It wasn’t the first time some elfling lord had snuck down to peek at the gladiators. Megatronus didn’t particularly pay attention to this one, focused more on working the dent out of the heavy iron cuirass. The rules of the arena didn’t provision armor for the gladiators, but they could be gifted it. Megatronus had won it from a generous patron in a bet- the lord inclined to reward a slave that had won him so much money. She’d kept the rough made armor in working shape with sand and excruciating attention to detail. The latest dent had been the result of a slightly quicker than average troll: she’d barely kept from having her ribs pulverised, instead limping off the field with a bruise the size of an elf child, and a foul temperament to match.

Maybe the next games would be a little easier. Most gladiators feared their deaths, but she made old Swindle far too much money for him to ever kill her off intentionally. He’d give her something tricky and showy but not overly strenuous. Giant spiders it had been, last time, caught in webbing, staying still and slicing them to shreds when they got close. Easy on her sprained ankle, for all that it looked good. Maybe this time it would be archery, or a prisoner execution. The crowd liked those, much as she hated-

“Pardon me.”

She jerked, involuntarily, spinning to glare at the elfling. Her bruised ribs sent flares of agony in protest. She’d completely forgotten it. More tired than she thought. “What you want, elf?” In the broken, halting elvish that most believed orcs capable of. The elfling blinked, and stepped closer, inspiring a brief internal debate about the merits of running over and crushing it’s throat before it could blink. The ache of her ribs was a hefty veto against.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Terminus, would you?” She couldn’t help a jolt of surprise. She had worked very hard to erase any connection with that name, even as she’d continued publishing under it. This elfling could be a member of the Senate’s guard…

“Who is Termanis?” Deliberately mispronouncing it. The elf ignored it. Short for an elf, slender… The clothes weren’t expensive, but neither were they threadbare.

“I’m a student, at the university. I’ve read your writings. Your speech on the inequality of the races was...breathtaking.” She remembered writing that piece, fingers flecked with the blood of an unlucky goblin she’d slain in the arena. IT hadn’t been exactly the sort of inspirational lubricant a university student used. They tended more towards wine, she heard.

“I not know what you talk.” She turned back to the armor. Sand and a cloth, over and over, getting the rust out. When her hands had healed, she would beat the dent out of it. Gentle pressure wasn’t working. She’d ignore this elfling until he left. Or she would kill him and hide the body.

“My name is Orion Pax. I work in the archives. Its been fascinating to read your works, and… Well…” She heard anxiety in his tone, but he powered through. “I have access to a printing press. And I work nights. I’d… I’d like to copy your writings, distribute them.”

She turned, less sharply, ignoring the pain. The elf couldn’t be serious. There were only three presses in the entire city, and everyone knew how to spot anything made by a press. It would put him in danger, it would…

She grinned, baring her tusks. “Maybe you should step inside, so we can talk more privately...friend.”