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Ortem nods, understanding, then steps away to quell further arguments among lesser senators.

The colosseum hums with Freedmen cheering, crafters hugging each other, city watchers laying down arms. My chest feels full to bursting.

We overcame the orcs, forced a confession from Vaelen, and Freedmen thrived without the Senate’s hollow sanction.

Freedmen and crafters part so Remanos and I can leave.

He leans on me, every step a wince from his battered thigh, but a triumph nonetheless.

Freedmen erupt in applause, clearing a path.

My own tears spill as I help him out of the arena, where the morning sun bathes the stands in golden light.

No more illusions or forced spectacles. The city sees Freedmen as defenders, not enemies.

Once we reach the outer corridors, Freedmen stay behind to coordinate cleanup, round up the last traitors.

I guide Remanos into a quiet hallway where medics set up a makeshift infirmary.

He collapses onto a bench, relief sagging his frame.

I kneel, gently unwrapping his blood-soaked bandage.

My heart squeezes at the sight of deep gashes, but they’re not mortal.

He groans softly. “I might actually rest this time.”

I huff a teary laugh. “Good, because you’re about to keel over.” Carefully cleaning the wounds, I murmur, “No award as champion, no official seat, but Freedmen hail you as their real champion. And you forced Vaelen to confess instead of killing him.”

He exhales in a trembling sigh. “I didn’t want more bloodshed. He can rot in a prison cell for all I care. Freedmen’s unity is worth more than revenge.”

I swallow emotion, pressing fresh cloth to his thigh. “You taught me real honor. Not the Senate’s brand, but the kind that defends those cast aside.”

He lifts a shaky hand, resting it on my cheek. “You taught me the city’s worth defending for more than pomp. Freedmen, crafters, you—they’re my purpose.”

My tears slip free. Freedmen pass us by, carrying supplies, but we exist in our own bubble of relief and heartbreak. My voice trembles, “Thank you for never giving up. Even stripped of rank, you fought for me—for all of us.”

He cups my chin, eyes brimming. “I’d fight a thousand battles if it keeps you safe.”

Despite the swirl of Freedmen and crafters, I lean in, brushing a gentle kiss over his muzzle. He leans into it, ignoring the pain in his leg. Our foreheads press, a shared breath of relief. The city might be battered, but we stand on new ground, Freedmen recognized, Vaelen undone, orcs repelled.

At length, Freedmen respectfully approach, announcing that the Senate flees back to the forum for an emergency session, some clamoring to re-instate a Freedman presence.

Ortem tries to manage the chaos. Rumors swirl that city laws will be reformed to prevent any future “human spoils.” A piece of my heart glows with hope that Milthar might become a city that values all.

Remanos grunts, trying to stand. I push him down gently. “No. You rest. Freedmen can handle the rest of the day’s madness.”

His tail flicks, half-protest, half-acceptance. “Fine, but soon, we’ll need to shape the city’s future. Freedmen must hold seats in the Senate. You, crafters, city guards—everyone.”

I nod. “Yes. A new beginning.”

He lifts his gaze, a tired smile ghosting his lips. “Mira, you remain my reason to keep fighting. Even if the entire city stands behind me, I look to you first.”

My throat locks with tears. “Then you’ll never fight alone.”

We lapse into a quiet, healing hush as Freedmen pass, offering praise, cloth for bandages, or stunned gratitude.

The final confrontation concluded not with orc conquest, but Freedmen’s triumph.

Vaelen is exposed, the orcs departed, traitorous champion subdued.

Freedmen claim the arena as their own now, a symbol that the city belongs to every honest soul, not just the Senate’s illusions.

Remanos lets the medics guide him onto a stretcher.

Freedmen carefully lift him, determined to treat his wounds properly this time.

I walk beside him, holding his hand. The colosseum behind us echoes with Freedmen’s cheers.

My mind whirls, imagining the city’s next steps: trials for Vaelen, a reformed Senate, Freedmen forging new laws.

And at the center, Remanos and I, no longer prisoner and champion, but partners who risked everything for each other.

As we exit the colosseum’s grand archway into the bright morning sun, Freedmen part, cheering, chanting Remanos’s name and mine.

A wave of gratitude surges through me, tears slipping free again.

I meet Remanos’s gaze. He looks exhausted yet profoundly content, as though the burden he carried so long finally lifted.

We pause under the arch, Freedmen forming a protective circle around us. He squeezes my hand. “This city stands free of Vaelen’s grip. Freedmen no longer cower. Orc threat recedes. And you—” He falters, voice raw. “You’re safe.”

My chest feels too full. I bend, pressing my lips softly to his temple. “Safe in your arms, and Freedmen’s unstoppable unity.”

He closes his eyes, relief flowing. Around us, Freedmen cheer louder, moved by the sight.

Some crafters wave battered banners, chanting about forging a new Milthar.

I sense we’re on the cusp of a brighter era, a city no longer shackled by old biases.

No more illusions of humans as spoils, or Freedmen as lesser.

We overcame the final battle, forced Vaelen’s confession, and earned our place in Milthar’s heart.

At last, we move on, Freedmen guiding Remanos’s stretcher toward the city’s forum.

The day belongs to them, to crafters, to guards who embraced justice over fear.

In the days to come, we’ll watch a new structure rise from the ashes of Vaelen’s schemes—a city shaped by Freedmen’s voice.

And as we traverse the streets, Freedmen chanting, citizens flocking to see the wounded but unbowed bull who fought orcs and corruption, I hold my head high.

Yes, we still have countless challenges.

But now, Remanos and I face them side by side, Freedmen at our backs, no Senate lies to hold us down.

The final battle is won, and with it, the vow Remanos made—to protect me, to forge a better city—stands fulfilled.

I cling to him as we pass cheering crowds, tears mixing with laughter, the taste of freedom on the wind.

We won. Freedmen, crafters, city guards, and a dethroned champion turned Freedman.

We unmasked the conspirators, forced orcs to withdraw, and now we walk into a future bound not by Senate mandates but by a unity forged in the crucible of adversity.

Our fight might not be truly over—peace is never guaranteed.

But for the first time, I see hope radiating across Milthar’s battered streets, a hope that Freedmen will help rebuild, champion or not.

And at the center of it, Remanos and I share a simple truth: we fought together, we bled together, and we emerged stronger.