Page 46

Seeing cracks in the Senate’s unity, Vaelen stiffens, turning to the orc chieftain. “Take the woman now. Let this farce end.” He gestures at Mira, fury contorting his features. The orc grunts, stepping forward with two armed warriors.

My Freedmen bristle, weapons lifting. Their eyes flick to me, awaiting my command. Tension whips the air taut. I raise a hand, heart throbbing with equal parts rage and fear. I will not watch them drag her away.

I step ahead of Freedmen, meeting the orc chieftain’s gaze. “You want her? You go through me.” My voice resonates in the hush.

The chieftain bares tusks. “You have no hammer, no rank. You are not champion. Step aside or die.”

My pulse hammers, but I hold my ground. I might die here, but I will not yield. Freedmen cluster behind me, unwavering. Mira, to my left, clutches the sheaf of proof. Her jaw is set, eyes ablaze. If this degenerates into bloodshed, orcs might tear half the colosseum apart. But I won’t step aside.

Vaelen’s voice pierces the hush: “Senators, see how Remanos incites rebellion! Execute him and hand the woman over. The orcs will depart peacefully.”

An uproar erupts. Some senators look tempted, others horrified.

Freedmen roar denials. Tension nears the breaking point.

Before violence explodes, Mira thrusts her ledger pages high, shouting to the crowd, “Look at these records! Shipments with orc forging marks, signed off by Vaelen’s men.

He’s the true conspirator. He invites orcs in to break Freedmen loyalty. If we let him do this, Milthar falls!”

A wave of Freedmen cheers surges, the noise echoing off stone walls.

Citizens in the stands crane to see the evidence.

Senators fidget. Ortem steps forward at last, voice tight, “Vaelen, if these accusations have merit, you must address them. Did you invite orcs to forcibly claim the city? Answer us.”

Vaelen’s face twists with hate, no longer attempting to feign innocence. “This city needed a scapegoat. Freedmen threatened the old order. The orcs… offered a solution. We’d keep them at bay by giving them that woman—milk the Freedmen’s fear until they submit.”

A hush of horror ripples through the colosseum. The orc chieftain glares at Vaelen but doesn’t deny the arrangement. Freedmen seethe, some cursing Vaelen’s name. Ortem staggers back, face pale. The Senate’s complicity is laid bare.

Mira’s breath catches. I sense her relief that truth emerges, yet we stand in an arena ringed by orcs. The chieftain snarls, stepping forward, “Vaelen promised spoils. We want her. Or Milthar burns.”

I swallow, stepping deeper into the arena’s center.

The sand feels cold beneath my hooves, a twisted echo of so many fights I waged.

Freedmen tighten their circle, but I wave them back, tail flicking with determination.

“You will not have her,” I say, voice carrying.

“Nor will you claim this city. Milthar belongs to its people, Freedmen included, not to a Senate that sells it to orcs or to an orc warband that preys on fear.”

The orc chieftain laughs harshly. “You have no champion’s hammer, no backing from your Senate. You are alone.”

A surge of Freedmen roars from the stands, their chant resonating: “Remanos! Remanos!” My throat tightens, tears threatening. They believe in me still. Even Mira glances my way, eyes shining with pride. The crowd’s chant intensifies, drowning the orcs’ derision.

I square my shoulders, locking eyes with the orc chieftain. “I may not wear champion’s regalia, but I have Freedmen, crafters, city guards who see your treachery. If you want this city, come through us.”

He raises an axe, pointing it at me. “So be it. We will crush Freedmen and claim our prize.”

Vaelen hisses in alarm, realizing a direct fight might shatter his half-lies.

But the orc chieftain, undone by his own greed, bellows at his warriors.

They brandish weapons, forming a menacing wedge on the arena sand.

Freedmen pour down from the stands in response, ringed by crafters holding improvised shields.

Senators scatter, some seeking cover, others sobbing that this was never meant to be.

The city stands on the brink of a brawl right here in the colosseum.

Amid the chaos, I raise my arms again, shouting above the din. “Milthar, see who stands for you! Freedmen, crafters, loyal guards—united. The Senate’s corruption allowed orcs inside. But we can drive them out if we stand together. Are you with me?”

A thunderous cheer erupts. Even some city guards in official uniform rush forward, dropping illusions of neutrality, rallying behind Freedmen lines. Vaelen sputters, powerless now that his scheme is exposed. Ortem, face grim, stands near the dais, possibly rethinking the entire Senate structure.

