Chapter 1

Mira

I stumble as the orc guard yanks the chain attached to my wrists, forcing me to keep pace with their steady, brutal march. The iron cuffs are biting into my skin, and I can already feel welts forming beneath the metal. My arms ache, my ankles threaten to give out, but I push through the haze of exhaustion. I refuse to collapse in front of these creatures.

Hot sun scorches the cobblestone road beneath my feet. The scent in the air is a heady mix of salt—coming from the ocean, I suspect—and something else, something pungent and animal. As we pass beneath an enormous gatehouse, I tilt my chin up to see carved reliefs of bull heads. The arch’s marble columns are streaked with ivy, a testament to age and a climate that roils between sun and storm. I’ve heard rumors about Milthar, the island realm of the minotaur, but nothing prepared me for the sheer magnitude of this entryway. Two enormous statues—stone minotaurs clutching tridents—tower on either side, as if they stand guard over the city’s future and judge the worthiness of everyone entering.

My guard snarls something in Orcish to one of his companions. I don’t speak their tongue fluently, but I catch the gist: “Don’t let the human slow you down.” I force my weary legs to move faster. My hair, a light brown that used to shimmer with faint copper tones in friendlier climates, is matted from days of travel. Dust and grime cling to every strand. The orcs have given me precious little water, and my lips are cracked. Despite all that, I hold my head high, determined not to show weakness.

I’m wearing what remains of my traveling clothes—a loose-fitting tunic and trousers—torn in several places from rough handling. My skin, normally sun-kissed from years on the road, is filthy with streaks of dried mud. My hazel eyes, flecked with green, remain focused forward. I learned long ago that if I look like I’m plotting an escape, they’ll take it as an invitation to tighten the chains or deliver a backhanded blow.

We cross into an open courtyard, and that’s when I see them. Minotaurs. Perhaps twenty or so line the perimeter. Most are tall, although “tall” feels like a puny word for something so massive. Their towering frames exude a presence that reminds me of ancient trees in a sacred forest—imposing, immovable. Many have forward-curving horns, polished to a sheen. Thick fur runs around their necks and down their chests, though their faces are more humanoid than the fully bestial orcs who captured me. Some minotaurs wear decorative bronze bracers and short leather kilts. Others don full chest armor, its bronze plates inscribed with swirling patterns that remind me of tidal currents. Beneath that armor, muscles ripple in a way that leaves no doubt about their prowess in battle.

My captor stops abruptly, jerking me to a standstill. I dig my heels in the stone to keep from toppling. He steps forward, dragging me to the center of the courtyard. Banners of burgundy and gold flutter overhead, each stamped with a stylized minotaur crest. Everywhere I look, I see columns carved with mythological scenes: a horned warrior locked in battle with serpentine creatures, an arena thronged with minotaur spectators, a mosaic of swirling waves that must depict their revered Lady of Light. Milthar is nothing like the human enclaves I’m used to. The architecture alone is grander, more labyrinthine, with tiered balconies that overlook the courtyard from three or four stories above. Citizens lean over railings, watching our procession below. Their gazes burn with curiosity, some with disquiet, and a few with outright disdain.

A hush falls when a group of minotaurs in fine cloaks steps forward. Their garments are made from a heavy, ivory-colored cloth draped over one shoulder. I don’t have to guess who they are—political leaders or some form of aristocracy. One stands in front. He’s older, his fur shot with gray, his posture rigid. His horns have gold tips, and he rests both hands on a carved staff.

“We greet the orc warband in the name of Milthar,” he announces in a voice that rumbles like approaching thunder. “We trust you have come in peace—and with an explanation for why you bring a bound human to our gates.”

An orc steps forward. He’s taller and broader than the rest, wearing bits of leather armor across his chest and arms. Scars pattern his greenish skin. He lifts his chin in a gesture of pride. “We come to deliver a gift—and a warning. Your city stands in the way of our warband’s route. Tribute is due.” He motions toward me. “This one is part of that tribute. A sign of what we offer if your people appease us.”

