing them.

I slip behind a row of stands, weaving through the throng of shoppers.

The leaning stalls provide partial cover as I follow the second minotaur—he’s carrying the crate deeper into a side alley.

His hurried gait suggests he’s spooked. I hang back just enough to keep him in sight.

We traverse a labyrinth of narrow passages behind the main market.

Rotting produce, broken crates, and the stale odor of old fish form a pungent backdrop.

He halts at a juncture, glancing around warily.

My breath hitches; I press myself against a stone wall, peeking around the corner.

Another minotaur awaits him—a tall figure wearing a deep green cloak with gold filigree at the hem.

That cloak alone implies wealth, likely a noble’s garment.

My guess is the brand was right: This is one of Milthar’s upper class minotaurs, the same folks controlling the Senate or heavily influencing it.

They exchange a few brief words I can’t catch.

The tall minotaur’s posture radiates authority, and the other bows his head like a subordinate.

I see a fleeting glimpse of the tall one’s face beneath the hood—dark fur, a band of silver around one horn.

No immediate recognition, but that style of ornamentation is common among the Vakkak caste.

I press my lips together, torn between stepping closer for details and staying safely hidden.

Eventually, the tall figure hands the crate-carrier a pouch that jingles with coin. Bribe money, no doubt.

To my horror, the tall minotaur lifts his hood’s edge, revealing a portion of his brow.

The midday light hits his features in a way that stirs a flicker of memory from the colosseum stands.

I can’t confirm it completely, but I suspect I’ve seen him near Vaelen once or twice.

My heart quickens. Could this be one of Vaelen’s close associates, or Vaelen himself?

Hard to say with the partial hood, but the figure’s muzzle shape seems different from Vaelen’s.

Someone else in the Vakkak circle, then.

He says something in a low voice—“… your champion’s downfall …

keep up the shipments … orcs.” That last word hits my ears clearly.

It’s enough to confirm he’s facilitating orc alliances.

A powerful minotaur noble, funneling crates to frame Remanos, or to aid orcs, or both.

My adrenaline spikes, each breath feeling shallow as the implications swirl.

If the Senate is partially compromised, we’re wading into deeper waters than I anticipated.

At that moment, the tall noble half-turns.

My heart jumps. I tucked in the shadow of some crates, praying I’m concealed in the alley’s shadows.

A ripple of fear tightens my stomach— I recall how easily minotaurs tower over me, how quickly they can act with lethal force if threatened.

The short minotaur with the spiral brand bows again, then scuttles off, footsteps echoing against stone.

The taller figure lingers, scanning the alley as if sensing an unwanted presence.

I hold my breath, certain each beat of my heart is loud enough to give me away.