Page 43

A murmur ripples, Freedmen shifting, some crafters murmuring agreement.

I catch glimpses of a city guard listening intently.

Encouraged, I press on. “Remanos refused to hand me to orcs, so they stripped him of champion rank. Yet orcs still gather outside, emboldened by Vaelen’s gold.

If our leaders won’t protect us, then it falls on us to protect each other. ”

A hush settles, so thick I can feel their hearts pounding.

My own heart nearly leaps out of my chest. “I’ve seen the sabotage, the back-alley deals with orcs.

Vaelen tries to silence Freedmen. The Senate hails him as a savior while ignoring the real threat.

They want a docile population too afraid to resist. But we are not docile.

We are Freedmen, crafters, merchants, loyal guards —people who love Milthar enough to stand when the Senate cowers. ”

A wave of emotion surges through me, my voice trembling with conviction.

“I’m not from Milthar by birth, but I refuse to watch orcs pillage your homes.

I refuse to watch Freedmen face captivity again.

If our so-called leaders betray us, we forge unity ourselves.

Freedmen, will you fight with me? Crafters, will you speak out?

Loyal guards, will you protect the city you swore to defend, champion’s rank or not? ”

Some Freedmen shout “Yes!” while others pound spears on the ground. My blood sings. “Then we gather our strength. We block the gates from orcs, we expose Vaelen’s ploys, we demand the Senate face their corruption. If we unify, no Senate edict can break us.”

Cheers erupt, more forceful now. A city guard at the edge of the crowd steps forward, removing his helm. “I stand with Freedmen,” he declares. “Remanos was my champion. He still is in spirit.”

The crowd roars, Freedmen clapping him on the shoulder. The crafters I met earlier nod grimly, determination lighting their faces. My throat tightens with relief. This is what we needed: a spark of common cause to break the Senate’s stranglehold of fear.

I raise my arms again, voice surging above the din. “Spread the word—if orcs attack, we rally in the southwestern quarter. Do not flee. Stand by Freedmen’s barricades. Defend your homes. And at the next Senate assembly, we march to show them we won’t bow to Vaelen’s treachery.”

An eruption of agreement follows, Freedmen brandishing improvised weapons. The tension of the past weeks distills into raw determination. Tila meets my eyes from the crowd, nodding fervently. I step down from the crate, knees wobbly with adrenaline, Freedmen parting around me like a tide of hope.

As the gathered disperses to share the call, Tila weaves her way to me, face alight. “That was… rousing. They believed you.”

I exhale, trembling with leftover fear. “Let’s hope it’s enough. Vaelen might unleash the orcs tonight. We must be ready.”

She sets a reassuring hand on my arm. “We’ll stand. Even if the Senate tries to break us, they can’t quell all Freedmen.”

Warmth floods my chest. I remember how Remanos once inspired similar loyalty with a single presence in the arena.

Now, I harness that same communal spirit.

We Freedmen might truly defend this city from the traitors who sold it out.

My mind flashes to Remanos, forced to relinquish his hammer.

This speech is my vow that his sacrifice wasn’t in vain.

I gather Freedmen leaders at a corner of the intersection, distributing tasks.

Some will watch the southwestern gates for orc movement, others will help unify crafters.

The city guard who pledged support offers to bring additional rank-and-file minotaurs who quietly mistrust Vaelen.

My heart lifts. This is a real coalition forming.

Yet a seed of dread remains: the Senate might lash back, rounding us up.

Still, a hush of resolve steels me. Let them come.

We can’t hide now. Freedmen prepare, crafters glean weapons from hidden caches, and loyal guards plan to sabotage orc infiltration routes.

A sense of ephemeral victory pulses in the air.

Night creeps upon us again, the second night since Remanos lost his champion status.

This time, Freedmen erect barricades on key streets, setting up torches that crackle in the gloom.

I help pass out water skins, ignoring my own fatigue.

Everywhere, Freedmen greet me with respect I never thought I’d see in Milthar, a city that once tried to brand me a spoil.

Our unity tastes sweet, though overshadowed by looming orc aggression.

By the time the moon rises, I find a moment’s reprieve behind a makeshift barricade: wooden carts overturned, crates piled to form a waist-high defense.

Tila stands watch, scanning for suspicious movement.