The older minotaur lifts a brow ridge, glancing at me momentarily. “And if we refuse?”

“Then our clan answers with blood,” the orc says, voice edged with menace. “But we prefer to let your champion settle this in your fancy colosseum. One champion against another. A fair fight. If you win, we withdraw. If you lose, we expect resources—and the city’s full cooperation.”

I bristle at the mention of the colosseum. Of course, the orcs think of little else but battle and conquest. I was captured by them three weeks ago, snatched from a desert outpost as they tore through unguarded caravans. They never explained why they kept me alive. Now I see: I’m a living bargaining chip.

The older minotaur sweeps his staff out, addressing the crowd around us. “The Bavkus will convene to discuss terms. Until then, you are guests under watch. The champion’s duel is a sacred tradition. We abide by it—but do not presume we will cower.”

I lift my chin, scanning the faces of the minotaurs in attendance. A few stand out with expensive jewelry, some with plainer attire. Then I see him at the far edge of the square. He’s nearly seven feet, with a body honed by obvious years of combat. His horns are thick and curve forward, polished so they glint in the sunlight. A diagonal scar mars his pectoral, stretching beneath the leather straps that secure a bronze pauldron across his right shoulder. Dark fur frames his neck and travels down his chest, tapering off near his midsection. He carries himself like a warrior who has conquered enough battles that fear doesn’t touch him anymore.

For a moment, our eyes meet. His are a deep brown, nearly black, with an intensity that makes my breath falter. There’s something unreadable there, a calm judgment that seems to take me in from head to toe. Heat rises in my face, anger and perhaps a flicker of confusion. I yank my gaze away, unsettled.

The orc guard wrenches the chain again, prompting me to step closer to the group of minotaur leaders. The older one leans forward, examining me. “You claim she’s a gift. Why? Our traditions do not involve enslaving humans for entertainment.” His voice is lined with displeasure.

The orc sneers. “We do not question your codes, so do not question ours. Take her as you will—if your champion is victorious. Consider it an offering of good faith.”

I clench my fists, biting back the urge to shout. The minotaur senator’s expression darkens, but he recovers quickly. “Very well. We accept the gesture for now. She will remain under our oversight until the duel. Guards, take her.”

A pair of minotaur guards steps forward. One unlocks the chain from the orc’s grip. The orc shoves me forward, letting the heavy links fall away from his gauntleted hand. I stagger, catching myself before landing face-first on the stones.

I itch to hurl a curse at them all, but the dryness in my throat is a harsh reminder that I’ve survived by picking battles carefully. For the time being, I hold my tongue—though my heart pounds with fury. These minotaurs are simply continuing the orcs’ cruelty, just in a more polished form. A fine show in a marble courtyard is still captivity.

The older minotaur, who must be a high-ranking official of the Bavkus, addresses the crowd. “Observe, citizens of Milthar. In three days, the champion’s duel shall take place in the Grand Colosseum. Let all see that we do not fear orcish demands. We will rise to meet their challenge with valor.”

A roar sweeps through the onlookers. Several minotaurs pound fists against their broad chests. Others call out, “For the Senate! For Milthar!” A wave of excitement and tension ripples through the courtyard, sending a few smaller creatures—perhaps travelers or merchants—scurrying away.

I glimpse movement just off to the side and spot a minotaur with a thick gold ring piercing his nose stepping to one side, whispering urgently to a colleague. They share a look of concern. Behind them, a smaller group seems equally uneasy. I pick up snippets of their hushed conversation: “Missing shipments… sabotage… can’t keep ignoring…” They quickly stop talking when a Senate guard passes by. I file away that information, curious about these “missing shipments.” Something’s already amiss here, though I’m not certain how it ties in with my presence.

The older senator gestures for me to be led away. My mouth thins to a line as I force myself to stay upright and walk between the guards. They’re minotaurs, so each stands a full head taller than me—maybe more. Their arms are as thick as tree limbs, and I notice a faint snort from one as he glances in my direction. I wonder if it’s amusement or derision.

