Page 7

He’s massive, yes, but that’s not what grips me.

It’s the stoic resolve etched in his features.

With the sunlight overhead, I can see the ridges of his brow more clearly, the shape of his short, broad muzzle, the faint lines near his eyes that suggest he’s had more sleepless nights than he’d like to admit.

He doesn’t smirk or grin. He simply stands in a quiet show of dominance, as though any cheap bravado would lessen the dignity of this moment.

A leaden weight settles in my chest because I can’t deny he cuts an impressive figure—dangerous and resolute.

Vaelen steps to Remanos’s side. “Let all witness!” Vaelen shouts, his voice carrying. “Our champion accepts the orcs’ challenge. In triumph, he will safeguard Milthar’s prosperity. And the spoils—” He sweeps an arm in my direction. “—shall be rightfully bestowed upon him.”

The crowd’s applause swells, their voices blending into a deafening tide.

My escort nudges me forward, practically dragging me to a marked spot on the sand.

Fury burns in my veins. I stand there, singled out for everyone to examine, as though I’m no more than an exotic acquisition.

The stands revolve around me in a blur of color and raucous cheering.

Ortem bangs his staff on the dais, calling for silence. When it eventually falls, he continues in a lower tone, “This human has been delivered by the orcs as tribute. Let it be known that Remanos Ironhide claims her under the laws of champion’s right.”

My vision red-tints at the edges. In the hush that follows, I can’t stay silent. “I claim no one,” I shout, voice trembling with anger. “And I am not your champion’s property!”

A ripple of shock radiates through the stands.

Some minotaurs turn to each other, mouths agape.

My escort tries to hiss at me to keep quiet, but I step forward again, ignoring the pounding of my heart.

“You call this an honorable tradition? Abducting me from my life, tossing me to the orcs, then passing me around like a prize?!”

Chaos erupts in the seats. Whispers and gasps. Vaelen’s face hardens; Ortem looks mildly taken aback. I sense a flicker of movement from Remanos. He steps to the edge of the dais, raising both arms for calm. The crowd slowly settles, though the tension is palpable.

“Lower your voice,” one of my escort guards mutters, hooking his spear in front of me as if to block me.

I don’t flinch. I stare up at Remanos, who’s now descended a few steps from the dais.

“You think yourself any better than the orcs?” My voice carries despite the guard’s attempt to silence me.

“At least they didn’t pretend to be civilized when they chained me.

You talk of tradition. I see hypocrisy.”

Remanos’s gaze meets mine. For a moment, I think I see something akin to regret flicker in his eyes, but he maintains a solemn stance. “I’ve ordered that you not be bound again,” he calls out, tone low but carrying. “Milthar does not enslave humans.”

The word enslave hovers in the air. My chin lifts stubbornly. “Sounds like semantics to me. If I’m forced to remain here against my will, how is that different from servitude?”

Before he can respond, Vaelen strides forward, horns glinting in the sunlight. “You speak out of turn, human. Show some gratitude. Remanos extends you kindness beyond what orcs ever would.”

My mouth twists. “Gratitude? For being dragged to a colosseum as part of your show?”

Gasps ripple through the stands again. It’s as though no one here expected a mere mortal to speak so freely. I realize my anger might get me locked away, but the alternative is letting them parade me in silence.

Remanos lifts a hand, signaling Vaelen to step back.

A hush reclaims the arena. “This is not the time or place to debate who’s at fault,” Remanos says, voice firm.

“I fight to protect this city from bloodshed. Nothing more. The Senate insists we accept the orcs’ custom.

We do so to avoid a greater loss of life. ”

My heart thunders, but I force my tone to remain steady. “So that’s your excuse for going along with it. You’re too noble to let me remain chained, but you’ll keep me penned in your estate to satisfy your Senate.”

He descends fully onto the arena sand, drawing even more attention from the onlookers. Up close, I see the tension coiling in his shoulders, the faint twitch of his tail. “I never asked for a spoil, and I’m not about to flaunt you in the streets.”

Vaelen clears his throat, stepping down as well. “Nevertheless, the city must witness a show of solidarity, champion. If the orcs see us shun their tribute, they might interpret it as an insult. That leads to conflict. You’re not suggesting we risk war, are you?”

