Chapter 1

Bella

The world shrinks to the scratch of my quill against parchment. Ink, wax, and the dry, dusty scent of aging paper—this is my sanctuary, my prison. In the house of my master, Kairen, a Zotkak merchant of considerable ambition, I am a tool. A valuable one, yes. My literacy, my meticulous nature, my ability to make numbers sing a song of profit—these things make me indispensable. They also make me invisible. And in Milthar, for a human, invisibility is survival.

My finger, permanently stained a dark umber from years of gripping a quill, traces a column of figures in the main ledger. The numbers are clean, balanced. Kairen’s shipping business is thriving. Everything is as it should be.

Until it isn’t.

My gaze snags on a single entry at the bottom of the page. A payment. A massive one, enough to purchase a small fleet of ships, coded as ‘Port Maintenance & Supply.’ It’s a hemorrhage of coin disguised as a pinprick. A cold knot tightens in my stomach. Kairen is shrewd, not careless.

The heavy oak door to the study creaks open, and I flinch, instinctively sliding a blank sheet of parchment over the suspicious entry.

Kairen enters, his broad, horned silhouette filling the doorway. He is flanked by two of his personal guards, hulking Fiepakak Minotaurs whose presence turns the cozy study into a cage. Their armor creaks with every shift of their immense weight.

“Still at it, girl?” Kairen’s voice is a deep rumble, but there’s a wire-taut tension in it I’ve never heard before. He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead pacing to the window that overlooks the harbor. “Are the accounts for the week balanced?”

“Nearly, Master Kairen,” I keep my voice even, my eyes downcast. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. “I am just reconciling the final disbursements.”

One of the guards snorts, a sound like gravel churning. “Reconciling. She makes it sound so important.”

“It is important, Grokk,” Kairen snaps, his shoulders tight. “Everything must be perfect. No discrepancies. Is that understood?” He isn’t looking at the guard; he’s looking at me, his dark eyes intense in the flickering candlelight. A test. He’s testing me.

“Of course, master,” I murmur.

The other guard, a brute with a chipped horn, shifts his weight. “A lot of trouble for one shipment. Lord Malacc is not a patient man.”

The name hangs in the air, heavy and venomous. Lord Malacc. A Vakkak of the High Senate. My blood runs cold. It’s not the first time I’ve heard whispers attached to that name. A year ago, Kairen bought a kitchen slave named Anya from one of Malacc’s minor estates. Anya was terrified of everything, but in the dead of night, she would talk. She’d spoken of the Lord’s dangerous ambition, of hushed conversations she’d overheard about the Zusvak’s failing health and the need for a “stronger hand” to guide Milthar. I had dismissed it as the bitter, fearful gossip of a mistreated slave. Treason, among the honor-bound Minotaurs? It was unthinkable. A fairy tale to frighten children.

But hearing his name now, in this study, tied to a secret shipment and my master’s sudden anxiety… Anya’s terrified whispers don’t sound like fairy tales anymore. They sound like prophecy.

Kairen shoots the guard a look that could curdle milk. “Your job is to guard the docks, Torg, not to speak the names of your betters. Go. Make sure the men are ready. I want that cargo unloaded the moment the ship makes anchor.”

The guards grunt their assent and lumber out, their footsteps heavy on the stone floor. Kairen remains at the window, his back to me. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken threats. He knows I heard the name. He knows I’m smart enough to connect the dots.

“Forget what you just heard, Bella,” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “Your world is this room. These books. Nothing more. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master Kairen.” The lie tastes like ashes in my mouth.

When he finally leaves, the click of the closing door sounds like a death knell. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold the quill.

The payment. The secret shipment. And the old, half-forgotten rumor of a lord’s treasonous ambition.

My hands move with a will of their own, my training taking over where my courage fails. I pull the disbursement ledger. The recipient: ‘Iron Horn Imports.’ A ghost company. The final piece is the shipping manifests. My fingers tremble as I untie the ribbon on this week’s bundle.

And then I find it. A special cargo dispensation for ‘Festival Supplies,’ bypassing the usual customs inspection. The authorization is signed by a single name.

Lord Malacc.

The pieces click into place with the horrifying finality of a cell door slamming shut. This isn’t about profit. A Vakkak lord doesn’t risk his name for coin. He risks it for power. And the ultimate power in Milthar sits on the throne. This is a conspiracy aimed squarely at the Zusvak himself. And Kairen, my master, has just shown me my role in it: the loose end. The one who knows too much.

My life is now measured in hours, maybe minutes. They might be already planning my death. 

I silently open the door of the chambers to follow the voices. 

“Get rid of the human, we can’t allow loose ends,” I hear them as they move away. I’m right! I need to go. “Do it after you take care of the cargo, got it?” 

I don’t hear the rest, and I hurriedly slip back inside. 

To stay is to be handed over to Malacc’s butchers. To flee is to be hunted as a runaway slave. Both paths lead to a shallow, unmarked grave.

Unless…

An idea, insane and desperate, sparks in the terrified darkness of my mind. A third path. A path paved with stolen coin and forged in the blood and sand of the arena.

They see me as a tool. A quiet, obedient little thing of ink and parchment. They would never expect me to fight back. They would never expect me to purchase a weapon of my own. A weapon more terrifying than any assassin Malacc could hire. A monster forged from lost honor and pure, unadulterated rage.

The decision solidifies, hardening my fear into a sliver of cold, sharp steel. My movements become fluid, precise. I’m no longer a scribe balancing books; I am a strategist planning the first move in a war I cannot afford to lose. 

I carefully slice the ledger page containing the payment to ‘Iron Horn Imports’ from its binding. The parchment feels heavy in my hand, a flimsy shield against a world of monsters. Next, the coin. Kairen keeps a strongbox hidden beneath a loose floorboard, full of untracked gold. My fingers find the seam in the wood. The board groans in protest as I lift it.

Inside, stacks of gold gleam. I scoop handfuls of the heavy coins into a leather satchel, the clinking sound unnaturally loud. It feels like a fortune. I pray to a goddess I don't believe in that it will be enough.

With the satchel slung over my shoulder and the ledger page tucked securely in my bodice, I slip out of the study. The house is quiet, but now the silence feels predatory. I am a spectre in my own home, a shadow moving through other shadows.

The cool night air hits my face as I step out of a side entrance. I think of Malacc’s cold ambition and Kairen’s calculated betrayal. I think of my life, a fragile flame I refuse to let be snuffed out.

My feet find their purpose. I pull my simple cloak tighter, melting into the labyrinthine alleys. I have only one destination. A place of filth and despair, where the honor of the Minotaur race is sold for sport.

I am going to the gladiator market.