The orc warband wavers, seeing the mass of Freedmen swelling.

But their chieftain roars, raising his axe to lead a final charge.

Fear knots my gut. A bloody battle in the arena could ravage half the city’s able defenders.

Yet we have no choice. If we yield, orcs enslave everyone.

If we fight, we risk many lives. I can’t let them harm Mira or Freedmen.

Suddenly, Mira steps forward, voice slicing the uproar. “Wait! Orc chieftain, if it’s a fight you want, why spill more blood than necessary? Remanos once bested your champion in fair combat. Let him stand again if you truly seek a duel.”

A hush hits, some Freedmen calling out in agreement.

My breath catches. She’s referencing the old tradition of a champion’s duel to settle disputes.

But I have no champion rank, no war hammer.

Still, orcs respect such fights. The orc chieftain narrows his eyes at Mira, half-impressed by her audacity.

“A champion’s duel with a champion who surrendered his hammer? He’s nothing now.”

A Freedman calls from the stands, “He’s champion in our hearts! Let him face you if you claim to want war for her sake.”

Another Freedman picks up the cry, “Champion’s duel! One on one, no more bloodshed!”

The entire colosseum takes up the chant, enthralled by the possibility of a single combat preventing open war.

The orc chieftain eyes the crowd’s fervor, uncertain.

Vaelen’s expression contorts with fury—this duel robs him of the chance to let orcs crush Freedmen en masse.

Mira remains close, heart pounding. She glances at me, silent question: Will you do this?

My mind reels. I’m unarmed, officially dethroned. But Freedmen’s roar vibrates in the arena’s bones. The orc chieftain slowly lowers his axe, tail whipping. “One last duel, then, to settle this. But if I win, the city surrenders the woman and all Freedmen. If you somehow best me, orcs withdraw.”

My Freedmen cheer, though the stakes are gut-wrenching. I swallow, peering at Mira. She nods, tears shining. “We stand or fall, together,” she mouths.

I turn to the orc chieftain, raising my voice, “Agreed. We fight here, in the arena. If I fall, you take me first. Let Freedmen go. You have my word I won’t resist if you beat me.”

He snarls a grin, evidently relishing the thought of toppling a dethroned champion.

Freedmen scuttle to clear the sand, ushering crafters and city watchers behind the pillars.

The colosseum hushes, every gaze fixed on the ring of dust swirling between me and the orc chieftain.

My heart hammers. No champion’s hammer, no official rank, but Freedmen’s faith stands behind me. I can’t fail them.

One Freedman—Tila—offers me a sturdy spear, battered but serviceable. I grasp it, arms shaking with adrenaline. The orc chieftain flexes his massive axe, lips peeled in a savage grin. The hush stretches, thick with anticipation. Then he charges, letting out a guttural roar.

I react on instinct, diving to the side.

Sand sprays under my hooves. His axe cleaves the air where I stood an instant before.

Freedmen cry encouragement from the stands.

My chest burns with the memory of countless arena battles, each breath a reminder that this city once adored me as champion.

Now, I fight not for applause, but for Mira and Freedmen’s future.

The orc comes again, a lateral slash aimed at my torso.

I block with the spear’s shaft, the impact jarring my arms to the bone.

My knees buckle. He’s powerful. Another blow hammers my guard aside.

Freedmen gasp. I roll away, narrowly evading a strike that gouges the sand.

The chieftain huffs, sneering at my battered spear.

He senses I lack the hammer’s punishing weight.

Yet Freedmen chant, “Remanos, Remanos,” fueling my resolve.

I circle him, waiting for an opening. He lunges again, overhead chop.

I parry, letting the force slide off the spear’s tip, stepping inside his guard.

I slam my shoulder into his chest, off-balancing him.

The orc snarls, staggering. A flicker of triumph surges through me.

But he recovers swiftly, throwing a backhand that cracks against my side.

Pain explodes, forcing a ragged gasp. I stumble, fighting to keep hold of the spear.

He capitalizes on my stumble, swinging the axe low.

I grunt, twisting painfully to avoid the deadly arc, the blade cutting a shallow line across my thigh.

Blood wells, but I grit my teeth. Freedmen’s outcry echoes in the stands.

Mira’s voice rings above it, frantic with worry. I push through the agony. I can’t fail.