Page 37

He makes a strangled sound, pulling me into a fierce, bruising hug.

I cling to him, tears soaking into his tunic.

We stand like that, locked in heartbreak, my chest shaking with the weight of goodbyes we never wanted.

Even now, his arms cradle me as though letting go will destroy him.

For a single breath, we share what might be our last moment.

Then I force myself to slip free, ignoring his choked plea. “You’ll be champion. You’ll lead Milthar. That’s what matters.”

Before he can stop me, I turn and run. Freedmen in the corridor call out, startled.

I ignore them, sprinting through the estate’s side passage.

My tears blur the halls, but I find the small rear gate Tila once showed me, meant for discreet deliveries.

I yank it open, stumbling into an alley.

Shouts sound behind me, but I dash away, losing myself in the labyrinth of narrow streets.

My heart throbs as I push through the city’s midday bustle.

I can’t indulge in heartbreak. If I linger, Remanos might track me down.

So I let the crowded market swallow me. The press of minotaur bodies jostling stalls, shouting hawkers, the swirl of spice-scented air—it’s overwhelming, yet it shields me from Freedmen searching.

I slip behind a fruit vendor, catching my breath.

My tears haven’t stopped. My chest aches as though hammered by a war club.

I murmur a silent apology to Remanos, hoping he understands my choice.

He saved me repeatedly. Now I’m saving him from the Senate’s final blackmail.

I love you, you infuriating, loyal champion.

Please forgive me. With that silent prayer, I gather my nerve and push deeper into the throng, heading toward the city’s western gates.

If I can slip through those gates, the roads might lead me to another realm less consumed by orc politics.

I pass by a cluster of mercantile warehouses, ignoring the twinge of memory—this is near where we discovered contraband linking Vaelen to orc deals.

My mind still roils with disbelief that the Senate refuses to see the truth.

Despite it all, they’d sacrifice me to maintain illusions of peace.

The heartbreak flares anew. This is my last memory of Milthar, a place I once considered a prison but came to see as a complex tapestry of Freedmen and champions forging fragile honor.

Pausing near a quiet intersection, I scan for city guards.

My hood is drawn low, but I can’t hide my smaller stature if they look closely.

The main gate is heavily watched. Maybe I can slip out near the fishing docks, or bribe a boat captain.

My father taught me enough about weaving half-truths.

I force steady breathing and head left, weaving into a district that reeks of fish and sea brine.

The docks loom beyond a row of rickety warehouses. This might work.

A commotion draws my attention to the far side of a long pier.

My heart stutters. I see orcs, a small band in worn leathers, flanked by a couple of richly attired minotaurs.

My eyes dart—these aren’t random visitors.

Something about their posture suggests clandestine dealings.

My chest constricts. Could this be Vaelen’s circle meeting orc emissaries early?

I slip behind a stack of crates, curiosity mixing with dread.

The orc at the center is broad-shouldered, tusks protruding from his lower jaw.

He gestures animatedly as a minotaur in a green cloak nods.

My pulse leaps. That cloak’s embroidered hem…

it’s too fancy for a regular merchant. Probably one of Vaelen’s associates.

The orc rummages in a pouch, withdrawing a cluster of coins that glint in the midday sun.

My mind races: is this a payoff to secure orc loyalty for some deeper infiltration?

Snippets of conversation drift on the breeze: “Champion’s downfall…

Vaelen promises… city ours.” My stomach knots.

They plan to finalize a pact that ensures once Remanos is dethroned—sacrificing me in the process—these orcs will do what exactly?

Invade Milthar with fewer defenses? Possibly occupy strategic trade routes.

My fear intensifies. Remanos was right: the Senate’s blackmail is just the tip of a broader conspiracy to subjugate the entire city.

I huddle closer, ignoring the stench of fish.

The orc rummages in his belt, producing a parchment.

The cloaked minotaur scans it, nodding with a satisfied gleam.

This must be the final arrangement for forging false evidence or ensuring certain shipments go unguarded.

If I had any illusions that my departure might guarantee Remanos’s safety, they shatter.

Vaelen’s circle wants total control. Even if I vanish, they’ll still find a way to ruin him—or orchestrate orc raids to break the Freedmen’s morale.

