Page 48

MIRA

I stand just inside the wide arches of the colosseum, heart hammering so loudly I swear everyone must hear it.

Early sunlight slants across the stands, revealing a messy tableau of Freedmen, crafters, and city guards armed with makeshift weapons—unified in defiance of any further treachery.

The air crackles with fear and determination.

Remanos, still wounded from the previous duel, is at my side, refusing any suggestion to remain behind.

His eyes gleam with quiet resolve, a promise he won’t abandon me again, no matter the cost.

We arrived moments ago to the echo of enraged shouting from the arena’s center, where orcs and traitorous nobles face off with Freedmen squads.

The scene spreads like a dire tapestry: a scattering of orc enforcers brandishing heavy axes, a swath of battered Freedmen gripping spears, the dais occupied by Vaelen and two other colluding nobles.

I glimpse senators huddled in an elevated section, some fearful, some furious.

Clearly, negotiations have failed; violence brims beneath every glare.

My mouth runs dry. Not long ago, Remanos forced the orc champion to retreat, exposing Vaelen’s twisted ploy.

But it seems the conspirators have dragged new orc enforcers into the fray for a last, desperate attempt at controlling the city.

My Freedmen presence swells behind me, bristling with weapons.

I step forward anyway, ignoring the tension quivering in my limbs.

This is it. If we don’t end the conspiracy here, Milthar will slip into chaos.

Remanos steadies himself against a broken pillar.

His injuries haven’t fully healed; his thigh is wrapped with fresh bandages, and bruises darken his arms. But his gaze sweeps over the arena, unwavering.

When he spots me studying him, he offers a faint smile.

“I’m fine,” he whispers. “Better to see this through than let more orcs slip in.”

I nod, breath shallow. Freedmen surge into the seating around us, forming ranks on the arena’s edge.

An orc steps forward—hulking, with an iron-spiked club strapped to his belt.

He’s flanked by two smaller but equally savage-looking orc enforcers.

They glare at Freedmen in the stands, flaring their nostrils, then fix their attention on Vaelen upon the dais.

Vaelen stands tall, cloak embroidered with gold.

Despite the swirl of chaos, he tries to exude authority—an authority we’ve painstakingly unraveled.

A hush falls as the orc points a thick-fingered hand at Vaelen. “You promised gold and vantage in this city. Where is it? We see Freedmen in arms, your plan in tatters.”

Vaelen’s face flushes with anger, glancing at the crafters and Freedmen who hold the arena’s periphery. “I told you to crush them quickly! Then we’d secure the gates. The Senate would be forced to obey once their Freedmen were defeated.”

One of the traitorous nobles near Vaelen, a gray-furred minotaur with polished horns, mutters, “We never expected Freedmen to rally so strongly behind Remanos. We can still salvage this if we move swiftly. The city is panicked.”

I clench my fists. They speak as though Freedmen stand no chance. Yet Freedmen have proven their loyalty repeatedly, and the crafters have joined us, brandishing everything from battered swords to metalworking tools. Not a single Freedman appears ready to surrender.

An orc enforcer sneers at Vaelen. “We see no easy conquest here. Freedmen outnumber your Senate guard. If you have no gold to pay us, we withdraw.” His words echo with threat, a realization that their so-called allies might be leading them into a losing fight.

Vaelen’s frustration flares. “You can’t withdraw! We had a deal—take Mira for your orc lords, kill any Freedman who resists, and the city’s gates open to your trade. I told you, I just need her in your clutches, publicly, so Freedmen lose morale.”

My stomach twists at the shameless cruelty in his tone.

Freedmen shift, glaring daggers at Vaelen.

This is the final unraveling of his conspiracy: offering me up as a trophy to break Freedmen’s unity.

The orcs, though, sense no gold forthcoming, no easy path to subdue Freedmen.

They look ready to tear Vaelen to shreds or depart.

I exchange a quick glance with Remanos. He steels his jaw, steps forward, and raises his voice. “Vaelen, your plot is laid bare. The orcs see your failure. Freedmen hold the colosseum stands. Your illusions are done. Surrender now before more blood is shed.”

Vaelen whips around, eyes gleaming with hatred. “Spare me your sanctimony, Freedman. You lost champion rank. No one follows you but these worthless laborers.” He gestures violently at the Freedmen squads, who bristle at the insult.

A Freedman voice from the stands calls, “We follow him by choice! Not your rotten Senate orders!”

Another Freedman yells, “Mira uncovered your orc deals. We know you’ve sold out the city.”