We wind through a paved corridor that leads deeper into the city’s administrative center. Soaring columns flank us, an architectural choice that speaks of a society built on grand gestures and proud displays. At intervals, braziers burn with sweet-smelling incense. The marble underfoot is etched with geometric motifs, swirling lines that somehow evoke waves cresting on the shore.

I can’t stop my eyes from flicking toward the colosseum in the near distance. Its stone walls are enormous, curved tiers forming a colossal circle. It must seat thousands. I spot more flags fluttering high above the archways, each embroidered with the same minotaur emblem. The echo of my shuffling steps merges with the distant clamor of some ongoing activity—maybe gladiatorial practice or a lesser event. Even from here, I sense the magnitude of that place, as if it resonates with centuries of conflict and glory.

My thoughts skitter, remembering how the orc chieftain gloated that I’d be forced to watch the spectacle. “A ‘delight’ for you humans,” he’d sneered when I pleaded for release. “We orcs take no pleasure in seeing you die, but we’ll do what we must.” The memory leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Soon, the guards veer right, guiding me into a shaded courtyard. In the center stands an ornamental fountain, water trickling from the mouth of a carved bull’s head. Lush vines coil around tall stone pillars. Beneath different circumstances, I might pause to admire the artistry. But my wrists ache, and every nerve in my body screams that I’m still a captive. Ornamental fountain or not, this is a cage with prettied walls.

We stop before a pair of large wooden doors. One guard pushes them open, revealing a vaulted hall that looks like a receiving chamber. I see tapestries depicting stylized minotaur heroes locked in combat with serpentine creatures. The color palette is vibrant—burnished gold, deep red, and midnight blue. The other guard beckons me forward. I step inside, hearing the echo of my own footsteps. My heart thuds, half expecting some new condemnation.

“I am nobody’s prize,” I mutter under my breath, the quietest vow.

A second voice breaks the silence. “Yet here you stand.” It’s him—the one I saw earlier. Remanos Ironhide. His presence fills the space with calm intensity. He stands near a low marble dais, arms crossed over his broad chest, horns catching the flickering torchlight. Up close, I see his face is more human than bull, with a heavy brow ridge and a short, broad muzzle. His nose is flat but shapely, and his lips are surprisingly expressive for such a large being.

I match his gaze, ignoring the tremor in my stomach. He’s easily over a foot taller than me, his silhouette all corded muscle and coiled strength. A diagonal scar stretches across his pectoral, a stark white line against the dark fur that tapers near his chest. He radiates the kind of confidence that only seasoned warriors possess—an aura that demands respect or fear, perhaps both.

“Welcome to Milthar,” he says in a tone that’s neither mocking nor warm. “I’m told you’re… an offering.”

The memory of the orc’s sneer sours my mouth again. “So they say. But I don’t belong to you, or them, or anyone else.” My voice wavers slightly, but I keep my chin up.

Remanos studies me, expression unreadable. “I never asked for a human trophy, if that eases your mind.”

“It doesn’t,” I snap, then immediately regret the hostility, because I have no real leverage here. My shoulders tighten. I take a measured breath. “I suppose you’re the champion they spoke of. The one who’s supposed to fight in the arena for your city.”

He nods once, a small inclination that confirms it. “I’ve held the champion’s rank for several seasons. The Senate chose me for this duel.” His tone carries resignation, as though he had no real choice in the matter.

My eyes stray over his attire—leather straps crossing his upper torso, a bronze pauldron covering one shoulder. A heavy war hammer rests against a stone stand nearby. The handle is carved with runic symbols, the head shaped like the face of a roaring bull. This is a warrior’s domain. I feel the pressure of his gaze as he examines my disheveled appearance, the ragged clothes, the bruises scattered along my arms. A flicker of something crosses his features—pity? Regret?

I bite down on my anger. “If you’re champion, that means you’re powerful here. So tell your Senate you don’t want me as a… part of this arrangement.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” he replies, voice dipped in quiet frustration. “They consider accepting you a political strategy. They think the orcs will leave more willingly if their so-called tribute is embraced.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “So I’m a diplomatic gesture. How flattering.”