Tears threaten again. My sacrifice may not save him after all. I should run back, warn him. But that means returning to the place I fled just moments ago. My mind spins, uncertain. The orcs shift, shaking hands with the minotaur conspirators, sealing their deal. I sense time slipping away.

Suddenly, the orc’s nostrils flare, and he glances around.

My heart leaps in terror that he’s caught my scent.

The minotaur in the green cloak hushes him, pointing to a side path leading away from the main pier.

They vanish around a corner, presumably heading to less visible territory.

I wait, counting heartbeats, until I’m certain they’re gone.

My body trembles from the realization that orcs are already in the city, forging alliances.

Without Remanos, no champion stands to rally Freedmen.

My departure means Vaelen’s triumph. Remanos sacrifices everything to protect me, and the city collapses anyway.

Hot tears trace my cheeks. Is there no path that spares him from ruin or me from orc captivity?

If I stay, the Senate forces him to hand me over.

If I go, Vaelen orchestrates orc infiltration.

I wipe my eyes, panting. Think, Mira. I can’t be so easily cowed. Remanos taught me we fight when no hope remains. Maybe I can glean more info—expose this orc meeting. But how? Time is short. The Senate expects an answer by nightfall.

Glancing over my shoulder, the shipping yard empties.

The orcs fade into the labyrinth of dockside alleys, presumably heading for more covert negotiations.

My heart urges me to follow them, but that might be suicidal.

I weigh my options, torn between seeking more proof and returning to Remanos.

He must know orcs are already negotiating deeper infiltration.

My chest aches: I can’t vanish now, not when his city needs him strong enough to counter Vaelen’s plan.

My eyes sting with a new wave of tears, frustration mounting.

My heroic idea of fleeing to protect him was naive if Vaelen’s coterie can still sabotage Milthar’s defenses.

Grim resolve settles over me. I’ll go back.

I’ll face the Senate’s condemnation if it means standing at Remanos’s side.

If he chooses to defy them, we fight together.

If there’s a shred of justice, maybe we can sway enough Freedmen, or some honest senator, to quell the orc infiltration.

With trembling steps, I retreat from the docks, navigating side streets.

My earlier choice to flee feels like a betrayal.

I push the guilt aside. There’s no easy solution, but I must trust we can face the crisis as one.

The walk back is fraught with fear that Vaelen’s men might spot me.

I keep to narrow lanes, cloak tight, eyes darting.

Luckily, no suspicious watchers materialize.

My lungs burn by the time I near Remanos’s estate, slipping around the side gate.

Freedmen guard it, looking grim. Their eyes widen at my approach, no doubt confused.

They let me in, and I sense relief from at least one who softly mutters, “She returned.”

My knees nearly give out crossing the threshold into the courtyard.

The day’s events weigh like lead: the Senate’s ultimatum, my flight, the horrifying sight of orcs finalizing deals with Vaelen.

My breath staggers. I find a quiet corner near the fountain, pressing a hand to my racing heart.

Water flows in a gentle trickle, mocking my internal storm.

Then a voice behind me, low and unsteady, “Mira… you came back.”

I pivot. Remanos stands a few paces away, chest rising with rapid breaths. Relief wars with worry in his expression. He steps closer, scanning me for injuries. “Where—why—” He falters.

Tears burn my eyes again. “I tried to leave. I saw orcs meeting Vaelen’s circle. It doesn’t matter if I vanish—they’re still pushing infiltration.” My voice cracks. “I couldn’t walk away and let you face them alone.”

His mouth sets in a trembling line. “You realize the Senate still demands you by nightfall.”

My heart pangs. “Yes. But if I run, Vaelen enslaves the city anyway. That orc meeting proves it. If you give me to them, the city might remain docile for a moment, but the infiltration seeds are planted. Milthar is doomed if we yield or if I flee. So what’s the point of sacrificing ourselves separately? ”

He exhales shakily. “So we stand together, even if it leads to ruin?”

I meet his gaze, tears slipping free. “Yes. Because I’d rather face ruin with you than cower alone. I love you, you bullheaded champion.”

He releases a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, pulling me into a fierce hug. My arms twine around his neck. I cling to him, trembling. The fountain’s soft murmur underscores our ragged breathing. Freedmen discreetly avert their eyes, granting privacy as we share this fragile reunion.