Page 6

MIRA

I wake to the sound of distant trumpets blaring through the open window.

The blasts carry a harsh edge, less musical than commanding, as if the city itself is being called to attention.

I sit up, blinking away a haze of uneasy dreams. My makeshift bed—a cot tucked against the far wall of this minotaur estate—creaks in protest. The morning sun hasn’t fully broken over the roofs yet, but I can see a faint glow lighting the windowsill.

I stand, stretch, and let my gaze flick across the small chamber.

It’s tidy: a wooden trunk, a narrow table holding a pitcher of water, and a single high-backed chair.

Last night, when I first arrived, I was too exhausted to do more than fall into the cot.

Now I notice more details. The walls are painted in dusty oranges and tans, reminiscent of desert sands.

A tapestry near the door shows a stylized minotaur carrying a torch, presumably some grand historical figure.

None of it feels welcoming; it’s all carefully curated to present a facade of cultured civility.

My wrists still show angry red marks where the rope and metal cuffs bit into my skin.

The memory makes my jaw clench. I don’t mind the faint bruises from traveling rough roads—that’s part of being alive, especially in a world like this.

But being paraded through the city as an offering to these bull-headed creatures, then locked in a fancy suite, ignites a fury so deep it practically crackles through my veins.

I glance at the pitcher. They refilled it sometime early this morning; the water is cool and refreshing when I drink.

It helps calm the desert dryness in my throat, though it does nothing for the knot in my stomach.

I’m in a place where everyone sees me as an object, a spoil of war.

The worst part is, I’m not sure how to escape this snare.

The door opens abruptly. A minotaur guard steps in without knocking. He’s shorter than Remanos—maybe six feet, still a head taller than me. His fur is a brindled mix of tan and dark brown, and he clutches a spear in one thick hand. He gives me a cursory once-over, then clears his throat.

“The Senate has summoned you,” he says, voice rumbling. “You’re to attend the champion’s announcement in the colosseum.”

I stiffen. “Announcement?”

He nods once, ignoring the edge in my tone. “They’re proclaiming the official date of the duel with the orc warband. It will be three days from now. You’re to be presented alongside the champion.”

I feel heat gather at the base of my neck. “I don’t care about your announcements. I’m not some trophy to trot out in front of a crowd.”

“The Senate disagrees,” he says, unmoved. “And they overrule your personal preferences.”

I glare at him, words spiking on my tongue, but I hold them back. Yelling at the guard is pointless. He’s just following orders, and I can’t punch every single minotaur in this city. Still, my hands curl involuntarily into fists.

“Fine,” I say tersely. “Lead the way.”

He gestures for me to step out into the corridor, so I do, my spine rigid.

As I follow him, I note every possible exit—the windows, the narrow side passages, the heavy wooden doors leading into courtyards.

Each route is guarded by at least one armed minotaur, though.

My chance to slip away undetected seems painfully slim.

We navigate a winding hallway that opens onto a balcony overlooking an enclosed garden.

Vines drape over carved stone arches, and water splashes in a small fountain below.

Everything about this estate screams wealth, from the intricate tile mosaics to the polished banisters.

Yet for all its beauty, it’s still a gilded cage.

The guard takes a sharp left, leading me down a stairwell that empties into the main reception hall.

The moment we emerge, I spot a handful of minotaurs wearing formal robes.

They’re discussing something in low voices.

One lifts his gaze, sees me, and offers a disdainful snort. Great.

The guard escorts me outside, where bright daylight washes the courtyard in gold.

Minotaur soldiers wearing bronze chest plates and carrying long spears stand at attention.

A short line of them forms an escort. No chance of slipping into the crowd this time.

One soldier grabs a length of cord and steps toward me as if he intends to bind my wrists again.

I yank my arms back. “If you touch me with that rope, I swear to every deity you hold dear, I will not go quietly.”

