Page 2 of Bought by the Broken Beast
To stay is to be handed over to Malacc’s butchers. To flee is to be hunted as a runaway slave. Both paths lead to a shallow, unmarked grave.
Unless…
An idea, insane and desperate, sparks in the terrified darkness of my mind. A third path. A path paved with stolen coin and forged in the blood and sand of the arena.
They see me as a tool. A quiet, obedient little thing of ink and parchment. They would never expect me to fight back. They would never expect me to purchase a weapon of my own. A weapon more terrifying than any assassin Malacc could hire. A monster forged from lost honor and pure, unadulterated rage.
The decision solidifies, hardening my fear into a sliver of cold, sharp steel. My movements become fluid, precise. I’m nolonger a scribe balancing books; I am a strategist planning the first move in a war I cannot afford to lose.
I carefully slice the ledger page containing the payment to ‘Iron Horn Imports’ from its binding. The parchment feels heavy in my hand, a flimsy shield against a world of monsters. Next, the coin. Kairen keeps a strongbox hidden beneath a loose floorboard, full of untracked gold. My fingers find the seam in the wood. The board groans in protest as I lift it.
Inside, stacks of gold gleam. I scoop handfuls of the heavy coins into a leather satchel, the clinking sound unnaturally loud. It feels like a fortune. I pray to a goddess I don't believe in that it will be enough.
With the satchel slung over my shoulder and the ledger page tucked securely in my bodice, I slip out of the study. The house is quiet, but now the silence feels predatory. I am a spectre in my own home, a shadow moving through other shadows.
The cool night air hits my face as I step out of a side entrance. I think of Malacc’s cold ambition and Kairen’s calculated betrayal. I think of my life, a fragile flame I refuse to let be snuffed out.
My feet find their purpose. I pull my simple cloak tighter, melting into the labyrinthine alleys. I have only one destination. A place of filth and despair, where the honor of the Minotaur race is sold for sport.
I am going to the gladiator market.
2
VOTOI
The damp stone of the cell leeches the warmth from my bones, leaving a permanent chill that has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature. It is the cold of shame, a frost that has settled deep in my soul on the day they shattered my horn and my name in the same, brutal stroke. I am Votoi Saru of the Vakkak, heir to a legacy forged in honor and victory. Iwas. Now, I am a beast in a cage, the reek of unwashed bodies and spilled blood my constant companion.
Sounds from the market above filter down through the iron grate—the clamor of merchants, the bellow of a taura being led to slaughter, the distant, hollow roar of the arena crowd. That sound, once a symphony that sang of my glory, is now a funeral dirge for the warrior I used to be. My hand, calloused and scarred, drifts up to the jagged tip of my left horn. The splintered edge is a map of my downfall, a constant, physical reminder of the lies that condemned me. Treason. A forged trade deal with Dark Elves—the ultimate blasphemy. The evidence was irrefutable, the judgment swift. They offered me the mercy of the executioner’s axe. I chose this living death instead, a fool’shope that my family would be spared the deeper shame of my execution.
The heavy bar on my cell door scrapes against stone, a sound that vibrates through my teeth. Two guards, Fiepakak thugs grown fat on their Zotkak master’s coin, stand in the opening.
“On your feet, beast,” one of them grunts, rattling a set of heavy iron chains. “The auctioneer wants you in the pit. Time to show the buyers what their coin is for.”
I rise slowly, deliberately, unfolding my full height until my horns nearly scrape the low ceiling. I let them see the contempt in my eyes, the unbroken pride that is the only thing they haven’t been able to strip from me. I offer them no resistance as they shackle my wrists, the cold iron a familiar weight. Resistance is a privilege of the free. My defiance must be colder, quieter.
They lead me through a winding passage, the torchlight flickering across walls slick with grime. We emerge not into the sun-drenched expanse of the main arena, but into a smaller, covered pit reeking of fear and cheap ale. A wooden platform stands in the center, stained dark with things I do not care to name. The crowd is a motley collection of merchants looking for guards, Zotkak nobles seeking a new gladiator for their private games, and the dregs of the city who come to watch things bleed.
The auctioneer, a portly Minotaur with polished horns and a voice like oiled gravel, gestures for me to be brought forward. “A fine specimen for you today, discerning buyers! A Vakkak, it is said, though fallen from grace. But the bloodline remains! The strength is unquestionable!”
My jaw aches from the force with which I clench it. I am a prize bull being inspected, my muscles prodded, my teeth checked. The humiliation is a physical acid in my gut.
“But words are cheap!” the auctioneer booms. “Let us have a demonstration of this asset’s capabilities!”
He gestures to a heavy iron gate on the far side of the pit. It groans open, and the stench of something foul and enraged washes over the crowd. An Urog, one of the orcs twisted by Dark Elf magic into a ten-foot-tall monstrosity of muscle and rage, lumbers into the pit. Its skin is a patchwork of scars, its eyes burning with mindless fury. It is not alone. From the shadows behind it, two wiry, four-armed assassins from the southern isles creep out, their hooked blades gleaming.
The crowd roars its approval. A Vakkak against three lesser beings. Good sport.
The guards unshackle my wrists. The auctioneer tosses a single, rust-pitted axe onto the sand at my feet. My weapon of choice has always been a pair of matched war axes, perfectly balanced and bearing the crest of my house. This thing is an insult.
I do not pick it up.
The Urog charges, its roar shaking the very foundations of the pit. I stand my ground, my body a coiled spring of Vakkak training and arena-honed instinct. At the last possible second, I drop, sweeping my leg out. The Urog, for all its strength, is clumsy. It trips over my leg, crashing headlong into the wooden wall of the pit with a sound like a thunderclap.
I don't waste the opening. I surge to my feet, ignoring the two assassins circling me, and drive my shoulder into the Urog’s back, pinning it to the wall. I wrap my arms around its thick neck, my muscles straining. It thrashes, its immense power nearly breaking my hold, but I lock my grip. With a final, guttural roar that is more animal than Minotaur, I twist. There is a sickening crack of bone, and the Urog goes limp.
One down.
The assassins attack, a whirlwind of flashing blades. I spin, using the Urog’s massive body as a shield. Their hooks sink into the dead flesh. I shove the corpse forward, sending themstumbling back. Now I snatch the discarded axe from the sand. It feels wrong in my hand, poorly weighted, but it is steel. It will cut.
