Page 9

REMANOS

I stand beneath the colosseum’s arches, staring at a patch of sunlight that stretches across the sand.

My heart thumps a steady rhythm in my chest, each beat a reminder that everything changes today.

The smell of sweat and torches wafts through the corridor, mingling with the sharper tang of steel and tanned leather.

Overhead, the stands vibrate with anticipation.

I hear the crowd stomp their hooves on the stone bleachers and shout my name through the archway—a low, thunderous chant that drills into my skull.

Three days of tense preparation have passed in a blur.

Training, overseeing estate guards, trying to avoid political entanglements with the Senate.

Each sunrise has brought me closer to this moment.

Now, at the threshold of the arena, I can’t decide if I’m relieved to finally act or worried about what a single mistake might cost.

I grip the war hammer in my right hand. Its handle is worn smooth from countless bouts, the runes etched along the wooden shaft half-faded by sweat and time.

A coil of tension winds itself around my gut, but I school my expression into calm.

Champions don’t falter before the crowd.

They don’t show fear. At least, that’s what I’ve been told since I first set foot here.

A horn blasts overhead, its brassy note echoing off the curved walls.

The colosseum gate begins to rise, pulled by thick chains.

Sand trickles down, a soft drizzle, as the barrier rattles open.

Light floods through, and I step forward into the dusty glare.

Cheers erupt in a wave that seems to shake the ground beneath my hooves.

My name booms from thousands of throats, rattling my ribs.

High above the stands, the sky is a startling blue streaked with wispy clouds.

The entire structure—a grand stone oval ringed by tiered seats—feels as though it pulses with living energy.

I pause dead center in the ring, scanning rows of expectant faces.

Their eyes shine with hope, excitement, even a lust for blood.

Minotaur lords in their fine robes preside near the dais, while commoners in the higher seats wave improvised banners.

My attention shifts to the far side, where a row of orcs stands behind an iron gate, their expressions grim.

The orc champion, a hulking figure with greenish-gray skin and a broad chest, is already stepping onto the sand.

His armor is pieced together from hides and metal plates, with tusks curving upward from his lower jaw.

I see fury blazing in his red-rimmed eyes, as if he’s been promised a feast of vengeance.

Between us stands Senator Ortem, staff in hand, prepared to officiate.

His voice echoes across the colosseum: “Citizens of Milthar and assembled visitors, be witness to this champion’s duel!

Should Remanos Ironhide emerge victorious, the orc warband agrees to withdraw peacefully from our lands.

Should he fall, the city must pay the orcs’ demanded tribute.

” He glances my way, then at the orcs. “Fighters, take your positions.”

I trudge forward, war hammer slung across my shoulder, gaze fixed on the orc champion.

The sense of looming conflict ripples up my spine, but I focus on the steady in and out of my breath.

This is not my first time in the arena, nor my first fight to the death.

Yet the stakes have never felt higher. Past battles I fought for personal glory or to maintain the city’s morale.

Today, failure means not just my life but everything else on the line: Mira's freedom, the city’s trade, the Senate’s precarious hold on peace.

Mira. I spot her just for a second standing near the dais—guarded, of course.

She’s forced to watch this contest that decides her fate.

She’s wearing a tunic borrowed from my estate, and a part of me notices how it fits her slender figure, accentuating sun-kissed skin and the set of her jaw.

Her hair, a burnished light brown, catches the sunlight in copper highlights.

I see the anger in her eyes, but there’s something else: a spark of worry.

Even if she despises this entire arrangement, part of her must realize the alternative if I lose.

I tear my gaze away, forcing my thoughts back to the fight. The orc champion stomps closer, gripping a massive axe studded with black iron. A hush settles in the stands as Ortem raises his staff. “Begin!”

The orc springs forward with a speed that startles me.

I barely pivot in time, bringing my hammer up to block the descending edge of his axe.

Metal screams against metal. A burst of sparks ignites between us.

The force of his blow shoots through my arms, jarring my shoulders.

I press back, tail lashing the air, and shove him aside.

He skids in the sand, a snarl twisting his features.

