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 orcscrush 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 thebone. 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.
Summoning a burst of adrenaline, I feint high, tricking him into raising his axe. Then I slash the spear’s tip across his exposed flank. He roars, blood spattering onto the sand. Anger contorts his features. Freedmen cheer, but the orc unleashes a renewed onslaught, hacking at me with savage fury. I dodge left, block right, each impact jolting my wounded side. My lungs burn. If I slip once, that axe cleaves me in half.
The chant of Freedmen swells, urging me on. The orc panting, eyes blazing with wrath. He’s used to quick kills, yet I stand defiant. My gaze flicks to Mira—she clutches the railing, tears streaking her cheeks. Our eyes lock for a heartbeat, and I sense her unspoken plea:Come back alive.A fierce wave of protective resolve floods me.I will not leave her to the orcs.
Growling, the orc tries a sweeping blow from the side. I duck, letting the blade slice air overhead. Then I thrust the spear’s butt into his gut, driving the wind from him. He staggers. Freedmenroar. Seizing momentum, I pivot, ramming the spear tip at his chest. He barely parries with the axe handle, but my strike pierces flesh near his shoulder. Blood seeps, and he bellows in rage, smashing my spear aside again. The wooden shaft cracks, splitting my only weapon in two.
A hush of horror grips Freedmen. The orc sees my broken spear, triumph flashing in his eyes. He lunges, swinging the axe in a lethal downward arc. With no time to dodge fully, I catch the blade’s haft between the splintered spear ends, straining to halt its descent. My arms tremble, muscles screaming. The orc applies crushing force, inching the axe closer to my face. Sweat drips into my eyes, blurring my vision. I let out a desperate roar, twisting the broken spear in a last effort.
For a moment, it seems I’ll fail, his raw strength overpowering me. Then I recall everything at stake Mira’s life, Freedmen’s hope, the city’s future. A surge of defiance burns through my veins.I will not break.I shift my weight abruptly, letting the axe slip sideways. The orc overbalances, stumbling forward. I snap the spear’s splintered end upward, raking across his throat. Blood spurts. He gargles, dropping to his knees, axe slipping from limp fingers.
A shocked hush grips the colosseum. Freedmen freeze, expecting me to deliver the final blow. The orc clutches his neck, glaring at me with a feral fury that flickers into glazed shock. I pant, chest heaving, my side throbbing from the battered wound. Freedmen erupt in cheers, the stands ringing with shouts of relief and awe. Senators stare, stunned, some half-rising from their seats. Vaelen gapes, outraged.
The orc collapses facedown, blood staining the sand. My Freedmen rush forward, forming a protective ring around me. The rest of the orc warband stands in shock, uncertain whether to avenge their leader or flee. Mira vaults down from the stands,pushing past Freedmen, eyes brimming with tears. She skids to my side, arms trembling as she reaches for me.
I lower the broken spear, breathing uneven. My gaze meets hers, heartbreak and triumph mingling. Her voice trembles, “Remanos… you did it.”