I sink onto a bench, panting. The day’s events swirl in my head: the clandestine meeting with crafters, the public speech, the wave of Freedmen’s loyalty.

And Remanos remains out there, organizing from the southwestern side, ensuring Freedmen hold the vantage points if orcs press in.

I can’t help longing for him, wanting to share the surge of hope we sparked. Instead, we’re forced to coordinate separately, maximizing coverage. My eyelids droop, exhaustion tugging. Tila murmurs, “Rest a little, Mira. We’ll alert you if anything stirs.”

I nod, pushing aside the tingling dread. Leaning my head against a crate, I drift into a fitful doze, images flickering behind closed eyes Remanos raising his war hammer, Freedmen marching, orcs brandishing dark-bladed weapons. The tension refuses to ease.

A loud scuffle jolts me awake. A Freedman hustles around the corner, breathless, calling my name. I leap to my feet, heart hammering. “What is it?”

He pants, “Orc scouts spotted near the southwestern farmland, clashing with Freedman patrols. No official city guard in sight. We fear a bigger group lingers behind them.”

I swallow, adrenaline spiking. This might be the orcs testing our defenses. “How many Freedmen are holding them off?”

He shakes his head, worry carved on his features. “A handful. Remanos went that way. But they’re outnumbered.”

Terror flares in me at the thought of Remanos facing orcs alone. “Then gather whoever can fight. We’ll push them back.”

Freedmen within earshot scramble into motion.

I throw Tila a tense nod. She snatches a spear, leading a squad after me as we race across the dark streets.

My pulse roars in my ears. I hope we’re not too late.

The city’s lamplit windows whiz past in a blur of cobblestone.

The southwestern quarter reeks of looming conflict, an undercurrent of fear in the air.

Distinct shouts echo in the distance, spurring us onward.

Rounding a corner, we find a small orchard on the outskirts of town.

Torches flicker among the twisted trees, revealing Freedmen locked in desperate combat with a band of orcs wielding heavy axes.

My heart stutters. Orcs outnumber Freedmen nearly two to one, their savage snarls chilling the night air.

Freedmen push valiantly, but they’re overwhelmed.

Then I see Remanos: disarmed of his signature war hammer, fighting with a makeshift spear.

He slams its haft across an orc’s helmet, staggering the brute.

Another orc lunges from behind. My breath catches Remanos twists aside, but no champion’s protection remains if the Senate calls him outlaw.

Still, Freedmen rally around him, forming a ring of battered defenders.

I bellow, “Reinforcements! Freedmen, charge!” and sprint forward, Tila at my side.

A jolt of wild courage shoots through me.

The orcs spin, eyes glinting with surprise.

We crash into their flank, jabbing spears, brandishing cudgels.

Tila’s squad slams shields into the orcs’ midsection, offsetting their brute force.

A heartbeat later, the orchard is chaos—shouts, metal clanging, the thud of bodies hitting earth.

Amid the melee, I catch Remanos’s gaze for a split second.

Relief shines in his eyes before we’re both pulled into the fray.

I jab at an orc’s leg, ignoring the sting of my arms. The orc snarls, taking a swing that grazes my shoulder, but Tila intercepts with a spear thrust, forcing him to retreat.

Freedmen press, our numbers bolstered. Soon, the orcs falter, realizing they don’t hold the advantage.

One or two break away, retreating into the darkness.

Freedmen pursue them a short distance, ensuring they disperse.

Then the orchard falls quiet except for ragged breathing and a few wounded Freedmen groaning. Orc footprints vanish among the trees, suggesting they retreated to regroup. My heart drums in my chest, fear still prickling. This was likely just a skirmish. The real threat remains.

I push aside a broken spear, scanning for Remanos. He stands near a twisted apple tree, panting, spear shaft clutched in one hand. His gaze locks on me, relief flooding his expression. I hurry over, brushing aside the pain in my bruised shoulder. Freedmen step aside with respect.

When I reach him, we exchange no words at first, just a desperate look that conveys too much—fear, gratitude, the savage reality of war. He exhales, voice raw, “I heard your speech. Freedmen across the district flock to you. I was trying to hold them off until you arrived.”

My throat tightens. “We did what we could. They retreated, but they might come back in force. Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head, though exhaustion lines his face. “Minor scrapes. I’m fine.”