Stepping to the arena’s edge, I glance up at the vacant stands one last time.Goodbye, colosseum.This place raised me, forging me into the champion Milthar once adored. Now I realize champion’s rank was just a veneer. True honor comes from standing for what’s right, even if it means facing condemnation. Mira gave me the courage to see that.
A voice echoes behind me: a Freedman scout, a young bull with anxious eyes. He stands at the arch, hesitant. “Ex—sir. We’ve news. Ortem wants to meet you at the southern watchtower. Orc troops approach. The Senate is in disarray.”
My heart pounds. War is truly looming. I nod, swallowing the ache in my throat. “Then let’s go.”
He hesitates, searching my face. “Will you fight them… without the champion’s authority?”
I square my shoulders, the old ache replaced by a fierce spark. “I will fight for Milthar, Freedman or not. We stand together.”
He inclines his head, relief mingling with uncertainty, and disappears to fetch the others. I gaze around the empty stands, the hush thick with farewell.I’d do it all again.That mantra steels me. For Mira’s sake. For the Freedmen’s. For a city lost to Senate corruption. Even stripped of my rank, I am still Remanos Ironhide, and I will not let Vaelen’s twisted bargains go unchallenged.
Exiting the arena, I stride through the colosseum’s outer halls, determined. My Freedmen wait in the plaza beyond, some carrying gear, uncertain if they should present arms to a champion no longer recognized by the Senate. But as I step forth, they form a protective ring around me, quiet devotion lighting their eyes. They don’t need a formal champion’s crest to follow me. That raw loyalty stokes the embers of my will. I can still lead them if they trust me enough.
The walk from the colosseum back into the city is tense. Residents gather in pockets, gossiping about orc sightings near the gate. Some stare at me in shock, spotting my missing hammer, my absence of champion’s insignia. A few Freedmen from the crowd call out, “We stand with you!” Others shake their heads, uncertain how to respond. But no one openly challenges me. Perhaps they sense that a bigger threat than me looms.
I vow to meet Ortem at the watchtower, see if he’s ready to drop his caution and help repel an orc siege. Even stripped of rank, I might rally enough voices to expose Vaelen before it’s too late. The knowledge that Mira remains somewhere safe in the estate—likely bracing for the storm—bolsters my resolve. I fight for her, for the Freedmen who believed in me, for a city worth saving beneath the Senate’s corruption.
As we pass a temple spire, a Freedman at my side whispers, “They can’t break you, champion, even if they took your hammer.” His quiet words ignite a flicker of warmth. I managea small, grim smile, memories of the colosseum swirling in my mind. Perhaps my legend won’t fade so easily.
I recall how only hours ago I knelt in that same arena sand, wrestling with despair. My identity felt shredded. But in that lonely moment, I realized Mira is the reason I keep standing. Her determination pushed me to defy the Senate, to shield her from orc captivity. And ironically, in saving her, I might save Milthar from an even darker fate. She kindled a deeper sense of honor in me: not the Senate’s brand of hollow pomp, but a truer loyalty built on compassion and justice.
Stepping over a broken cobblestone, I let my Freedmen lead me down a winding side street. My mind replays the Senate’s humiliating decree:Stripped of champion rank.The final blow to everything I built in the arena. Yet the bitterness recedes under a quieter conviction. If I must be a Freedman myself to keep fighting, so be it. If the orcs march in fueled by Vaelen’s gold, I’ll stand in their path with or without a sanctioned title.
As we near the watchtower’s base, an alarmed hush spreads. Guards scurry about, vantage scouts pointing to distant shapes beyond the city walls—orc warbands, perhaps. My Freedmen tense, some muttering curses. The threat is real, and we have no champion recognized by the Senate to muster official defenses. I sense the heaviness among them: if the Senate doesn’t rally the city’s forces, the Freedmen alone might be all that stands between orcs and the gates.
Ortem waits on a landing halfway up the watchtower’s spiraling stairs, flanked by two younger senators. His face twists with discomfort when he sees me, conflict rippling through his gaze. I climb to meet him, Freedmen piling up behind. Before anyone can speak, he lifts a placating hand.