Remanos’s gaze never leaves mine. I can feel the crowd’s collective anticipation as if it’s a physical weight pressing on my chest. He stands close enough that I catch the earthy undertone of his fur.

Tall enough to force me to crane my head back.

His muzzle is set in a line that suggests frustration with the entire spectacle, but the determination in his eyes suggests he won’t back down from it, either.

“They’re forcing your hand,” I whisper, voice rough. “But you’re letting them. You could speak against this.”

“I have.” His answer is quiet but sure. “I’ve spoken to the Senate many times. They won’t relent.”

Vaelen booms, “People of Milthar, see the champion’s unwavering resolve. He shall accept the duel to spare us from orcish invasion. The human’s presence reminds us that orcs will not negotiate with any other terms. Let us unify behind Remanos.”

The crowd roars in approval, drowning out any further argument.

My stomach twists. I dart a glance at the stands, noting how these minotaurs feed off the pageantry.

They love their champion—the mighty warrior who keeps their city safe from raiders and foreign armies.

But they don’t care about the cost to me, or likely any other outsider.

Remanos lifts his arm, acknowledging the applause. His expression gives away little. Then, he tilts his head toward me, mouth curving into something that could almost be an apology. In a low tone only I can hear, he says, “I can’t free you outright—not yet. Not without risking a wave of violence.”

My anger battles with the unexpected warmth that flutters in my chest at his apology. “I hate that you’re telling the truth,” I mutter. “But I still hate this entire arrangement more.”

He steps closer, blocking Vaelen’s approach with a subtle shift of his broad shoulders.

I’m momentarily overwhelmed by the difference in our heights, the sheer presence that radiates from him.

Even the color of his skin—an earthy tone with patches of dark fur around his neck—feels vividly real.

He looks like a beast made flesh, but there’s a deep intelligence in those dark eyes.

I catch my breath when I realize that part of me—some corner of my mind—actually believes him.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, so low I barely catch it.

My pulse jumps. I can hardly believe him, but if there’s any path that doesn’t end in orc chains, it might lie with this stubborn, stoic champion. “We’ll see,” I reply, turning away so he can face the crowd again.

Senator Ortem’s voice booms out a final pronouncement: “The duel is set for the third dawn from now. Let all prepare. May the Lady of Light guide our champion’s arm!”

An uproar follows, as if the crowd can’t get enough of this spectacle.

Drums begin to pound, somewhere in the stands, and flags wave overhead.

I stand rigidly in the middle of it all, refusing to lower my head in submission.

My gaze flicks around, and that’s when I notice Vaelen, far to my left.

His eyes lock on me with a heat that raises the hairs on my neck.

He’s not looking at Remanos right now; he’s focused on me, a predatory calculation behind his stare.

For a split second, I feel as though I’m a pawn on his personal board.

The guard near me steps forward. “Come,” he orders. “We’re returning to the champion’s estate. You’ll be safe there until this is done.”

His words spark a fresh wave of resentment.

The entire city echoes with cheers for a duel that decides my fate, and he wants me to obediently follow him out of the arena.

But the alternative is to stand here until the stands empty, with every spectator gawking at me.

My teeth grind as I force myself to follow.

As we exit through a side archway, the thunderous applause fades into a dull roar behind us.

The passage leads around the colosseum’s exterior, where supply carts and stable areas are located.

Fewer people roam this spot, giving me a moment to think.

Some stable hands tip their heads at us, gawking at my presence but not daring to interfere.

My escort remains close, an unspoken command in every step. I take advantage of the lull to ask the question that’s been gnawing at me: “Why does Vaelen seem so invested in me being paraded around?”

The guard stiffens as though I’ve ventured into dangerous territory. “Senator Vaelen is a high member of the Vakkak class. It’s his duty to ensure tradition is followed.”

“Sure,” I say flatly. “But there’s more to it than that. The way he was staring… it was like he has a personal stake in all this.”

Silence hangs for a moment. Then the guard utters, “He’s powerful. And ambitious.” That’s all he offers. I sense he won’t divulge more openly.