Page 11 of Her Manticore Master
The crowd erupts in appreciative roars, but I barely hear them. My entire focus is on the warrior below, watching him turn his bonds into weapons, his desperation into strength.
"He might actually survive this," Zara breathes.
"Don't be ridiculous," Valdris snaps, though his knuckles are white where they grip his throne's armrests. "Three minotaurs have never been defeated by one man."
Watching Ronan dominate the fight, a forbidden hope awakens in me. For nearly an hour, he single-handedly defeats the minotaurs, leaving the crowd in a frenzy. He stands unbroken amidst the carnage, his steel-blue eyes still defiant as he looks at our box.
"Impossible," Lord Caelum whispers.
"Unprecedented," Lady Miriel agrees.
"Profitable," Valdris corrects, though his voice carries a note of unease. "Very, very profitable."
As guards move to collect the victor, I find myself studying the faces around me. Excitement, yes, but also something else. A hunger that has little to do with entertainment yet everything to do with witnessing something they'll never possess themselves. True strength. Real defiance. The kind of courage that doesn't bend or break or compromise. It is the kind of courage I lack, having traded it away years ago for silk sheets and golden chains.
"You're crying," Zara observes quietly.
I touch my cheek, surprised to find it damp. "The sun," I lie. "It's making my eyes water."
"That's not true. As the crowd leaves, excited, I stay, watching healers tend to Ronan. He defeated three minotaurs with skill and will. When did I last fight for something important? I can't recall."
"Magnificent, wasn't he?" Valdris appears beside my chair, his pale hand settling possessively on my shoulder. "My investment has already doubled."
"Yes," I agree, not trusting my voice to remain steady. "Magnificent."
"I think I'll give him a few days to recover. Let anticipation build for his next match." His fingers tighten slightly. "Perhaps you'd like to visit him? Offer congratulations on my behalf?"
The suggestion sounds casual, but I know Valdris too well to believe that. He wants something—information, perhaps, or simply the amusement of watching his pet interact with his prize fighter.
"If you wish," I say carefully.
"I do." His smile is cold as winter. "See what makes him tick, my dear. I find that understanding one's investments leads to better... utilization."
Ronan accepts praise as I realize Valdris views us all as tools. Some refuse to break, a refusal I envy from my gilded cage. I navigate the arena's bloody dungeons, a favored but shackled figure. I find Ronan in the preparation chambers, his scarred body tended by a healer.
"That was quite a show," I say, settling onto a wooden stool across from him.
He doesn't look up from the healer's work. "Glad you were entertained."
"Three minotaurs. I didn't think it was possible."
"Neither did they." His voice is rough with exhaustion, but that core of steel remains unbroken. "Hence their current state."
The healer—a nervous young man named Willem—finishes his stitching and hurries away, clearly uncomfortable in my presence. We're alone now, the silence heavy with unspoken truths.
"You're going to get yourself killed," I say finally.
"Eventually." He meets my eyes, and I see no fear there, only grim acceptance. "Everything dies."
"But you don't have to die here. Like this."
"Like what? Fighting?"
"Like a beast for their amusement." The words come out sharper than intended, edged with frustration I can't quite hide. "You could submit. Play the game. Survive."
He laughs, the sound bitter as ashes. "Survive as what? A performing dog? A broken thing that jumps when its master snaps?"
"You'd be alive."
