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REMANOS

T he clang of distant bells echoes across Milthar as I rush through the winding corridors of my estate, Freedmen on my heels.

A messenger arrived at dawn with a frantic warning: Orcs gather at the old colosseum, demanding an audience.

Demanding Mira, no doubt. The news burns through me, a storm of anger and dread.

Once, this city would have rallied under my call, champion’s hammer in hand, to face such a threat.

Now, the Senate’s corruption has stripped me of rank.

Yet Freedmen march behind me anyway, unwavering in their loyalty. The knowledge steels my spine.

We burst out into the courtyard, where squads of Freedmen wait, weapons clutched tight.

Mira stands among them, eyes gleaming with fierce determination despite her clear worry.

I meet her gaze, and my chest aches with gratitude.

She’s not staying behind. She refuses to hide when the orcs want her as the city’s scapegoat.

She’s told me as much—she’ll stand by my side or fall with me.

“Orcs in the arena?” she demands, stepping forward.

I nod, breath unsteady. “So the messenger said. They gather in large numbers, issuing an ultimatum. They want you, or they threaten full-scale war.” A wave of cold fury washes through me, and I grit my teeth. “They must know half the Freedmen are prepared to defend you.”

Mira’s lips press into a grim line. “Then they want to force a spectacle, corner us publicly. They’re counting on the Senate bowing to them.”

Tiro, a young Freedman, approaches with a short spear in hand. “We have watchers saying Vaelen and some senators already rushed to the colosseum. Could be they plan to surrender you behind our backs.”

My jaw clenches. “Then we must get there first.” Addressing the Freedmen, I raise my voice: “Arm up. We go to the arena—if the Senate tries to hand Mira over, we stop them. If orcs threaten the city, we stand as its defenders.”

A chorus of agreement rumbles. The Freedmen form ranks, a ragged but resolute force.

Mira moves to my side, pressing her palm briefly against my forearm.

Our eyes meet, that unspoken vow sparking between us.

We do this together. Then we set off through the city’s broad avenues.

The early sunlight glints on battered shields and wooden pikes, Freedmen scanning every alley for hidden foes.

As we near the colosseum, the echo of tension intensifies.

A crowd of citizens gathers along the outer walls, voices hushed and fearful.

Many fear orcs more than anything else. Others crane their necks, trying to see inside.

The city’s official guards hold watch at the main entrance, but they look uncertain, receiving conflicting orders from senators.

When they catch sight of us, Freedmen surging in a wave, they exchange worried glances.

I stride forward, Freedmen parting around me. One guard, a junior officer with trembling hands, lifts his spear as if to bar our way. “The Senate demands only authorized persons enter.”

I lock eyes with him, noticing the sweat beading at his brow. “I was once champion. That should be enough. If Vaelen challenges me, let him do it to my face.” My voice remains calm, though a thunderous anger simmers underneath.

Mira steps beside me, hood drawn, though everyone likely knows who she is by now.

Her determined stance conveys she won’t be turned away either.

The guard hesitates, uncertain. Behind us, Freedmen bristle, prepared for a fight.

The guard exhales, then lowers his spear.

“Enter at your own risk. Orcs have demanded you, or they threaten to burn the city.”

“Then we’ll face them,” I reply, pushing past. Freedmen follow, ignoring the guard’s uneasy protest.

Inside the colosseum, the air brims with a tense hush.

No cheering crowds fill the seats now—only scattered onlookers, the Senate’s retinue, and a looming orc warband occupying the sandy arena floor.

My stomach twists at the sight: the once-proud colosseum, stage of countless matches I fought for honor, now a twisted battleground for the city’s surrender.

Senators in ornate robes gather at the edges, Vaelen among them, sneering with smug triumph.

The orcs cluster in the center, bristling with heavy axes and crude armor.

One stands taller than the rest, tusks curved upward, a fierce scar crossing his brow. Likely their chieftain or emissary.

Mira inhales sharply beside me, and I sense her revulsion.

Freedmen fan out around us, forming a protective circle.

The orcs snarl at our approach, a low rumble of aggression.

I spot Vaelen stepping forward from a dais near the stands.

He raises his arms, calling for silence.

The tension in the colosseum thrums like a coiled snake.

The orc chieftain speaks first, voice guttural in Common. “City of Milthar, we gave you days to comply. Hand over the human, or we unleash the warband. Surrender is your only path to avoid destruction.”