A ragged cheer breaks from the crafters. Vaelen’s sneer falters. The orc with the spiked club steps closer to him, frustration rolling off his posture. “You promised us gold. We see none. We see Freedmen in arms. You lied about easy conquest.”

Remanos and I exchange a silent nod. The orcs might turn on Vaelen themselves if they realize no profit awaits.

But Vaelen, cornered, lashes out, voice trembling with rage, “Fine. If you orcs want your spoils, fight Freedmen now! Or must I summon my champion to show you how it’s done?

” He snaps his fingers, and from the dais steps a colossal minotaur champion, presumably one of the upper-class or a well-paid mercenary.

This new champion clutches a wicked glaive, horns adorned with metal tips.

My heart leaps. Freedmen recoil at the champion’s imposing figure.

Some whisper that he’s a renowned pit-fighter from a distant city, lured by Vaelen’s gold.

The champion descends the steps onto the arena sand, glancing at the orc enforcers.

They grunt in grudging approval, forming an uneasy alliance.

Remanos edges forward, ignoring his bandaged thigh.

My pulse skitters. He’s still wounded. Freedmen watch with bated breath.

The traitorous champion stamps once, glaring at Remanos.

“You call yourself Freedmen’s hero? Dare face me in combat if you think you can defy the Senate’s rightful authority. ”

Freedmen around me murmur anxiously. I see Tila among them, a spear in hand, her eyes flicking to Remanos’s injured leg.

He can’t keep fighting alone. But Remanos lifts his head, speaking with quiet grit.

“I stand for Freedmen and the city they love. If your blades serve Vaelen’s corruption, I’ll fight you. ”

The champion snorts. The orc enforcers cluster behind him, brandishing heavy axes. Vaelen stands on the dais, arms crossed, triumphant grin returning to his muzzle. “Yes, try your Freedman luck, Remanos. You’ll fall quickly, and the orcs will seize Mira anyway.”

I can’t bear the thought of another savage duel.

Freedmen must see my distress because they surge in, yelling they’ll fight en masse.

But Remanos turns, lifting a hand to forestall them.

“If we all clash, the city bleeds more. Let me settle this. I fought an orc champion before. I can handle this traitor’s champion, too. ”

Anguish twists in my chest. I want to beg him not to push his wounded body.

But I see unwavering resolve in his eyes.

He steps onto the arena’s sand again, the place that once hailed him champion.

The traitor champion lifts his glaive in a mocking salute.

My Freedmen shift in the stands, tension coiled.

The orc enforcers watch hungrily, perhaps ready to intervene if Remanos gains an advantage.

My fists tremble. I look to Tiro, Freedmen near me. “We can’t let them ambush him. If the orcs jump in, we defend.” They nod, eyes grim.

Remanos retrieves a battered halberd from a Freedman who volunteers it, albeit with tearful worry.

The battered weapon looks meager compared to the champion’s ornate glaive.

Vaelen laughs scornfully from the dais, as if relishing Remanos’s final downfall.

My blood boils at his cruelty. The colosseum hushes again.

Deep inside, I ache to rush forward, shout that I’ll fight too, but Freedmen bar my path, knowing I’m no match for that champion.

Helpless, I watch Remanos circle his opponent.

The champion stands a good half-foot taller, horns sharpened, every muscle taut.

Remanos is skilled, but he’s wounded, and the champion has orc enforcers waiting to pounce if Vaelen commands.

The traitor champion strikes first, a feint that transitions into a sweeping slash.

Remanos parries with the halberd’s pole, wincing from the impact.

Freedmen in the stands murmur, sensing his pain.

My heart clenches. I see sweat bead on his brow, tension pulling at his injuries.

The champion smirks, pressing the attack.

He slashes in a flurry, each blow precise, forcing Remanos to backpedal.

Remanos’s leg trembles, but he refuses to yield.

Cheering Freedmen offer moral support. They chant his name, urging him on. Vaelen barks at the champion to end it quickly. The orcs hiss, brandishing axes, evidently prepared to jump in. I burn with dread. If orcs intervene, Freedmen will charge, resulting in a bloodbath. We can’t let that happen.

Remanos parries another blow, halberd vibrating with each strike.

The champion attempts a vicious thrust aimed at Remanos’s torso.

Remanos pivots, hooking the glaive aside, then tries to ram the champion’s flank with the halberd spike.

He lands a shallow cut along the champion’s ribs, drawing a snarl of pain.

Freedmen cheer. The champion snarls, rage flaring.