Page 22

REMANOS

T he moon looms overhead, its pale light stretched across the wharf like threads of silver on black silk.

I keep my steps silent, pressing close to the damp wood siding of the warehouse.

Behind me, Mira crouches low, her hood drawn up, hazel eyes alight with determination.

The midnight air smells of salt and fish guts, the water slapping the pilings in a gentle rhythm.

Tonight, we sneak into the most restricted part of Milthar’s bustling port in hopes of finding the evidence we need to prove we’re not chasing ghosts.

The idea was hers: an infiltration to gather tangible proof of the conspiracy that’s turning the city against me.

If anyone told me weeks ago that I’d be relying on a human “spoil” to clear my name, I would have laughed.

Now, I see no one else is better suited to slip undetected between corners, or to notice anomalies no minotaur does.

She spots subtle details we ignore, an outsider’s clarity honed by years on the road.

We’re far from alone. Orc conspirators might lurk behind any crate, while minotaur traitors roam the docks with bribed workers.

Two of my men flank us, but they remain at a distance to avoid drawing attention.

Mira insisted on traveling lightly— larger numbers would spook whoever is storing contraband or forging documents inside.

I exhale slowly, scanning for guards. My side throbs slightly, a reminder of the orc blade’s wound.

I force the discomfort away. This infiltration demands my focus.

Mira lifts a hand, signaling me to halt.

She tilts her head, listening to the faint shuffle of hooves around the next corner.

We slip into the shadow of a stacked crate, hearts pounding.

A minotaur watchman trudges by, lantern swaying.

He’s humming under his breath, likely bored.

The city’s security is spread thin. If sabotage is afoot, these watchers might even be paid off.

We remain frozen until his footsteps recede into the watery echoes of the harbor.

Only then does Mira ease forward, lips parted in a near-silent exhale.

She glances back, mouth quirking into a faint grin. “You’re too large to hide behind crates.”

My tail flicks in mild exasperation. “You’re too bold to be sneaking around alone.”

She rolls her eyes, though there’s no malice in it. “I managed so far, didn’t I?”

I can’t argue with that. She’s proven she can keep herself alive, even if it heightens my tension whenever we face potential danger.

Forcing a nod, I lead us around the corner.

The restricted warehouse stands at the water’s edge, heavy oak doors bolted from the inside.

We suspect that’s where illicit shipments are stashed—maybe the orc-forged blades or the faked documents.

If we can reach it, we stand a chance of exposing the conspirators fueling these rumors.

A worn wooden ramp juts from the back of the warehouse, bridging to a small platform for offloading boats.

Mira steps onto the boards gingerly. They creak but hold.

A single barred window sits high in the warehouse wall; a flicker of lamplight glimmers within.

I grimace, scanning for an easy entrance.

“There.” Mira points to a side door, padlocked from the inside. She glances around, testing the gap between planks. “We might pry a board loose if we’re careful.”

I nod, motioning her aside so I can wedge my gloved fingers along the edge of the wooden siding.

My minotaur strength is an advantage, though I try not to let the boards squeak.

With a grunt, I manage to shift one plank enough for someone slender to slip through.

She sets a steadying hand on my arm while I do it, her grip light but reassuring, and a peculiar warmth shoots through me. I remind myself to focus.

The gap is slim, barely wide enough for a human.

Mira squeezes in first, sliding gracefully.

I push the plank back from the outside, then gather my breath.

My shoulders are broader than hers, but if I tilt sideways, maybe I can manage.

My arm twinges from the effort. I exhale, bracing my core, and slip through, ignoring the pressure on my ribcage.

The inside is dim, lit only by a pair of lanterns hanging from iron hooks overhead.

Rows of wooden crates and sacks form haphazard aisles.

The smell of musty grain mingles with the faint tang of metal.

Mira crouches a short distance away, scanning the gloom.

I step closer, careful not to bump into anything.

Despite the tension in my side, I feel adrenaline sharpen my senses.

“We should look for shipping logs or any ledgers,” she whispers. “Physical proof of illicit cargo.”

I nod, about to reply, when something pricks my awareness—a presence beyond the crates. A subtle scraping of feet. My fur along the back of my neck rises. I put a hand on Mira’s shoulder, signaling caution. We remain still, listening. A hushed voice, low and gruff, echoes from the far corner.

