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REMANOS

I can still smell the salt of the ocean drifting in from the open-air corridors, but the scent feels strangely stale in my nostrils tonight.

It’s as though the usual brine tang carries a weight that settles across my shoulders.

I stand at the entrance of the Senate Hall—an imposing structure of white stone with towering columns carved into the shapes of ancient minotaur heroes.

Each pillar depicts a champion from centuries past, horns raised, weapons lifted.

They stare outward, frozen in triumph, as if judging anyone who dares enter.

I adjust the leather strap crossing my chest and roll my shoulders to prepare for what I know awaits me inside.

My body aches with tension ever since I left Mira in the east wing, escorted by the guards.

The memory of her fierce glare stays with me.

She’s a mere human in a land of bull-kin, yet she wields a presence that unsettles me in ways I’m not used to.

I remember the way her eyes sparked with anger—like flint scraping stone.

She made it clear that she thinks this city is just another cage, and I can’t fault her for that opinion.

The guard at the massive bronze door inclines his head when he sees me.

He steps aside so I can enter the grand hall.

My hoofsteps echo across polished marble floors.

Half a dozen pillars line the interior, each draped in burgundy-and-gold banners.

In a recessed alcove sits an oval table of dark wood where members of the Bavkus gather.

They’ve likely been awaiting my arrival.

I draw closer and observe the faces of those present.

Senator Ortem is there, the older minotaur with gray in his fur who greeted the orcs in the courtyard earlier.

His horns are gilded at the tips, a sign of both rank and a certain vanity that has never sat well with me.

Next to him stands Senator Vaelen, a Vakkak noble with an air of preening self-importance.

His horns curve outward, thinner than mine but adorned with intricate etchings.

Vaelen’s skin is a lighter hue of leathery brown, while the short fur around his neck is an almost copper color—an unusual shade among our people.

He offers me a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his cold eyes.

As I step forward, my tail flicks in annoyance. I straighten to my full height, nearly seven feet, though I’m mindful not to project too much open hostility. These senators, for all their pomp, hold the reins of governance. My role as champion places me under their watchful eye.

“Ah, Remanos Ironhide,” Vaelen says in a voice that drips fake warmth. “Thank you for joining us so quickly.”

I incline my head. “I was told to come at once.”

Ortem sets his staff against the table, leaning on it as if he needs the support.

His gaze roams over me, perhaps noting the diagonal scar across my chest from a past orc fight.

“We have many matters to discuss regarding the orc warband.” His eyes narrow.

“They made their demands quite clear this afternoon.”

I exhale slowly, recalling the conversation in the courtyard. The orcs brought that human captive Mira—and threatened war if we refuse to comply with their terms. “They’re insisting on a champion’s duel,” I say. “And it seems I’ve been elected to represent Milthar once again.”

Vaelen nods. “Exactly. The orcs challenge us to single combat as an alternative to all-out war. If you win, they withdraw. If you lose, they claim certain—resources.”

“Resources,” I echo bitterly. “You mean our iron ore, our farmland produce, or maybe they want to open up a shipping route that benefits them. There’s always a catch with orcs.”

“They also brought a gift,” Vaelen replies. “That human woman. A bargaining chip, as they say. Presumably to sweeten the deal.” He watches me carefully, likely to see how I react.

My jaw clenches. The memory of Mira’s wrists bound with rope is fresh in my mind. “They treat her like cargo. I fail to see how that’s a sweetener.”

“She’s a spoil,” Ortem interjects, though his voice is somewhat gentler. “It’s tradition for orcs to offer a living prize to the victor. Their ways are barbaric, but we must respect their custom if it means protecting our city.”

I feel my tail lash behind me in a sign of agitation. “Honor without choice is just another cage. We stand on lofty principles, yet we’re willing to parade a human being for the sake of some archaic ritual?”

Vaelen shifts on his hooves. “I understand your frustration, but the people expect a decisive stance. If we reject the orcs’ offer, we risk a full-scale attack. You’ve seen how they mass outside our gates.”

I picture the orc warband. Their numbers weren’t tremendous, but they’ve allied with other clans before.

Our city could handle a direct assault, yet it would cost countless lives—both minotaur and otherwise.

