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One Freedman, older with a scar on his brow, steps forward. “We stand with you, champion or Freedman. If orcs attack, we’ll defend Milthar.” He glances toward the city gates in the distance, voice wavering, “But do we still follow your command?”

My throat tightens. “Yes,” I say. “We muster in the southern courtyard. Strengthen defenses. Rally merchants who fear orc looting. Let them see that Vaelen’s path is ruin.”

They nod, relief in their eyes that I’m not backing down.

We move off in a tight formation, Freedmen passing the word through side streets.

The day’s early light reveals the city in uneasy slumber—merchants warily opening stalls, rumors swirling of orcs at the gates.

My Freedmen gather near the southern courtyard, forming ranks.

Onlookers hush at the sight: a champion dethroned, yet Freedmen arrayed in loyal unity.

Standing before them, I swallow hard. No war hammer on my back, no official crest. Only the battered leather armor I used for routine training.

But a fire stirs in my chest: I am still Remanos Ironhide.

I raise my voice so Freedmen and any citizens in earshot can hear.

“Milthar stands on the brink. Orc mercenaries lurk outside, bribed by traitorous nobles. The Senate claims I am no champion, but Freedmen, do we yield the city’s fate to them? ”

A rumble of negation echoes. My heart lifts. “Then we stand for Milthar ourselves. We gather arms, we guard these streets. If the orcs press in, we defend the city’s people. The Senate may cast me out, but they cannot cast out our devotion to Milthar.”

Cheers erupt, subdued yet resolute. Merchant passersby pause, some looking thoughtful. A trickle of hope courses through me: even stripped of title, perhaps my Freedmen’s stance can inspire common folk to resist orc infiltration. Vaelen might not find the city as malleable as he hopes.

As Freedmen mobilize, I edge out of the crowd, leaning briefly against a stone pillar.

The cost of standing strong without Senate sanction weighs on me.

Doubt claws: if orcs storm the gates in force, Freedmen alone might not be enough.

I wish I had my old champion’s war hammer, forging confidence in the hearts of watchers.

Instead, I have only conviction. And Mira.

A pang of longing rises. She’s become my reason to keep fighting, I reflect.

Mira, with her unbreakable will, stands at my side even after the Senate targeted her.

If we endure this chaos, it’s because her faith in me spurred me to challenge Vaelen.

If we fail, it’s still worth it, to shield her from orc cruelty.

The day stretches on in tense preparation.

Freedmen barricade certain alleyways, set up vantage points.

Merchants gather in pockets, deliberating who to trust. The official city guard obeys the Senate, leaving Freedmen no official authority, but some guards quietly hint they dislike orcs near the gates.

Everyone senses war looms. By mid-afternoon, watchers report orc scouts moving closer, possibly testing the city’s defenses. My Freedmen brace themselves.

Throughout it, the Senate remains silent. No official decree of war mobilization. No champion’s call to arms. Vaelen presumably waits for me to break or to see Freedmen scatter. But they stand firm. My heart warms at their loyalty, even as fear simmers.

When dusk approaches, I walk away from the bustling Freedmen lines, drawn by an urge to revisit the colosseum’s quiet again.

My chest aches with a lonely heaviness. Dark Night of the Soul, I recall the old phrase.

Indeed, I’ve never felt more lost. The champion who soared in the colosseum is gone, replaced by a Freedman bearing no illusions.

I enter through a side arch, the interior dimly lit by the last rays of day. No crowd awaits. No roars to greet me.

I wander down the deserted corridor that once led to the champion’s staging area.

The air smells of dust and old triumph. My reflection shimmers in a burnished shield mounted on the wall—just a battered minotaur who gave up everything for a woman the Senate calls a foreign threat.

Yet seeing that reflection triggers a faint flicker of pride. I chose loyalty, not corruption.

I emerge onto the sand once more, the stands dark and lifeless.

The hush wraps around me like a mourning shroud.

I fought orcs here for the city’s honor, I think, stepping across the arena’s center.

Now orcs gather outside, and the Senate coddles them.

