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My knees threaten to buckle, but Freedmen support me. The orc warband, seeing their champion bleed out, wavers, some stepping back. Freedmen brandish weapons, ready to repulse them if they lunge. Vaelen tries to roar over the confusion, voice cracking, “Orcs, kill them all! The city is yours!”

But the orcs don’t move. Their champion lost. Their impetus for easy victory crumbles under Freedmen’s united front. Some orcs, uncertain and leaderless, begin dragging the chieftain’s body away. Freedmen crowd them, but I raise a weary hand. “Let them leave. If they have sense, they’ll withdraw,” I manage hoarsely.

Gradually, the orc warband backs off, carrying their fallen champion. Freedmen and crafters hiss warnings, brandishing spears to ensure the orcs’ path out of the colosseum remains unchallenged but guarded. The tension remains thick, though it feels like the threat dissipates with every orc who retreats.

Mira clutches my arm, tears on her cheeks. “Are you hurt badly?”

I shake my head, though pain arcs through my side. “Just a wound. I’ll live.” Freedmen crowd in, offering cloth to stanch my bleeding thigh. I lean on Mira, gratitude flooding me. She’s safe. The orcs yield. Even the Senate’s illusions break under the gaze of thousands who witnessed the duel’s outcome.

Vaelen, seeing his orc allies recede, splutters in rage. “This is a travesty! The Freedmen are traitors, you used sabotage?—”

A furious cry rises from Freedmen and crafters, many calling him out for orchestrating orc infiltration. Ortem steps forward, face grim, addressing the battered dais. “Vaelen, enough. We allsaw your betrayal. This city will not follow your lead.” Senators who once cowered now nod fervently, eyes flicking to Freedmen who outnumber them.

Freedmen surge onto the arena floor, chanting “Remanos! Remanos!” in a wave of victorious relief. My heart feels close to bursting. I stand amid them, battered and drained, yet more alive than ever. Mira loops her arm around my waist, helping me remain upright. She’s still trembling, tears mingling with a fierce smile.

Ortem’s voice rings out, addressing the Senate, “We must hold Vaelen accountable for conspiring with orcs, for sowing chaos. Let the Bavkus judge him in a formal inquiry.” A majority of senators murmur agreement, no longer cowed by Vaelen’s manipulations. Freedmen and crafters cheer, sensing the city’s power shift at last.

Vaelen tries to protest, but Freedmen restrain him. He shouts curses, hurling threats. My Freedmen guard, Tiro, gags him to keep the arena from hearing more vile nonsense. The stands erupt in applause, the tension releasing in an exhalation of triumph.

I slump, pain throbbing. Freedmen crowd around, offering support. Mira kisses my temple in a moment of raw relief. My chest tightens with emotion.We did it.The orcs withdrew, Vaelen’s hold shattered, Freedmen stand victorious in the same arena that once crowned me champion. Now, champion or not, I see how the people genuinely revere the stance I took.

Mira helps me shuffle toward an alcove at the arena’s edge, Freedmen clearing a path. The crowd’s roar lingers behind me, a deafening wave of exultation. Her hands tremble as she presses a cloth against my thigh wound. My entire body shakes, adrenaline finally receding. But the knowledge that Mira stands here, safe, kindles warmth through the pain.

She lifts her gaze, eyes shining. “You’ve saved the city again, champion or Freedman, it doesn’t matter. They see you now for who you truly are.”

A raw laugh escapes me. “They see Freedmen’s unity. I just—did my part.” My voice cracks with exhaustion. Freedmen are gathering in the arena’s center, some hugging each other, some chanting for me. Ortem and a handful of senators watch from the dais, newly humbled, already preparing a purge of Vaelen’s conspirators.

Mira leans close, her breath warm on my ear. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, tears brimming. “You proved them all wrong.”

My throat locks, tears of my own threatening. “Couldn’t have done it without you and Freedmen’s faith. We tore down Vaelen’s conspiracy together.” My chest feels too full, a swirl of relief, love, and bone-deep weariness.

Her hand brushes my cheek softly, eyes brimming with emotion. “Now rest. We’ll need you to unify the city if orcs regroup.”

I manage a nod, letting Freedmen hustle me onto a makeshift stretcher. The moment I slump down, wincing, I see Freedmen forming ranks around the dais, ensuring no further sabotage. Ortem addresses the crowd, calling for a new era of accountability. My head spins, half-listening. So many changes swirl in the air—perhaps a reformed Senate, Freedmen recognized as rightful defenders, no more illusions of champion rank overshadowing real leadership. My eyes close, that swirl of exhaustion nearly overwhelming.

But I sense Mira’s presence at my side, her hand clasping mine, anchoring me. The final image is Freedmen cheering, crafters shouting praises, the colosseum once a place of forced spectacle now reclaimed by the people’s triumph. Darkness hovers at the edges of my vision, pain clawing at me, but Icling to a single truth: we stood against betrayal, unarmed yet unstoppable.

In the hush of the colosseum corridor, Freedmen carefully carry me away, Mira pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. My heart pulses with the promise of a new dawn. The orcs may regroup, but we’ve dealt a blow to Vaelen’s illusions. Freedmen surge forward, shaping the city’s destiny. And no matter what tomorrow brings, I know I haven’t fought my last battle—but with Mira by my side, that burden is easier to bear.

I let the din of cheers fade behind us, a new conviction lodged firmly in my chest. Champion’s hammer or not, I’ve championed the truth, and Milthar will never be the same.

17

MIRA

Istand 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 itseems 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.”