A hush falls. Senators exchange anxious looks, some evidently terrified.

Vaelen glances at me, then sweeps his gaze across Freedmen behind me.

The corner of his muzzle twitches in distaste.

“We must not let the Freedmen’s rebellion endanger the city.

Remanos, you can end this by yielding Mira to orc custody. ”

Heat flares in my chest. “You dare claim the moral high ground, Vaelen, after your secret bargains? You feed these orcs gold, promise them leverage in our city, then brand Freedmen as rebels.”

A ripple of murmurs stirs among onlookers, many Freedmen scowling at Vaelen. The orc chieftain huffs, shifting his weight. “We care not for your internal quarrels. We want the woman. If she is not given, we will raze your walls.”

Mira steps forward, pushing her hood down, eyes lit with fierce defiance.

Gasps ripple among the senators. The orcs snarl in recognition.

Vaelen smirks, as if expecting her to seal her own fate.

But she raises her voice boldly, “If you’re so intent on war, you don’t need me as an excuse.

Let’s be honest—you’re working with Vaelen to subdue Milthar for profit. We have proof of your conspiracy.”

Her words spark an immediate outcry. Some senators flinch, others protest angrily.

The chieftain’s gaze narrows, flicking from Vaelen to Mira.

Vaelen steps in, voice brimming with false indignation.

“Lies! She’s the saboteur who’s corrupted Freedmen into rebellion.

She and Remanos conspire against the city’s peace. ”

I clench my fists, fighting the urge to roar back.

Instead, I inhale, stepping into the center of the arena sand—unarmed, no champion’s hammer at my side, only my Freedman leathers.

My heart pounds. In the stands, watchful eyes mark my every move.

Freedmen stand behind me on the colosseum steps, refusing to yield.

I address the crowd in a resonant voice, ignoring the orcs’ menacing presence. “Mira is no saboteur. She revealed Vaelen’s secret dealings with orcs—contraband weapons, hush gold, infiltration routes. He seeks to dethrone legitimate rule and place Freedmen under orc intimidation.”

Vaelen snarls, pointing at me. “You have no rank to speak! You were stripped of champion’s status for defying the Senate. You are nothing.”

I swallow the spike of humiliation, letting my anger morph into resolve.

“Yes, I lost the Senate’s favor. But Freedmen, crafters, and guards of conscience stand with me.

We see the orcs at your beck and call. Look around—why else would they gather so brazenly in our colosseum? Because you’ve paved the way.”

The chieftain stamps a hoof, snorting. “We serve no minotaur. We take advantage of your city’s weakness. Surrender the woman or face our blades.”

I step closer, arms spread to show my lack of weapons. Gasps ripple through the onlookers. “If you truly need her to justify war, then your war is built on false pretenses. Why not fight Freedmen openly? Because Vaelen promised you an easy infiltration.”

A charged silence grips the arena. Senators shift uneasily, uncertain whether to side with Vaelen’s story or sense a deeper truth.

Mira breaks in, voice carrying an edge of scorn, “We have logs of shipments bearing your forging marks, orc. We have old treaties linking Vaelen’s lineage to coerced orc raids.

The real sabotage is within the Senate.”

She lifts a battered sheaf of papers, letting them flutter for the stands to see.

Some spectators crane forward, whispering among themselves.

Ortem stands on a raised platform, face ashen, seemingly realizing the scope of Vaelen’s betrayal.

Freedmen below clap and holler, stirring the crowd’s uncertainty into a rising murmur.

Vaelen scowls, face reddening. “This is nonsense. A desperate ploy from a dethroned champion and his foreign accomplice.”

I pivot to him, voice cold. “Then deny your role in orc infiltration. If your hands are clean, you’d never let orcs stride so confidently into our heart. Yet here they stand, waiting to claim Mira.”

He hesitates, flicking a sidelong glance at the chieftain.

The orc sets his jaw, betraying a flicker of tension.

They exchange a brief look that reeks of guilt.

The crowd notices it too. An uneasy murmur swells.

Freedmen in the upper tiers start chanting, “Truth! Truth!” The crafters among them wave ledger pages.

At last, a senator I don’t recognize steps forward from the dais, voice wavering, “Vaelen, is it true? Have you bartered with orcs behind our backs?”

Vaelen shouts him down. “Silence! We do not question the Senate’s decisions.”

Another senator breaks ranks, edging away from Vaelen, realization dawning. “By the goddess, we’ve been misled.”