My fists clench, nails biting into my palms. I raise my gaze to the sky overhead, streaked with bruised purple.

If you turned me into a champion so easily, city, can you not see that I champion the right cause still?

No answer comes from the silent seats. A swirl of dusty wind crosses my ankles.

The fading light leaves the colosseum in shadow.

My throat tightens, a weight behind my eyes.

I wouldn’t change a thing. A trembling breath escapes.

I lost everything that once defined me—my hammer, my rank, my seat of honor in the city’s mind.

But as the emptiness of these stands mocks me, I know I wouldn’t change the choice that cost me my title.

Because Mira is worth more than hollow accolades.

She’s the spark that showed me the Senate’s corruption, the reason I can’t watch them feed a living, breathing woman to orcs.

She taught me a deeper sense of honor, beyond crowd cheers.

In this silent colosseum, I realize she’s become my true purpose for fighting on.

My eyes burn. I can’t fail her now. Even if I face orcs as a Freedman with a handful of loyal souls, I’ll stand until I collapse. The orcs might rend me limb from limb, but it won’t be my city that tears me down. Vaelen can sneer that I’m dethroned, but he can’t strip my resolve.

A hush envelops the arena, the night thickening.

My ear twitches, picking up distant Freedmen calls outside, rallying patrols.

War might break any moment. The time for self-pity is over.

I close my eyes, letting the hush sink into my bones.

Goodbye, colosseum. Thank you for forging me.

Now, I must fight a different battle, not for spectacle or a champion’s laurel, but for the soul of Milthar and the woman who changed my life.

I exhale, stepping back toward the archway.

This place no longer belongs to me. I am a Freedman now, or perhaps an outcast. The wind sends a final swirl of dust across the sand, a muted farewell.

I won’t return here unless we wrest the city from Vaelen’s grasp, or orcs claim these stands.

Either outcome leaves me with no illusions.

Exiting into the corridor, I find Tila waiting anxiously at the threshold. Her ear flicks when she sees me. “Orcs gather near the southwestern quarter, champion—uh, Remanos,” she corrects, flushing with confusion. “They might breach by morning.”

I place a hand gently on her shoulder. “Then let’s be ready. Rouse Freedmen. We’ll do what we can.”

She nods. “Yes.” She glances around the empty colosseum, sorrow flickering. “Don’t worry. We still follow you.”

Her steadfastness steadies me. Together, we exit onto the city streets.

The Freedmen rank stands assembled in small squads, the merchants who trust me huddling anxiously.

Despite the gloom, a faint sense of purpose coalesces.

They look to me for direction. I see in their faces that same unwavering loyalty.

Title or not, they believe I stand for Milthar.

I address them in low, urgent tones, instructing them to fortify key crossroads, coordinate watch rotations, and remain vigilant for orc infiltration.

With final nods, they disperse, leaving me standing under a torch’s flickering glow.

My chest remains heavy, but I cling to the knowledge that I am not alone.

I have Freedmen, I have the city’s disillusioned merchants, and most importantly, I have Mira’s unwavering spirit.

As the final edges of twilight give way to full night, I imagine orcs massing just beyond the walls, arms brimming with gold from Vaelen’s circle.

War looms indeed. But no Senate decree can sever my resolve.

Stripped of champion’s rank, I’ve still discovered a deeper calling: to defend the ones I love—even a city unworthy of that devotion.

If orcs come, I’ll meet them on the field with my Freedmen, champion or not.

Clutching that vow, I set out into the city, heading back toward my estate.

Mira awaits, likely worried for me. The sting of humiliation lingers, but the future’s uncertain light beckons me forward.

I’ve lost my official place, but I’ve gained a truer cause.

I’ll stand with Mira and Freedmen, forging a new path.

This dark night of the soul might break me or temper me further.

Either way, I’m Remanos Ironhide, rank or no.

Tomorrow, the dawn will reveal if we can save Milthar from itself.

A final glance over my shoulder at the city’s skyline—domes, columns, the colosseum’s curved silhouette. The echoes of cheers long gone swirl in the air, replaced by the hush of impending conflict. I steel my heart. I’m ready.