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MIRA

I slip through the side gate of Remanos’s estate at daybreak, the breeze carrying a bite that prickles my arms. Freedmen stand on either side of the low archway, spears at the ready, their eyes filling with relief when they see me.

I murmur a greeting, pulling my hood tighter around my face.

It’s not enough to hide the anxiety churning in my stomach.

Orcs gather at the gates, the Senate clings to corruption, and Remanos—stripped of champion rank—can only do so much alone.

If we want to save this city, we need more than just Freedmen’s loyalty.

“Is everything set?” I ask one Freedman, a young bull named Tiro, who shifts his weight from hoof to hoof.

He nods, knuckles whitening on his spear. “We’ve quietly spread word among crafters and merchants. Some want to meet with you, but the Senate’s watchers lurk in the market. They’re nervous.”

I press my palm to his arm, a gesture of gratitude. “They should be, but we can’t let fear paralyze us. Keep watch. No one forced to help us should get punished for it.”

Tiro sets his jaw. “We stand by you, Mira.”

Something in my chest twists at his trust. “Thank you,” I whisper. Then I draw a breath, steeling myself for what I must do next.

The city stirs with dawn’s first rays. Already, the streets hum with uneasy energy, Freedmen patrolling to check the southwestern quarter for orc activity, crafters pulling wagons of supplies.

Tension clenches the air. I can almost feel the city bracing itself: war might erupt any hour now.

Despite that, I need to talk to these crafters and loyal guards who still respect Remanos enough to risk defying the Senate.

I pass under a stone arch leading into a cramped side street.

The buildings rise on either side, balconies shuttered.

Normally, morning would bring bustle—hawkers calling, neighbors bantering.

Today, an uneasy silence hushes everything, like the city knows something dark hovers just beyond the horizon.

I keep my hood up, stepping cautiously around corners, mindful of Senate enforcers searching for me.

We’ve arranged a discreet meeting place in a half-collapsed workshop near the old aqueduct.

According to Tiro, a few crafters sympathetic to our cause gather there.

If we can rally them, we can spread the truth of Vaelen’s conspiracy through their guild networks.

The Senate might claim Remanos is a renegade, but these guilds trust what they see in Freedmen’s actions.

They can stand as a voice urging the city to defend itself against real threats.

At the workshop, I find a sagging structure with missing roof tiles and walls patched by mismatched boards.

Two Freedmen guards wait near the splintered door.

They nod at me, tension visible in their faces.

One cracks the door open. Inside, the space feels cramped and smells of sawdust. I see about a dozen figures, including crafters, a couple of older Freedmen with bandages from the last scuffle, and a single city guard who still wears his uniform, eyes darting warily.

All conversation halts the moment I enter.

I tug my hood back, letting them see my face, though my heart pounds.

The crafters exchange uncertain looks—my reputation as the Senate’s scapegoat precedes me.

I force a calm breath, stepping further into the dusty light that filters through broken rafters.

“Thank you for coming,” I begin, voice steady. “I know this is dangerous. The Senate wants me exiled or handed to orcs. If they discover you’re aiding me, you could face punishment.”

A lanky minotaur with a patchy mane coughs. “We’re not aiding you, exactly. We just want to know if you truly have proof that Vaelen deals with orcs behind our backs.”

I nod, scanning their anxious faces. “We do. Remanos and I—plus Freedmen scouts—have seen orc emissaries meeting with Vaelen’s circle.

The contraband shipments, the hush deals—they’re real.

Meanwhile, the Senate demands Remanos relinquish me to the orcs to keep them placated.

It’s all a lie. Vaelen wants to dethrone Remanos, sabotage Freedmen morale, and let orcs fill the power vacuum. ”

A heavy silence follows. The city guard among them, a stout bull with a torn ear, steps forward. “I’ve heard rumors. Some in the guard suspect Vaelen’s controlling the Senate. But we can’t act without direct orders. If the champion is dethroned, who leads us?”

My throat tightens. “If the leaders won’t protect you, you must protect yourselves. Remanos can’t force the guard to act, but Freedmen and crafters can stand together. The city guard might join us if enough of you refuse to bow to the Senate’s corruption.”

An older crafter, wide-shouldered with clay streaks on his hands, rumbles, “You want us to defy official mandates? We risk losing trade permits, even being branded conspirators. We have families to feed.”

