Page 31

MIRA

M orning light spills across the cobbled streets of Milthar, painting the marble columns and sloping roofs in a gentle glow.

I slip through the quieter avenues, keeping my hood partially raised to obscure my face.

Remanos insisted I stay within the estate for my own safety, but the leads I’ve gathered won’t wait.

We need more solid evidence if we’re to stop Vaelen from branding both of us conspirators—or worse, shipping me off to the orcs.

I refuse to be caged while the Senate weaves false accusations.

Despite the tension twisting in my stomach, I move with purpose toward the city archives, a sprawling complex of arched doorways and carved friezes depicting ancient battles.

Two minotaur sentries stand guard at the main entrance, each wearing the standard uniform of Milthar’s civil record keepers.

My heart thuds as I approach, worried they might stop me for being human.

But they appear tired or bored, and no immediate flicker of recognition crosses their faces.

They let me pass with only a cursory glance.

Inside, the grand hall opens into towering shelves, the topmost levels accessible only by ladders.

Rows of scrolls and bound volumes line each shelf, creating a labyrinth of recorded history: trade treaties, property deeds, genealogical ledgers, and everything in between.

A hush pervades the air, broken only by the soft scrape of the archivists’ sandals.

My senses prickle with anticipation. This is precisely the environment I need: a place where old truths might lie hidden, waiting to be uncovered.

I keep my head down as I weave between shelves, searching for the archivists’ catalog.

The faint smell of dust and papyrus tickles my nose.

The few minotaur librarians I see seem preoccupied with their tasks—sorting brittle scrolls, carefully labeling newly arrived volumes.

They’ve likely never had cause to suspect a human might rummage among their records for city secrets.

Even so, I remain cautious, occasionally glancing over my shoulder.

I find a small alcove lined with drawers, each labeled with an intricate code.

From Remanos’s notes and my own guesses, older treaties might be stored under sections referencing “historic foreign relations.” That means anything involving orc clans, older Vakkak decrees, or expansions to Milthar’s maritime reach.

I run my finger across the engraved labels: Vakkak Land Grants, Border Wars, Orc Conflicts: Historical Accounts.

The last drawer draws my attention. I tug it open, scanning the index inside.

Years of rummaging through old libraries with my father taught me how to decode references quickly.

My eyes catch an entry labeled Treaty of Renghar (Vakkak–Orc Trade Leverage), Year 207.

A faint pulse of excitement quickens my heartbeat.

This might be exactly the kind of ancient record proving how certain noble families manipulated orc threats for profit.

If Vaelen’s lineage is tied to those families, we can strengthen our case that his current actions are no coincidence.

I jot the reference on a scrap of parchment, then carefully search the shelves.

It takes me a good while, scaling a rickety ladder to the higher level.

Up here, the air feels stale, as though these scrolls haven’t been disturbed in years.

I run my fingers along the spines of volumes until I spot a thick treatise labeled with archaic script.

My breath catches: Treaty of Renghar, exactly what I need.

My pulse thrums as I lift the heavy tome and climb back down, ensuring I don’t topple off the ladder.

At a lone table in a secluded corner, I settle the volume.

Its worn cover crackles beneath my palm.

Gently, I flip it open, scanning the minotaur script interspersed with occasional orcish runes.

My eyes pick out references to “Vakkak dignitaries,” “coerced trade quotas,” and even the phrase “levied threats by orc warbands, invited under cover of forced alliances.” The further I read, the more damning it appears.

Centuries ago, certain Vakkak nobles basically “invited” orc raids to intimidate middle-class Zotkak merchants into compliance.

They’d swoop in as saviors, forging lopsided deals that favored the wealthy.

This is the exact historical precedent Remanos and I suspect Vaelen is replicating.

My hands tremble with a mix of fury and triumph. If we show the city that Vaelen’s current actions mirror these old manipulations, perhaps enough senators or commoners will believe he’s repeating his ancestors’ tactics. People might realize the orc infiltration is orchestrated rather than random.

Lost in my reading, I almost miss the faint shuffle of footsteps behind me.

Instinct prickles. I freeze, focusing on my peripheral senses.

Footfalls pause, as though the person tries not to be noticed.

