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Honor without choice is just another cage. I recall uttering those words in the courtyard earlier. Now, they ring even truer.

I tilt my head toward the walkway leading back to my estate.

The path winds past a series of arches adorned with mosaic tiles.

Each tile depicts a scene from Milthar’s storied past—shipbuilding, the forging of bronze weapons, labyrinthine designs that reflect our old tribal wars.

Sometimes, when I was younger and fresh to the champion’s life, I used to stop and admire these mosaics, hoping to glean inspiration from the heroic deeds they represented.

Tonight, they feel like silent witnesses, reminding me that my position is both revered and isolating.

My estate isn’t lavish—by champion standards, it’s modest. A tall gate marks the entrance, and a short courtyard with a fountain stands just inside.

Warm lamplight glows through the windows.

I keep a skeleton staff of attendants, mostly freedmen who prefer a quiet life in a champion’s household to the hustle of the city markets.

None of them greet me as I enter, but I hear soft footsteps retreating down the hallway.

They’re used to my comings and goings at irregular hours.

I head directly to the training yard. The night sky above is a tapestry of stars.

Torches mounted on the stone walls provide enough illumination to see the well-worn sand beneath my hooves.

Several wooden weapon stands line the perimeter, supporting practice spears, swords, and axes.

My favored war hammer leans against a corner, faintly reflecting the amber glow of flames.

My arms feel stiff, so I pick up a practice spear to loosen my muscles.

Gripping the haft in both hands, I sweep through a series of thrusts and spins, muscle memory carrying me.

The motion settles my mind. When I fight, everything else falls away.

There’s no Senate, no forced tribute, no moral conflict.

There is only the immediate challenge: weapon, foe, survival.

My chest expands with a measured breath.

I’m halfway through a spinning maneuver when I become aware of a figure standing at the archway.

My spear halts mid-swing, sand kicking up at my hooves.

I turn to find Senator Vaelen watching me in silence, arms crossed over a dark robe embroidered with gold patterns. He must have followed me from the hall.

“Brushing up on your technique?” Vaelen’s voice is smooth but carries the faintest undercurrent of mocking. “Our champion needs no improvement, so I’ve heard.”

“Why are you here?” I rest the butt of the spear on the sand, eyeing him warily.

He steps forward, his horns catching the torchlight. “I wanted to speak with you privately.”

My shoulders tense. “You couldn’t say whatever it is in front of the others?”

His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “Some things are best discussed without an audience.” He paces closer, glancing around the training yard. “I know you resent the Senate’s stance on this human spoil. You made that much clear.”

I run a thumb along the spear’s wooden shaft. “You came all this way to state the obvious?”

He chuckles without humor. “Let’s just say, I’m offering a suggestion. If you want to earn favor with the Bavkus, especially the Vakkak class, you’d do well to embrace the orcs’ tribute. Show the city you’re as pragmatic as you are deadly in the arena.”

My muscles coil at his words. “You want me to embrace the idea of a living trophy?”

“It’s politics, Remanos. A demonstration that you respect tradition,” he says.

“And yes, the orcs have primitive customs, but letting them see that we at least acknowledge their ways will pacify them. Ortem might play the role of the wise judge, but it’s really the landed nobility—my peers—who influence decisions. They watch you carefully.”

I lift the spear and jam it into the sand. “You act like I should celebrate hauling a human around like a conquest.” Anger simmers low in my gut. “That’s not how I was raised.”

Vaelen exhales, stepping forward until he’s nearly in the glow of the torch.

The shadows stretch across his face, highlighting the cunning edge to his features.

“I know you were born to a Zotkak craftsman. You clawed your way up from a middle-class start, forging a name in the colosseum. Now you’re a champion—and champions can wield influence if they choose wisely. ”

“Influence,” I repeat, my voice low. “With who?”

He waves a hand. “The Senate, the Vakkak nobles, possibly even the Zusvak if you prove yourself indispensable. This upcoming duel is more than a fight. It’s your chance to climb higher.