My entire life, I’ve tried to follow a moral code: fight with honor, protect the weak, stand as a symbol for the city.

But now, the Senate demands I accept a living “reward” if I emerge victorious.

A piece of me wants to toss my war hammer at their feet and refuse the duel altogether. But that would leave us vulnerable.

“You know you’re Milthar’s greatest fighter,” Vaelen says, lifting his chin.

He’s a fraction shorter than me, but his self-importance makes him stand as if he towers above.

“The Senate trusts your skill in the arena. This arrangement ensures minimal bloodshed and reaffirms our strength to the orcs. Surely you can see the logic.”

I fix my gaze on him. There’s something in his expression that puts me on edge—a cunning glimmer, as if he has a personal stake in the outcome. “You want me to kill their champion, accept the human as my property, and wave the banner of victory as if everything is fine?”

Ortem clears his throat. “We want you to do what’s best for Milthar.

The orcs will insist on transferring the captive to you.

We cannot offend them by refusing. You know how their code works.

A refusal of a war spoil might be seen as an insult, which they could twist into reason for further aggression. ”

A long silence stretches as I weigh the implications. I hate every piece of this. “She will be under my protection,” I say quietly, though my voice resonates in the spacious hall. “I won’t allow her to be mistreated.”

Vaelen’s carefully manicured brow rises. “You sound defensive, champion. Have you already grown attached to the human?”

My fists tighten at my sides. “I don’t become ‘attached’ to a prisoner. But I won’t treat her as a lesser being.”

“So you plan to keep her caged behind locked doors?” Vaelen’s question drips with a mocking tone. “I wonder if she’ll see your code of honor as an improvement over an orcish chain.”

Heat climbs up my neck. “I ordered the guards to give her a suitable room. She’s not chained now, and I aim to ensure she isn’t used as a—spectacle.

” I recall Mira’s furious glare when she accused me of complicity.

Her words stung because they had a kernel of truth; by accepting the Senate’s orders, I am complicit.

But refusing could doom the city to a savage onslaught.

Ortem lays a massive hand on the table, thick fingers tapping the polished surface.

“We appreciate your dedication, Remanos. Truly. But you must proceed with the duel. The people expect it. The orc champion has arrived with his warband. They’ll remain just outside the city walls for three days until the colosseum event. ”

My lips press together in frustration. “Three days is not enough time to prepare fully.”

Vaelen’s gaze sweeps over me. “You’re our champion for a reason. Or have you lost your edge?”

I nearly snarl at his suggestion. “I won my last five official matches in the colosseum, including that orc gladiator who left me with this scar.” I gesture to the diagonal mark across my pectoral. “If any minotaur can handle this challenge, it’s me. But that doesn’t make the situation right.”

“Sometimes we do what must be done,” Vaelen says, his voice carrying a note of finality. “Speak no more of moral quandaries. We need to protect this city. You’ll fight for us, and you’ll accept the orcs’ tribute. All we ask is that you maintain the dignity of our traditions.”

I look from Vaelen to Ortem, then to the other silent senators around the table. Each one stares at me with an expectancy that makes my tail flick in irritation. They’re content to let me carry the burden, stepping forward only to reap the benefits or applaud my victory.

“Very well,” I say. “I’ll fight.” The words taste bitter. “When the time comes, I’ll enter the arena and do what’s necessary.”

Ortem inclines his head. “We place our faith in you, champion. Do not forget that it is the will of Milthar you serve.”

I resist the urge to snort at that phrasing.

I’ve been used as a symbol for far too long, paraded whenever the Senate needs to boost morale or quell unrest. And now, they expect me to shoulder the guilt of taking a human captive as though I want the poor woman in my keep.

Yet I can’t see a path that doesn’t end in worse bloodshed if I defy them.

The orcs wouldn’t hesitate to use the slightest insult as justification for war.

Vaelen glances at me, crossing his arms over his chest. “You may go. Prepare yourself. The city looks to your success.”

I step back from the table, jaw set. “Three days, then.”

Before anyone can say more, I pivot and stride out of the hall, my hooves thudding on the marble.

The second I pass through the enormous bronze doors, I inhale a breath of the cooler night air.

Torches line the courtyard, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

I pause beneath one flickering flame, letting the hush of the evening settle my mind.