My chest constricts. These crafters are stuck between orc infiltration and Senate wrath.

“I understand. But if orcs march in, your trade is destroyed anyway. Vaelen doesn’t care about your families, only power.

We Freedmen can’t hold off an entire warband alone.

We need you to speak out, to gather citizens under one banner—stop blaming Freedmen for the chaos, and focus on the real threat. ”

Murky silence settles. I see them grapple with fear and the reality of orcs at the gate.

A Freedman I recognize from Remanos’s estate, named Kella, speaks up, voice earnest, “I’ve served Remanos for years.

He’s not the traitor. The Senate is. If we wait for orcs to break our walls, it’ll be too late. ”

A hum passes through the group. The city guard with the torn ear looks pained. “I always admired Remanos. But he’s champion no longer. Will the commoners rally behind an outcast?”

I swallow. “Yes, if they see the orc threat is real and that Vaelen manipulates them. Freedmen are already mobilizing, with or without Senate approval. We don’t want war, but we won’t let orcs walk in unopposed.

If we unify merchants, crafters, guards who still believe in Remanos—maybe we can push Vaelen out of power. ”

Finally, the older crafter exhales. “Fine. My guild is tired of the Senate’s demands. We’ll talk to others. If you prove Vaelen truly sells us out, we’ll stand with Freedmen in the streets, urging the city to defend itself rather than cower.”

My heartbeat thuds in relief. “Thank you. We’ll show you the evidence, the old treaties, logs linking Vaelen’s family to orc deals. I just need you to spread the word among your colleagues: Don’t trust the Senate’s narrative. Demand accountability.”

They exchange grave nods. The city guard shifts on his hooves. “I’ll quietly let a few of my superiors know. Some might join us if the orcs advance.”

We spend the next quarter hour discussing details—where Freedmen plan to hold a public assembly, how crafters can gather, how to circumvent Senate watchers.

Tension crackles in every statement, but glimpses of hope shine through.

Perhaps we can unify enough voices to force a confrontation that exposes Vaelen.

Finally, I notice daylight strengthening through the collapsed roof.

Time is short. The orcs might march in any moment.

I thank them, urging caution. They file out, some hugging the shadows, others wearing forced casual expressions to avoid detection.

My pulse thrums with a mix of anxiety and renewed resolve.

As I step outside, Tila, the Freedman guard, greets me. “Seems like it went well,” she says, a hint of optimism in her tone.

I nod, adjusting my cloak. “Better than I hoped. If the crafters truly muster behind us, we might have a real movement. Let’s get to the southern crossroads. I want to address Freedmen publicly before the Senate can silence us.”

She looks alarmed. “You’re going to speak publicly? The Senate might arrest you on sight.”

My chest tightens, but I recall Remanos’s unwavering stance. We can’t hide forever. “Let them try. If enough Freedmen stand with me, the Senate can’t arrest everyone. And if we show we’re not afraid, maybe the city’s fear will turn into action.”

Tila’s expression flickers with respect, though she’s clearly worried. “We’ll guard you, Mira.”

I manage a small smile. “Thank you.”

We move through winding alleys, Freedmen scattered in small squads to avoid suspicion.

The southwestern quarter hums with subdued chaos: merchants whispering about orc sightings, Freedmen fortifying barricades at strategic intersections.

My heart beats faster, sensing the city braced for upheaval.

I approach a broad intersection where Freedmen gather under ragged banners that once bore Remanos’s champion crest. Now the crest is stripped, but Freedmen remain loyal, proud even.

I scan the crowd: Freedmen from different backgrounds, a few city guards in plain attire, some crafters from the workshop, wide-eyed but resolute.

They part for me, eyes flicking with admiration and curiosity.

I exhale slowly, stepping onto an upturned crate at the intersection’s center, raising my arms to catch their attention.

My throat constricts. I’m no orator, but the city’s fate might hinge on this moment. Freedmen hush each other, forming a ring. I see Tila quietly stationing guards at the perimeter, watchful for Senate enforcers.

I swallow, forcing my voice to project. “Citizens of Milthar,” I begin, uncertain but determined, “I know many of you see me as the Senate’s scapegoat.

They call me a foreigner, a threat. But ask yourselves—who truly threatens you?

Me, who stands here with Freedmen to protect this city from orcs at our gates?

Or the Senate, which demands we surrender to orc demands? ”