Imagine if the orcs withdraw with their tails between their legs, praising your name.

The city would celebrate you more than it already does.

Doors would open that you can’t even imagine. ”

I grind my teeth. “I don’t need new doors. I only want to protect Milthar.”

“Oh, I believe you,” he says, stepping back a pace.

“I also think you’re missing the bigger picture.

The city thrives on trade, champion. We need stable routes, untainted by orc raids.

If we appear weak, our trade partners might look elsewhere, undermining everything we’ve built.

Meanwhile, the orcs keep forging alliances in secret.

There are also rumors of suspicious sabotage in the docks.

” His eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s gauging my reaction.

“Think on it. A wedge can be driven through the heart of Milthar if we’re not careful. ”

I sense he’s fishing, seeing if I know about the missing shipments or have any clue who might be orchestrating the sabotage.

My gut tells me Vaelen might be more informed than he lets on.

“That’s a concern for the Senate. My job is to fight.

” I pick up the spear again, a clear sign I’m done talking.

He studies me a moment longer before pivoting toward the exit. “Just remember,” he calls over his shoulder, “we’re counting on you to handle the orc champion swiftly. And as for the human… treat her well enough that no one questions our hospitality, but don’t forget she’s here to serve a purpose.”

I resist the temptation to hurl the spear at the back of his head.

Instead, I stand silent as Vaelen’s hoofsteps fade.

Only after the echoes vanish into the night do I breathe properly again.

The conversation churns in my mind. Something in the way Vaelen spoke about sabotage, trade, alliances—he’s hinting at many layers of intrigue.

He’s also made it clear that if I cooperate, I can gain clout with the upper class. But the price is too steep.

I stay in the training yard for the better part of an hour, practicing with multiple weapons until sweat beads along my brow and the cords of muscle in my arms throb with exertion.

My fur around my neck grows damp from the humid night air, and the leather across my chest strains whenever I twist into a swing.

The tension inside me fades only slightly with each successful strike.

For a moment, I picture the orc champion’s face as I drive a spear forward, and I imagine the roars of the colosseum crowd when I emerge victorious.

There’s a rush in that vision, but it soon sours because it comes with the image of Mira at my side, forced to stand like a trophy.

That single notion kills the satisfaction.

Eventually, exhaustion sets in. I gather my war hammer, the one with the runic handle that has carried me through countless battles.

Slipping it into its bracket, I leave the yard and head for the interior corridors.

Lanterns hang at regular intervals, flickering shadows on the sandstone walls.

I’m keenly aware that somewhere in this estate, Mira occupies a room.

It unsettles me how quickly she’s gone from being nonexistent in my life to a focal point of my uneasy conscience.

A mild heaviness settles in my chest when I remember the expression on her face in the receiving hall. She looked at me as though I were no better than an orc myself. I can’t fault her. From her perspective, I’m just another captor. Maybe I am.

I step into a small side room that serves as a personal study.

Rows of scrolls line one wall, mostly records of past colosseum matches and accounts of minotaur legends.

A single brazier offers warm light, revealing a sturdy wooden table at the center.

A half-finished letter rests there, addressed to my old mentor who travels to distant ports.

My mentor taught me more than swordsmanship; he taught me to question blind obedience.

I sigh and sink onto the cushioned bench.

The letter is intended to detail my experiences in the city’s arena, plus my concerns about the Senate’s manipulations.

I realize I’ve never quite finished it because I’m always embroiled in yet another crisis.

Now, the crisis is bigger—an entire war hinges on whether I can defeat one orc champion.

And if that wasn’t enough, a human’s freedom is entangled in the outcome.

I remember the flicker of vulnerability in Mira’s eyes, hidden beneath her anger. If I refuse the orcs’ conditions, she could end up right back in their clutches, or the city might erupt in violence. Neither option is acceptable. We’re both trapped, though in different ways.