“Keep watch,” the voice says. “We load the rest at dawn.”

Another figure replies, “We have to finish before the champion notices.”

My heart thuds. We’re on the right track.

Now, if we can avoid being seen. Mira points toward the shadows along a row of barrels.

We slip behind them, creeping deeper into the warehouse.

The two figures are partially hidden by stacked crates, but I see the outline of minotaur bodies in the faint glow.

One is broad-shouldered, wearing a short cloak.

The other rummages in a trunk, muttering something about orc payments.

My breath catches. If we can eavesdrop, we might catch them admitting who’s behind this. I tilt my head at Mira, and she returns a nod, her eyes bright with anticipation. We inch closer, pressing up against a crate that smells of old spices. The men’s conversation is clearer now.

“The next shipment’s bound for the champion’s district,” says the first man. “Make sure it’s marked with his crest. That’ll stir trouble.”

My blood surges with anger. So they’re forging my insignia on false shipments, fueling rumors of orc collusion. I clench my teeth, forcing myself to remain hidden. A fleeting thought occurs: we could attack now, but we need solid proof for the Senate. Half-lost cargo won’t sway them.

Suddenly, I sense a shift behind us—another presence.

The hair on my neck stands again. I pivot just in time to see a tall minotaur stepping out from a narrow aisle, eyes narrowing at the sight of us.

A torch glimmers in his hand, throwing flickering shadows across the stacked crates. He opens his mouth to shout.

“Stop,” I hiss, lunging forward. But it’s too late. He yells a warning, voice echoing in the rafters.

“Intruders! Over here!”

The other two spin around, hands darting for weapons.

So much for a silent infiltration. I charge the tall minotaur, ramming my shoulder into his torso before he can swing the torch.

The impact sends him staggering. Behind me, Mira leaps to intercept another goon who tries to snatch a blade from a crate.

She moves with surprising agility, hooking one foot behind his ankle to topple him.

The third conspirator curses and ducks behind a pile of sacks, fumbling for what looks like a short sword.

A flash of steel arcs toward me. I twist, letting the blade graze my bracer instead of my flesh.

The clang reverberates, but I hold my ground, ignoring the protest in my side.

My opponent snarls, leveling the torch like a club.

I clamp a hand around his wrist, forcing it down, and drive a knee into his midsection.

He doubles over, dropping the torch to the floor.

Mira curses from behind a crate. I glance over in time to see the second goon slashing a short sword toward her.

She ducks, the blade whistling overhead.

She’s unarmed except for a small dagger we brought, but she manages to keep the man at bay with quick footwork.

My chest constricts with an urge to help, but I can’t abandon my current foe.

“Champion’s dog!” The tall one spits, eyes wild.

He lunges again, ignoring the torch that gutters on the ground behind him.

He tries to tackle me, but I brace my stance, shifting my weight.

Our bodies collide, horns scraping. I hiss at the pressure on my bandaged side, but adrenaline pushes me through.

I hook an arm around his neck, twisting so that I slam him against a support beam.

He groans, sliding to the floor in a daze.

I whirl around. Mira’s cornered by the second conspirator, pinned against a crate.

Her dagger’s trapped in his grip, but she’s got her other hand braced against his throat.

He’s bigger, though, and forcing her back, the blade tipping precariously toward her chest. Fury blasts through my veins.

I leap forward, hooking my arm around the goon’s shoulders, yanking him away from her.

He roars, flailing. Mira seizes the moment, driving her knee into his side. He collapses onto all fours, gasping.

A cry rings out from near the sacks: The third conspirator I spotted earlier emerges, brandishing a crossbow.

My stomach drops. “Get down!” I bark. Mira and I dive behind a barrel as a bolt thuds into the crate behind us, splinters of wood raining down.

The two men we left sprawled scramble for cover, cursing.

I realize they’re not aiming at them—they’re aiming at us.

Mira’s chest heaves as we crouch side by side, the faint lamplight catching the sweat beading on her forehead. “How many are there?” she gasps.

I swallow hard. “At least three. Maybe more.” My heart hammers. We’re pinned in the middle of a clandestine ring, outnumbered if reinforcements appear.