A cold jolt of alarm climbs up my spine—someone’s watching me.

Slowly, I turn the page, pretending to remain absorbed in the text. The presence lingers.

I swallow, conscious that I’ve lingered too long in this archive.

If Vaelen’s men recognized me entering, they could easily trap me here.

My pulse spikes. Closing the tome gently, I slip it into a satchel I brought for this purpose.

There’s no time to fully memorize or copy everything; I’ll have to smuggle the treatise out.

The archivists might protest, but I can’t leave this behind. Not now.

Rising from the table, I keep my posture casual, meandering toward the nearest shelf to mask the volume hidden under my cloak.

The footsteps shift again, trailing at a distance.

My stomach knots. If I bolt too soon, they’ll be sure of my guilt.

I pass a row of wooden racks, turning a corner that leads to a dimly lit corridor, hoping I can find a side exit.

The corridor is lined with locked cabinets.

Unused candelabras stand in the corners, the air stale.

My breath quickens. This is not a main route, which might be good for slipping away, but also means fewer eyes around if Vaelen’s henchmen corner me.

Anxiety ratchets higher with each step. I carefully press forward, scanning for a door.

At last, I glimpse a small archway leading to a lesser-used storeroom, its door cracked ajar. Possibly an exit beyond it?

Behind me, footsteps accelerate. My heart leaps into my throat. I glance back—two bulky minotaurs appear, plain-clothed but radiating intimidation. One lifts his chin, eyes fixing on me with that predator’s gleam. My pulse hammers. Vaelen’s men, no doubt.

I push through the storeroom door, skirting around crates.

The room is cramped, dust swirling in the faint light filtering from a high window.

A single door on the far side appears locked.

Panic flutters in my chest. If I’m trapped, they’ll take me to Vaelen, or claim I’m stealing archives.

I slip between crates, hoping to find another way out.

My thoughts race. Did they see me grab the treatise?

If they confiscate it, all the evidence is lost.

A heavy thud behind me—a crate knocked aside. I hear one of the men grunt, “Check the corners. We must bring her in quietly.”

I hold my breath, pressed against a stack of old scroll boxes.

My eyes dart around. A single window high on the far wall might be large enough for me to squeeze through, but it’s an impossible climb without a ladder.

If I stay here, they’ll sniff me out. My pulse roars in my ears.

I risk creeping around the edge of the crates, hoping to circle behind them.

The squeak of my sandal on the floor makes me freeze again, heart stuttering.

One of them whips around, catching a glimpse of me. “There she is!”

Swallowing a surge of terror, I dash between crates, clinging to the treatise. A strong arm lunges, snagging my cloak. I wrench free, ignoring the tear of fabric. I manage a desperate pivot, flinging a loose crate in his path. He staggers, but the second minotaur cuts off my route to the door.

“End of the line, human,” he growls, voice dripping with cold triumph.

Fear pulses bright in my chest. They’re bigger and armed.

My dagger alone won’t suffice against two skilled brutes in close quarters.

Still, I refuse to surrender. I grip the dagger’s hilt, stepping backward, searching for any path.

The first minotaur recovers, flanking me with the second.

Their steps close in, penning me near a corner.

My mind races. If they wrest the treatise away, Vaelen can destroy it. If they capture me, who knows how quickly I’ll be in the orcs’ hands? The claustrophobic storeroom thickens the tension. My back presses against cold stone, the men’s eyes gleaming.

I brandish the dagger in shaky defiance. “Stay back. I’ll use this if I must.”

They laugh, exchanging amused looks. One lunges for my weapon hand.

I manage a quick sidestep, slashing at his arm.

He yelps, but it’s superficial—a line of red beads across his bicep.

The second one capitalizes on my position, hooking strong fingers around my waist, slamming me against a crate.

Pain explodes through my shoulder. The treatise nearly slips from my grasp.

My vision spots. Then raw survival instincts flare—I elbow him in the jaw, letting the dagger’s pommel follow. He staggers, cursing.

The first one recovers, cornering me. My heart thunders, panic rising. They’re both bigger, stronger. Despair prickles: I can’t outfight them. They’ll tear the tome from me and drag me away. My breath hitches as the second minotaur draws a short cudgel from his belt, brandishing it menacingly.