He inclines his head, acknowledging the bitterness in my words. “I can promise no harm will come to you while you’re in my care.”

I glower at him. “Your ‘care’? That’s just a prettier cage, isn’t it?” My gaze flicks around the hall, noting the fine columns, the comfortable seating, the dais that might serve for official addresses. “At least I had a fighting chance on the road. Here, I’m just… stuck.”

Remanos doesn’t flinch. “I’m sorry it’s come to this. It’s not in my plans to treat you like a spoil of war.” He shifts his weight, arms uncrossing. There’s a flicker of turmoil in his posture. “Would you kneel for me if the Senate demanded it?”

My stomach tightens. “Never.”

He nods slowly, as if he respects that. “Then I will not ask it. But this city has traditions, and the Senate is bound by them. They see you as a powerful tool.”

I want to scream that I’m no tool. My heart pounds, and I force myself to remain calm. “Is that how your people operate? Bribery and spectacle?”

He frowns. “Our culture values honor above all else. The Senate believes receiving you as a tribute honors the old dueling traditions with the orcs. They think it might keep the clan from marching in with full force.”

I search his face for deceit. Instead, I find a guarded sincerity. He doesn’t like it either. That much is plain. But he’s going along with it, presumably for the good of his city. My wrists are still bound, the cuffs laced with thick rope now that the chain has been removed. I rub at them, feeling the raw skin. If he’s champion, he could demand they untie me. He doesn’t. That alone makes me doubt any claim of compassion.

He tracks my motion. “Let me see your wrists.”

The last thing I want is more handling, but I extend them anyway, too exhausted to keep up another argument. He reaches out, touches the rope, then glances at one of the guards stationed near the door. “Undo this.”

The guard hesitates. I sense the tension between them—a chain of command that might not be as straightforward as I assumed. But eventually, he takes a small blade and slices through the rope. My arms jerk free. I massage the angry red marks on my skin. There’s a wave of relief so strong I nearly sink to my knees, but I steady myself, refusing to look weak.

Remanos studies me a beat longer, then gestures toward a side corridor. “I’ll have someone prepare a room for you. It won’t be as luxurious as the Senate expects, but you’ll have privacy.”

My eyes narrow. “Privacy. Right.”

He exhales, tail swishing once in a motion that seems almost exasperated. “I’m not your enemy, Mira.”

My heart stops. “How do you know my name?”

“The orcs mentioned it.” He flexes his thick fingers, the movement drawing my attention to the ridges of muscle in his forearm. “You said you were a traveler, captured some weeks ago?”

My throat constricts at the memory of their raid. “I was part of a small caravan. We heard there was a hidden library in the desert region beyond the orc territories. My father used to gather lore for… never mind. We strayed too close, and the orcs attacked.”

Remanos’s gaze lingers, and for a moment, I imagine he actually cares. But then, that fleeting thought shrivels. Why would a champion minotaur care about one human among thousands? “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You’ve been caught between two worlds.”

A flare of bitterness surges. “Your apology doesn’t change anything.”

He nods, unoffended. “No, it doesn’t. But let me do what I can.” He turns to a tall minotaur guard with a dark muzzle and silver-studded bracers. “See her to the guest quarters in the east wing. Make sure she has fresh water and a meal. She’s not to be harmed or restrained.”

The guard inclines his head, though I detect a faint quirk of dissatisfaction. He beckons me to follow, and I do, if only because it’s better than standing there in a silent standoff with Remanos. As I pass him, I catch a whiff of polished leather and a faint hint of something earthy, like fresh timber. It stirs an unwanted awareness inside me that leaves me unsettled.

Halfway to the corridor, I pause and glance back. Remanos is still watching. His posture is rigid, but his gaze seems thoughtful. I speak softly, my voice echoing in the chamber. “I am nobody’s prize.”

A flicker of something crosses his face—agreement, regret, maybe both. “You won’t need to remind me.”

