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REMANOS

B y the time I reach the Senate’s imposing forum at dawn, a crowd has gathered, an uneasy hush blanketing the enormous marble courtyard.

Rows of fluted columns line the perimeter, carved reliefs of triumphant minotaur champions staring down like silent judges.

The sky above is still dim, streaked with the last hints of night.

My Freedmen and I remain by the courtyard’s edge, their concern radiating like a palpable force behind me.

But I’ve asked them to hold back, to let me face this moment alone.

My chest feels leaden with dread. Two Senate guards in ceremonial armor wait near the entrance, their gazes locked straight ahead.

They don’t prevent me from passing, but the tension in their stance warns me that I’m no longer welcomed as a champion here.

I step under the grand archway, breath unsteady.

In the distance, I glimpse a row of robed senators gathered on a dais, Vaelen among them, wearing smug self-satisfaction etched into his muzzle.

The moment I step into the open, hushed murmurs ripple through the onlookers—some Freedmen, some ordinary citizens, and a smattering of merchant representatives.

Their faces mirror alarm, confusion, betrayal.

A herald steps forward, staff clacking against stone.

His voice booms, echoing across the courtyard: “Champion Remanos Ironhide, present yourself before the Bavkus.” The weight in my chest tightens—my last moments being addressed as champion, perhaps.

Nevertheless, I square my shoulders, tail flicking in restrained anger.

I walk across the courtyard, each hoofstep echoing in the hush.

My Freedmen remain at the periphery, unarmed by my request to avoid an outright brawl.

At the dais, I see Ortem, his brow creased with regret, and a cluster of lesser senators who shift uneasily. Vaelen stands at the center, arms crossed, horns gleaming under torchlight. I sense triumph in his stare. My stomach churns. This is the culmination of every trap he’s set.

The herald raises his staff again. “The Senate summons you to answer for your disobedience of official mandates. Specifically, the refusal to yield Mira, a declared foreign threat, to orc emissaries. Do you bring her here to fulfill your duty?”

My heart twists. I force my voice to remain steady. “No. I will not hand her over.” My statement is short, unwavering.

A tremor of gasps eddies through the crowd. Vaelen’s upper lip curls. “Then you defy the Senate’s will. The orc warband stands at our gates, demanding restitution. Your rebellious stance endangers the city.”

I glare at him, a flash of raw anger nearly surfacing. “You endanger the city by conspiring with orcs behind closed doors. I have evidence?—”

His snarl cuts me off, tail swishing. “We tire of these baseless accusations, champion. Enough. The Senate decrees that if you refuse compliance, your rank will be revoked, all privileges stripped. This city needs a champion who upholds tradition, not one who coddles a saboteur.”

The word “champion” rings hollow in Vaelen’s mouth, as though he’s already certain it’s no longer mine.

My Freedmen stir at the crowd’s edge, outraged.

But I steady my breathing. Lashing out physically won’t save me now.

Instead, I lock eyes with Ortem, hoping he’ll speak.

He glances away, pained, unwilling to defy Vaelen in public. My chest constricts further.

The herald glances from Vaelen to me, seemingly uncertain. “Remanos Ironhide, will you comply with the Senate’s order? Present the foreigner for immediate orc custody, or face formal condemnation.”

My throat tightens, words refusing to come at first. I think of Mira, how she almost fled to spare me.

Yet here I stand, unwavering in my refusal.

My Freedmen’s entire future dangles on my decision.

My voice emerges quietly, but it carries in the silence: “I will not. She is no saboteur. She’s uncovered your secret alliances, Vaelen.

If the Senate had any honor left, they’d see your betrayal. ”

A wave of whispers skitters through the crowd.

Vaelen’s features harden. “Enough lies. The Senate acknowledges your final refusal.” He turns, addressing the dais.

“Let it be known, from this moment, Remanos Ironhide is stripped of champion rank and all associated authority.” He gestures toward a line of official minotaur guards to one side.

“Seize his war hammer. Confiscate his champion’s regalia. ”

The words drive a spike of cold agony into my chest. I stand transfixed as two guards approach, sorrow in their eyes, not malice.

They respect me, yet they must follow the Senate’s commands.

