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Freedmen gather around, many wounded but alive.

The orchard glistens with moonlight on flattened grass, broken branches, a testament to the violent clash.

Remanos raises his voice to them, posture firm though weariness creeps in.

“Take the injured to safe houses. Keep watch along the orchard’s perimeter. The orcs might strike again.”

They affirm, bowing to him as if he’s still champion. A soft murmur ripples through the group, Freedmen checking on each other. I watch them with a surge of pride. My chest swells at how Freedmen rally for Remanos, champion rank be damned.

Remanos sighs, turning to me once Freedmen disperse. “We need to prepare further. If that was just a probing raid, a full orc warband might come by dawn.”

I swallow. “Then we stand. Freedmen know who the real enemy is, despite what the Senate claims.” My gaze lingers on him, a swirl of gratitude for his unwavering stance.

He nods. “You gave them hope they could protect this city themselves. Thank you.”

My pulse flutters at the warmth in his tone. We’re still perched on the precipice of war, but for a moment, I let relief trickle in. “You’re leading them, too, champion or not.”

A fleeting smile graces his muzzle, sadness shadowing it. “I’m no champion now, but Freedmen fight for more than official titles, it seems.”

I gently clasp his forearm. “They fight for you—because you never betrayed them.” My voice hovers between pride and heartbreak.

He meets my eyes, tail swishing lightly. “And for you, the one who roused them. They follow your words.”

Emotion gathers in my chest. “Then maybe we have a chance. If the orcs press harder, we’ll gather Freedmen and crafters. No Senate edict can silence a united city.”

He exhales, tension returning. “We need rest. Another wave might come soon. Let’s regroup at the southwestern barricade. Freedmen will watch the orchard.”

I nod. We move off together, Freedmen saluting as we pass. Some grin, despite bandaged arms, encouraged by the small victory. My shoulder throbs where an orc’s blow grazed me, but adrenaline numbs most pain. I let Remanos walk at my side, stepping gingerly over roots and battered crates.

As we near a torchlit street, Freedmen part to let us through.

The crafters from earlier stand guard, relief etched on their faces seeing us alive.

A few night watchers murmur that the city’s southwestern gates remain closed—Vaelen’s men likely refuse to open them for Freedmen.

My teeth clench. Vaelen hinders Freedmen’s movement while orcs roam outside.

We set up a temporary command post along a wide intersection lit by torches.

Merchants bring water skins, Freedmen slump against walls to catch their breath.

Remanos confers with Tila and other squad leaders, planning rotations.

I stand back, letting him lead. His presence galvanizes Freedmen in a way no Senate order ever could.

They might call me the spark, but he’s the living flame guiding them.

Eventually, he finishes, stepping aside with a weary slump. The torchlight reveals dark circles under his eyes, blood staining the edges of his armor. My heart clenches. He’s stretched too thin, carrying this fight without official authority.

I hesitate, then place a gentle hand on his arm, voice low. “Come with me. You need a moment to breathe.”

He resists, posture rigid, but the exhaustion etched in his gaze tells me he wants to yield.

I guide him to a quieter side alley lined by shuttered stalls.

A single torch flickers overhead, casting dancing shadows.

Freedmen keep watch a short distance away, ensuring no orc infiltration.

We stand in the hush, moonlight mingling with the torch glow.

Remanos sags against the stone wall. “We can’t keep this pace forever. Sooner or later, orcs might stage a full assault.”

I nod, stepping closer, my concern rising at the strain in his voice. “We’ll face it. Freedmen, crafters, maybe some city guards with sense. We’re not alone.” My voice wavers with conviction I cling to.

He studies my face, eyes reflecting turmoil. “I worry for you. In the chaos, if orcs realize who you are?—”

I set my palm on his cheek, trembling with the gravity of our bond. “I’m fighting for Milthar, not cowering from them. You taught me to stand for what’s right.”

A flicker of awe crosses his features. He lowers his head, forehead grazing mine. A wave of warmth floods me at the contact. We’ve no time for softness, yet we cling to this fleeting moment as if the world might crumble next breath.

