Page 5

I rake my gaze over the scrolls stacked on the table, hunting for anything that might give me fresh insight.

Historical accounts mention champion duels as a longstanding tradition with orcs, but there’s little about a captive “gift.” Perhaps it’s rare, or maybe it’s simply not documented with detail.

I read a snippet about how centuries ago, orcs offered captives to appease minotaur warriors after losing a raid.

The minotaur often saw it as a matter of honor to accept, thereby showing magnanimity in victory.

But times change. Our society has supposedly grown more civilized.

Accepting a person as a spoil doesn’t align with any moral code I respect.

I push the scrolls aside, too restless to glean more from dusty parchment.

My hooves carry me through another corridor until I reach a set of stairs leading upward.

I ascend toward the second floor, where the corridors are narrower and quieter.

The architecture here is simpler: plain walls, minimal adornments.

My bedchamber is near the end of this hall, but I can’t bring myself to go there just yet.

My mind keeps wandering to the east wing, where I imagine Mira is either asleep or pacing with frustration.

I drift toward the corridor that leads to her designated quarters.

A part of me knows I shouldn’t intrude on her privacy, but I feel compelled to check if she’s settled, or if the guards have followed my instructions to give her some space.

As I approach, I see a single minotaur guard stationed at the far end. He bows his head when he spots me.

“Champion,” he says quietly. “All is calm here.”

I nod, feeling a twinge of relief. “Has she asked for anything?”

He hesitates. “She asked for fresh clothes. We provided some spare garments. And extra water. That’s all.”

“Good.” For a heartbeat, I consider knocking on her door, but it’s late, and I doubt Mira wants to see me. Besides, what would I say? I’m sorry you’re caught in this nightmare, but I need to keep you here for your own protection? She wouldn’t believe me.

I linger in the dimly lit passage. The walls here bear a few paintings of ocean vistas—blue waves cresting under a silver moon. My furred chest feels tight with conflict. The city expects me to present Mira as my rightful spoil if I claim victory, but everything in me rebels against that notion.

I spin on my hooves and walk away before the guard or I say anything else.

In my bedchamber, I shrug off the leather straps crisscrossing my torso and let them drop onto a wooden trunk.

The broad window is open, welcoming a cool draft.

I peer out at the city’s silhouette beneath the moonlight.

The colosseum’s curved walls are visible from here, a silent fortress of potential bloodshed.

Three days. That’s how long until I face the orc champion with every eye in the place watching.

I will have to slay him—there’s no way around it.

These duels often end in death, especially with the orcs.

They thrive on mortal combat. But the idea of taking a life in the name of receiving a captive reward churns my stomach.

I set my war hammer carefully against the wall and run a large hand over the scar across my pectoral.

My fur is shorter there, the flesh beneath ridged from the old wound.

I can recall the clash with that last orc fighter with startling clarity.

The crowd roared as steel met my flesh, and I remember the taste of blood in my mouth.

But I triumphed because I had to. Back then, I believed wholeheartedly that I fought for Milthar’s honor. Now, I’m not so sure.

Sinking onto the edge of my bed, I let out a breath. My horns catch a faint reflection in the mirror across the room. I catch my own gaze—dark eyes that have seen too many arena fights. A champion’s face, yes, but also a soldier who’s grown weary of political manipulation.

Tomorrow, I’ll consult with my weapons master about training drills.

I’ll gather details on this particular orc champion—his fighting style, rumored strengths, potential weaknesses.

I’ll be thorough because if I fail, the consequences reach beyond my personal disgrace.

The city’s commerce, the safety of our people, the livelihood of countless freedmen who rely on stable leadership…

all of it rests on my performance. And if I succeed, I earn a human “trophy” who wants nothing to do with me or my city.

I lie back on the bed, arms folded behind my head, staring up at the wood-beamed ceiling.

The night is quiet enough to hear the surf in the distance, but I can’t drift into any peace.

My mind is too noisy with half-formed questions.

Something about Vaelen’s approach bothers me, the casual way he alluded to sabotage near the docks.

Even Ortem seemed uneasy in the courtyard earlier, though he masked it better.

Are they truly worried about the orcs, or is there something more sinister happening behind the scenes?

I recall snippets of conversation I overheard in passing: whispers of weapon shipments that never arrived, rumors of black-market deals. Could that be the reason the orcs are so bold now? Perhaps they believe we’re compromised from within and see an opportunity to pressure us for resources.

Reaching for a small lamp on the bedside table, I extinguish it with a pinch of the wick, plunging the room into darkness.

I try closing my eyes, but all I see is the image of Mira’s defiant stare—her stubborn chin, the freckles across her face, her hair that once held the color of sunlit copper before weeks of captivity dulled its shine.

She stood in the hall like someone ready to fight every minotaur she meets.

There was no cowering in her stance, only righteous fury at a situation forced upon her.

I understand that feeling too well.

She told me she’s not a spoil. I told her she’d never kneel for me. Those words were spontaneous, and yet they felt right the moment I said them. I meant them.

Three days until the fight. Three days to decide if there’s a way to preserve my sense of honor and keep Mira from more pain.

If I try to set her free outright, the Senate will call it an affront to orcish tradition, and the city might suffer the consequences.

If I do nothing, she remains a symbol of everything that rots in the concept of war trophies.

Caught between two impossible outcomes, I let out a frustrated breath. Honor demands that I protect those under my care. But the Senate is turning that vow against me, compelling me to accept a living prize or face the orcs’ wrath.

I shift on the mattress, the night air brushing the fur on my neck.

Eventually, weariness gnaws at me enough that my eyes drift shut.

My last thought before sleep claims me is the echo of my own voice, laced with bitter truth: Honor without choice is just another cage.

And I’ve never felt that cage as keenly as I do now.