“Remanos,” he begins, voice subdued, “we can’t let orcs pass unchecked. But the Senate is… in chaos. Some side with Vaelen,others suspect his motives. We need a champion to unite the guard. Yet you stand stripped of rank.”
I swallow, tail flicking in exasperation. “Then rally your fellow senators to see reason. If Vaelen leads them blindly, orcs will overrun Milthar. That’s no future for any of us.”
He exhales, gaze flicking to the Freedmen’s stern faces. “I tried. Vaelen has a hold on the majority. They claim you’ve become a renegade, steering Freedmen into rebellion.”
My jaw tightens. “What do you suggest, Ortem? Wait for orcs to march in? Let Vaelen claim leadership unopposed?”
He shakes his head, voice brimming with regret. “I don’t know. The Bavkus might call for an emergency war counsel. But Vaelen manipulates them so deftly. Our best hope is a show of unity from Freedmen and merchants. If we can force a full Senate session, reveal Vaelen’s orc deals, they may reconsider your demotion. Provided you stand ready to defend the city without Mira’s involvement.”
A spike of anger flares. “That’s not negotiable. I won’t cast her aside for the Senate’s false unity.”
Ortem grimaces. “I feared you’d say that. Time grows short. The orcs mass near the outer farmland. If they strike soon, we need every spear.” He closes his eyes. “Please, find a way to unify Freedmen, hamper Vaelen’s dominance. I’ll try to muster moderate senators.”
A strange sense of gratitude stirs in me at Ortem’s subdued sincerity. He’s no paragon, but at least he sees the city’s danger. I nod curtly. “We’ll do what we must. If orcs breach the walls, Freedmen won’t stand idle. Whether the Senate calls me champion or not is irrelevant.”
Ortem’s gaze holds pity. “I wish it hadn’t come to this.” Then he motions for the younger senators to follow him up the tower, likely to keep watch for the orc approach.
I linger, Freedmen shifting in uncertain silence. The torchlight along the stone walls flickers across their anxious faces. They want leadership, someone to rally behind. I might be champion no longer, but I can’t abandon them. Clinging to that thought, I descend the stairs, stepping outside into the dawn-laced sky. Orc banners flutter somewhere beyond the horizon, carried by a morning breeze. My Freedmen gather, waiting for my word.
One Freedman, older with a scar on his brow, steps forward. “We stand with you, champion or Freedman. If orcs attack, we’ll defend Milthar.” He glances toward the city gates in the distance, voice wavering, “But do we still follow your command?”
My throat tightens. “Yes,” I say. “We muster in the southern courtyard. Strengthen defenses. Rally merchants who fear orc looting. Let them see that Vaelen’s path is ruin.”
They nod, relief in their eyes that I’m not backing down. We move off in a tight formation, Freedmen passing the word through side streets. The day’s early light reveals the city in uneasy slumber—merchants warily opening stalls, rumors swirling of orcs at the gates. My Freedmen gather near the southern courtyard, forming ranks. Onlookers hush at the sight: a champion dethroned, yet Freedmen arrayed in loyal unity.
Standing before them, I swallow hard. No war hammer on my back, no official crest. Only the battered leather armor I used for routine training. But a fire stirs in my chest: I am still Remanos Ironhide. I raise my voice so Freedmen and any citizens in earshot can hear. “Milthar stands on the brink. Orc mercenaries lurk outside, bribed by traitorous nobles. The Senate claims I am no champion, but Freedmen, do we yield the city’s fate to them?”
A rumble of negation echoes. My heart lifts. “Then we stand for Milthar ourselves. We gather arms, we guard these streets.If the orcs press in, we defend the city’s people. The Senate may cast me out, but they cannot cast out our devotion to Milthar.”
Cheers erupt, subdued yet resolute. Merchant passersby pause, some looking thoughtful. A trickle of hope courses through me: even stripped of title, perhaps my Freedmen’s stance can inspire common folk to resist orc infiltration. Vaelen might not find the city as malleable as he hopes.