My Freedmen murmur uneasily, but I lift a hand to stop them from intervening.

What good is more bloodshed now? My hammer has symbolized my oath to protect Milthar for years, forging respect and fear in the arena.

With trembling arms, I remove the thick leather baldric that secures the war hammer across my back.

One guard steps forward, holding out his hands.

I draw the weapon free, feeling its familiar weight one final time. My heart pounds.

I can’t stop my voice from breaking as I say, “I’d have used this to defend the city from orcs, but you would rather bow to them. You condemn yourselves.” Then I press the hammer into his palms.

He averts his gaze, guilt flickering. The second guard carefully unlatches the champion’s insignia from my pauldron.

With that, the last of my official rank slips away.

A hush hangs over the courtyard, heavy and suffocating.

My Freedmen shift in protest, but they remain still, respecting my silent command not to incite a riot.

Vaelen steps closer, wearing a satisfied sneer. “Henceforth, you hold no official position in Milthar. Should you persist in aiding the foreign woman, you will be treated as a criminal. Do you understand?”

I swallow back a swell of fury. “I do.”

He lifts his chin. “Then begone. The Senate will choose a new champion, one who honors the city’s demands and fosters peace with orcish neighbors.”

My Freedmen stir angrily. The dais behind him reveals Ortem’s grim face, half-lowered in shame.

My heart aches—some part of me hoped he’d intervene.

But Vaelen’s hold on the Senate seems absolute.

I pivot, tail stiff with suppressed emotion, and stride out of the courtyard.

Freedmen part to let me pass, sorrow etched in every line of their faces.

They begin to follow, but I wave them off, needing space.

Let me walk alone, my gesture says. Soft murmurs chase me as I vanish into the city’s winding streets.

It’s still early. The sun creeps higher, gilding rooftops.

I wander aimlessly through alleyways, my mind spinning with the humiliating memory of surrendering my hammer, hearing Vaelen proclaim a new champion to fill my role.

A hollow pit forms where my sense of purpose once lived.

I’ve bled in the arena, fought orc warlords, served as Milthar’s symbol of strength.

Now, the Senate casts me aside for refusing to betray Mira.

Was it worth it? The question haunts me.

Another pang slices through me. Yes, it was worth it.

I recall Mira’s terrified eyes when they tried arresting her, how she nearly fled to spare me.

She is worth every price. But the city is left vulnerable.

And orcs gather at the gates with gold from Vaelen’s circle.

War looms, unstoppable. My Freedmen might follow me out of loyalty, but we have no official standing, no sanctioned force to repel an invasion or quell internal sabotage.

Eventually, my wandering footsteps bring me to the colosseum’s shadow, that immense stone edifice that once defined my life.

The gates stand open, as the city stirs for daily commerce.

Usually, watchers or staff bustle about, but at this early hour, it’s deserted.

I slip inside, unnoticed, crossing the threshold into the arena’s bowels.

My chest clenches with memories: the roar of crowds, the taste of victory, the pride that soared with each triumph. Now it feels hollow.

I emerge onto the arena’s sandy floor, an expanse of emptiness beneath tall stands.

The seats loom in silent arcs, no cheering throng to greet me.

My hoofsteps echo in the vast space. A breeze swirls dust motes across the sand.

Here I claimed my champion’s status, forging a bond with the city.

Now that bond is severed. I’m a Freedman at best, or an outcast at worst. I rub a hand over my muzzle, chest aching.

My gaze sweeps the stands, recalling how thousands roared my name.

I once fought for the city’s pride, embodying its fierce spirit.

But the Senate demanded a price I wouldn’t pay.

My identity, shaped in these battles, is shattered.

A memory surfaces of me standing at mid-arena after a grueling duel, horns lifted in victory, the crowd chanting “Remanos” with thunderous adoration.

I never thought that glory would be twisted into an ultimatum: betray a woman I’ve come to love or lose it all.

I close my eyes, swallowing the burn of tears.

I’d do it again. The only anchor in this swirling despair is Mira.

She’s become my reason to reject the Senate’s cruelty.

Even if the city sees me as a traitor, I won’t regret defending her.

My entire life, I sought honor, but never realized honor was about protecting the defenseless, not pandering to politics.