We exchange a furious series of blows—my hammer hooking around the axe’s shaft, his heavy swings threatening to split me in two if I slip up.

Each clash rattles my bones. My hooves kick up sand, adrenaline pounding in my ears.

The crowd’s roar escalates, fueling the tension in the surroundings.

They love this—two unstoppable warriors locked in mortal combat.

I test his defenses with a lateral strike, which he parries.

He lunges in with the butt of his axe, knocking me in the side.

Pain flares across my ribs, but I grit my teeth and pivot away from a follow-up slash.

My hammer arcs overhead. He braces, catching the blow on his axe handle.

The shock reverberates up my arms, stinging.

We circle each other, breath ragged, flecks of sand clinging to our sweat-damp fur and skin.

The orc champion’s eyes blaze with an unnatural gleam, his muscles bulging beneath tattoos that wrap around his thick biceps.

Something is off about him—his strength surpasses what I’d expect, even for a powerful orc.

My mind flickers to rumors of potions or concoctions that orcs sometimes brew to heighten their physical prowess.

That might explain his speed and the near-frenzied aggression in each strike.

He advances again, pressing me with a series of swipes aimed to corner me near the arena’s edge.

I shift, feint, and deliver a punishing blow to his side, but he snarls through the pain, slamming the haft of his axe across my chest. The impact sends me staggering backward.

My breath knocks loose from my lungs, and for a moment, my vision blurs.

The stands tilt around me. I stumble, ignoring the throbbing in my ribs.

A jagged hush rips across the crowd, as if they’re uncertain whether I can recover.

In the periphery of my vision, I see movement near the dais Mira pushing forward a step, then halting when a guard seizes her arm.

Her face is a mask of worry, though anger still shines in her features.

The two emotions blend into something that makes my heart twist. I snarl, forcing my attention back to my opponent.

The orc champ lunges, brandishing the axe in a brutal overhead swing meant to cleave my skull.

I roll beneath his blade, the sand grinding against my shoulder.

I rise on one knee and slam my hammer into his abdomen.

The force doubles him over. He coughs, spittle flying, but he swings wildly with the side of his axe, catching my forearm.

A line of pain rips through muscle. Blood seeps into my fur.

I almost drop the hammer from the sudden agony.

The crowd gasps. Sweat drips down my brow.

I clench my wounded arm, refusing to let go of my weapon.

If I drop it, I’m as good as dead. My gaze flickers to the stands, scanning for Senator Vaelen.

I spot him near Ortem, arms folded, gaze intense.

I can’t read his expression, but I suspect the outcome of this fight matters more to him than he lets on.

Maybe he’s hoping I fail, or perhaps he just wants to ensure the city stays in line.

Either way, I refuse to die to further some hidden agenda.

With a growl, I heft my hammer again and rush the orc.

Pain lances through my forearm at every movement, but I push past it, letting adrenaline sharpen my focus.

My hammer collides with his axe in a ringing clang, then I twist, hooking the axe blade with the hammer’s curved top.

For an instant, we lock eyes—mine simmering with stubborn resolve, his burning with savage glee.

I bite down on my teeth and yank, disarming him.

The axe clatters onto the sand a yard away.

He snarls something in Orcish and tries to deliver a punch to my jaw.

I swerve, slamming the flat of my hammer into his chest. He staggers.

A cry goes up from the stands—a mixture of cheers and jeers.

I follow up with another strike, hooking him behind the knee.

He topples, chest heaving, rage etched on his face.

Now’s the chance to end it. My arm throbs, but I raise the hammer overhead, intending to bring it down in a decisive blow.

Just then, the orc champion’s hand flashes to his belt.

He withdraws a short knife coated with black ichor.

Poison, perhaps. He thrusts upward in a desperate attempt, slicing across my torso.

A searing pain carves into my flesh, and I lose half a second to pure shock.

Gritting my teeth, I smash the hammer down, narrowly missing his arm.

The blade scrapes my side again, and I roar, stamping one hoof onto his wrist. Bones pop beneath the pressure, and the knife falls to the sand.

A hush ripples through the colosseum. Even the orc warband stands eerily still. They know this is the end. They can sense it.