My voice emerges as a whisper. “We protect each other, remember? That vow stands, champion or Freedman.”

He closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. “It does.” After a moment, he lifts his gaze, sorrow and admiration mingling. “If war truly ignites by dawn, I want you to know… I have no regrets.”

I swallow tears that threaten. “Nor I. Even if we lose, at least we fought for the truth together.”

He nods, tension still coiled. I sense he might linger in this quiet forever, just to avoid the storm outside. But Freedmen call for him from the main street, and we both know we must answer.

He straightens, shoulders squaring. “Come. We have a city to save from orcs and Senate corruption.”

I force a small smile. “Yes, we do.”

With that, we slip back into the torchlit roads, Freedmen parting for our return.

A quiet hush falls, expectant, as if they sense the final confrontation nears.

I raise my voice, though fear knots my stomach, “Maintain vigilance tonight. Orcs may try another raid. Merchants, gather your allies. We’ll meet at dawn to confront the Senate if they still refuse to act. They cannot silence an entire city.”

A chorus of agreement resonates. Freedmen’s eyes glow with determination, some crafters brandish improvised weapons. Despite the lurking dread, a flicker of hope sparks. We have unity, we have a cause, and for now, that’s enough.

As night deepens, Freedmen and crafters spread across southwestern streets, setting up more barricades.

The orcs remain quiet for the moment, possibly regrouping after their orchard skirmish.

My heart pounds with every shadow that moves, every breeze that rustles abandoned stalls. But we stand, unwavering.

I remain near Remanos, helping orchestrate watch rotations, ensuring injured Freedmen find aid.

My exhaustion burns behind my eyes, yet I push on, recalling the vow I made earlier: If the Senate won’t protect us, we’ll protect each other.

Freedmen stand testament to that vow, forging a new solidarity.

As the night stretches on, tension mounts.

But the orcs do not strike again—perhaps they wait for dawn’s light to launch a final assault.

When the eastern sky lightens faintly, Freedmen shift nervously.

Remanos calls me to his side, voice hushed, “If orcs come at sunrise, we meet them here. If the Senate tries to intervene, let them see Freedmen ready to defend the city they abandoned.”

I nod, swallowing dryness in my throat. “And if we succeed, maybe the city will realize who the real champion is, rank or no.”

He gives a ghost of a smile, tail flicking. “That’s not why I do this, but… yes. Let them see the truth.”

Freedmen muster in the gray dawn, crafters and city guard stragglers joining. Tila leads squads to the southwestern perimeter, scanning the horizon. My heart pounds in my chest. Any moment now. A hush descends, broken only by anxious hooves scraping cobblestones. The city holds its breath.

And my feet plant at the center of it all, arms trembling, pressing close to Remanos, feeling the weight of a final stand.

War or not, we face it together, Freedmen as our backbone.

The vow I made in the open street echoes in my mind: “If our leaders won’t protect us, we’ll protect each other.

” The time to fulfill that vow is now, no matter the cost.

Light spreads across the sky, unveiling battered barricades, Freedmen’s tense faces, crafters clinging to tools-turned-weapons, and Remanos—stripped of official crest but exuding unstoppable determination.

My heart squeezes with love, fear, and a sense of destiny.

We can’t fail. Not while we have each other.

I inhale, preparing for whatever dawn brings, be it orc aggression or Senate betrayal.

Let them come. We are no longer powerless.

A city’s soul stirs behind us, Freedmen forging their own fate.

And I, once a captive scorned as a spoil, now stand as a voice that might rally them to survive.

My nerves jangle, but Remanos’s presence grounds me.

In the hush before sunrise, I close my eyes and whisper a silent prayer.

We stand, we fight, we protect each other.

Then the first sliver of sunlight crests the eastern horizon, gilding the city’s rooftops.

Freedmen stand unflinching, crafters clasping each other’s shoulders, the guard with torn ear scanning the distance.

My heart drums out a single rhythm of resolve.

For Milthar, for Freedmen, for Remanos, and for the vow we share: we will not yield.