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 ofrelief. 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—standsfulfilled. 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.
18
REMANOS
Iwake to beams of pale light falling across the courtyard’s stones. My shoulders ache, my bandaged thigh throbs, but there’s a curious weight lifted from my heart—like the hush after a roaring storm. Guards wearing Freedman colors pace the perimeter, heads held high, no longer hunted by a corrupt Senate. The entire estate hums with subdued triumph: Vaelen, the traitor, stands imprisoned alongside his co-conspirators. Orcish threats have slunk back to whatever holes they crept from. The city faces a new day, uncertain yet brimming with possibilities.
A Freedman courier spots me at the threshold of the estate’s main hall. He rushes forward, chest puffed with nervous excitement. “Remanos,” he says, voice pitched low, “the Senate demands an audience. Ortem insisted you come. He claims the future of Freedmen hinges on your presence.”
I grunt quietly, sliding my injured leg forward with care. The thought of facing the Senate once more churns my gut, but Freedmen deserve clarity after all they’ve risked. “Thank you,” I tell him. “I’ll be there.”
He bows, relief crossing his features. I watch him disappear through the courtyard’s rear gate, weaving between newly placed banners and a cluster of Freedmen sparring lightly in the morning sun. For a heartbeat, I merely stand, letting the warmth of day soak my battered body. So much has changed since I was forcibly dethroned as champion: Freedmen and crafters have taken up the mantle of the city’s guardians. Mira and I led them to unearth Vaelen’s conspiracies and drive out the orc infiltration. The old illusions of my champion’s seat, the Senate’s illusions of “purity” and “honor,” lie in tatters.
Yet the city survived.
A wave of gratitude washes through me as I recall Mira’s unwavering presence, how she faced threats at my side, how she rallied Freedmen to defend our walls when the Senate faltered. She insisted on standing with me, never once letting the Senate’s cruelty break her spirit. I push a breath through my nose, calming the flicker of awe that surges whenever I think of her. The city calls her a foreigner, but in truth, no one else belongs here more.
I carefully traverse the courtyard, Freedmen saluting me with bright eyes. They address me as “Remanos,” or sometimes slip and say “Champion,” a title no longer official but pressed upon me by their respect. Tiro, a young Freedman who scouted for me, waves from across a line of newly repaired columns. I wave back, forcing a small smile. Everything feels raw yet alive: Freedmen guard the estate gates not out of fear but pride; crafters bustle along corridors discussing new trade routes free from orc meddling; city watchers in battered uniforms murmur that maybe the Senate can’t disregard Freedmen’s voice anymore.