The soldier flinches, shifting uncertainly. The guard from my room steps in, placing a firm hand on the coil. “Champion’s orders,” he says, voice low. “She isn’t to be bound.”

I suck in a tense breath. At least Remanos had the decency to insist on that much. It’s a faint relief that I don’t have to endure more humiliating restraints. Still, being flanked by an escort of heavily armed minotaurs is hardly better.

They march me through the courtyard gate.

The city beyond is already stirring—merchants bustling with crates of produce, blacksmiths hammering away, the heady tang of spice and sweat thick in the air.

But as soon as our formation appears, the locals step aside.

Curious eyes track every move, and I can practically taste their scrutiny.

Some whisper among themselves; others stare openly.

I get the distinct feeling that word has spread: the champion’s “human spoil” is being taken for a grand announcement.

After several blocks, we turn onto a wide avenue lined with columns, each carved in swirling motifs of waves and storms. At the end of this avenue stands the colossal arena—curved walls that tower higher than most temples I’ve seen.

A series of archways leads inside, banners fluttering in the breeze.

The official minotaur crest—a stylized bull’s head on a field of crimson—hangs from every other arch.

Crowds cluster near the main entrance, their excited chatter rising in volume.

I spot minotaurs in all manner of attire: well-to-do nobles in fine robes, rowdy laborers in simpler tunics, and a mix of freedmen wearing scraps of armor.

It reminds me of a festival, except the focal point is a looming confrontation with orcs.

My footsteps slow when I realize that the crowd parts to make room for us.

A hush falls as if they’re waiting for something—or someone.

“Move,” one of the guards says quietly, nudging me along.

I swallow hard and continue forward, aware of hundreds of eyes on me.

If the orcs’ intention was to see me paraded like a captured beast, they’ve certainly gotten their wish.

My teeth grind. A wave of anger flares in my stomach at how little autonomy I have.

A month ago, I was traveling freely, investigating hidden libraries and trading knowledge for supplies.

Now I’m marched into an arena for spectacle.

We enter a high-vaulted passageway. It smells of dust, old sweat, and that underlying tang of minotaur fur I’m starting to recognize—earthy, musky.

The corridor opens onto the central colosseum floor, a massive oval of packed sand ringed by stone seats.

Tiers upon tiers climb outward, filled with onlookers.

It’s breathtaking in scale. The uppermost seats are so high that they appear to brush the bright sky.

Torches line the perimeter, unlit for now, but likely used during evening matches.

The place must hold thousands. Today, it’s half full—still enough bodies to create a wall of sound once they start cheering.

Directly across the arena, a raised dais supports a cluster of robed figures and uniformed guards.

I recognize the older senator from the courtyard, Ortem, leaning on his staff.

Next to him, with an air of smug pride, stands Senator Vaelen.

My skin prickles. Something about that minotaur’s posture and measured smile unsettles me, though I can’t articulate why.

Maybe it’s the glint in his eyes, like he sees me as a particularly interesting relic to be added to his collection.

The moment we step onto the arena sand, an official—possibly a herald—lifts a curved horn and sounds a brassy note that echoes off the stone walls. Another roar of excitement sweeps through the stands.

Senator Ortem raises his hand. “Citizens of Milthar! Hear us!” His voice booms, aided by the acoustics of the arena. “Three days hence, our glorious champion, Remanos Ironhide, shall face the orc warband’s mightiest warrior in a formal duel to preserve peace and honor for our people!”

An explosion of cheers, stomping hooves, and clapping resonates in the stands.

My ears ring with it, but my attention zips to the dais.

Remanos steps forward. His height and broad shoulders dominate the cluster of officials.

Even from this distance, I see the sheen on his forward-curving horns.

He’s dressed in partial armor, leaving much of his furred arms bare, the diagonal scar across his chest visible.

A hush spreads through the seats near him, as if the crowd respects the champion’s presence more than the Senate’s words.

He lifts his gaze across the arena, scanning.

When his eyes land on me, my pulse trips.