I let that hang in the air, then continue into the corridor behind the guard. My thoughts swirl. I’m in a minotaur city, unarmed and exhausted, at the mercy of a Senate that sees me as a political pawn, and an orc warband that’s threatening war. My best chance for freedom might lie in collaborating with Remanos, but trust does not come easily. Not after everything I’ve endured.

As we walk, I notice the hush that settles once we’re out of the main hall. We pass through a colonnade, glimpsing a courtyard where a handful of minotaurs gather. They’re speaking in low tones about strange thefts at the docks—words like “missing supply crates” and “disappearing shipments” filter to my ears. The pieces of some puzzle float around me. Something deeper is happening in this city, beyond the spectacle of a champion’s duel.

I can’t help but wonder if that might be the key to my escape—uncovering whatever is amiss and using it as leverage. Survival in an unfamiliar place often depends on quickly grasping the power plays at work. With each step, I vow to learn more. I refuse to languish in forced captivity, even if my new jailer is a tall, stoic champion with a gaze that can steal the breath from my lungs.

The corridor leads to a modest suite, the walls painted in a muted ocher hue. There’s a wide window on one side, shuttered with carved wooden panels. The guard points at a cot in the corner, a table set with clay pitcher and cups, and a small trunk. “You’ll find fresh garments.” He studies me like I’m some curious beast. “Someone will come by later with food.”

I move to the window, open the shutters, and peer out. The city sprawls below, a tapestry of sandstone buildings and marble temples. In the distance, beyond the rooftops and the colosseum’s curved walls, a glittering expanse of turquoise sea stretches to the horizon. My breath catches at the sight—it’s strangely beautiful, even if it’s my prison for now.

When I turn back, the guard is gone, leaving me in the hush of this temporary lodging. I walk to the table, pour water from the pitcher into a cup, and down it greedily. It tastes clean, a vast improvement from the half-stagnant water the orcs forced me to drink. I wipe my mouth, ignoring the sting of the raw skin around my wrists. I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the knots in my muscles.

I let myself sink onto the cot. My gaze flicks around, noticing the faint glow of evening light creeping through the window. Outside, I hear the soft hum of the city: minotaurs calling to one another in their resonant language, the distant clang of metal on metal, perhaps from some blacksmith forging armor. Above it all, my heart pounds with unspent anger and a current of determination.

I think of that older senator with the staff, the orc emissary with his threats, and then Remanos Ironhide—bearing the weight of a champion’s responsibility while I bear the weight of chains now cut but not truly gone. Questions swarm my mind. How long until the duel? What if Remanos loses? Would the orcs reclaim me? Would the city even care?

I clench my fists. I am not property. I can’t let them decide my fate like I’m a piece on a board. My mind drifts to the mention of sabotage or missing shipments. Perhaps that’s a clue to the tension simmering below the surface. If I’m going to earn any freedom, I need to gather information. The Senate might keep me under watch, but that doesn’t mean I can’t observe and plan.

Light fades, pulling the city into twilight. Through the open shutters, the horizon darkens to a deep cobalt, and torches flicker to life across Milthar’s streets. Part of me—some stubborn, persistent fragment of my spirit—longs to see everything beyond these walls. If I wasn’t here under such dire circumstances, I might marvel at the architecture, the columns, the intricate frescos. I might explore the markets. I might find a way to sail away from here entirely.

For now, I inhale, slow and steady, letting the fresh ocean breeze calm my nerves. Remanos’s parting words whisper through my mind, haunted by the sincerity in his voice: “You won’t need to remind me.” Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s genuine in his revulsion at calling me a “trophy.” But sincerity alone won’t set me free.

I let my eyes close. My body sags, exhaustion digging claws into my bones. When they open again, I vow to carve out a path that leads me home—wherever that might be—without being owned by minotaur or orc.

Before sleep claims me, one final thought flickers: I caught a glimpse of him, and for an instant, I wanted to trust. That impulse terrifies me more than any chain. If I let hope tether me to a champion with those dark eyes, I might lose the resilience that’s kept me alive this long.

I breathe in again. No. I really am nobody’s prize. And tomorrow, I’ll prove it.