Page 57 of Her Manticore Master
My cell is a suffocating tomb, and sleep is impossible. I lie on the cot, muscles screaming, mind racing. Her words echo:Break me, or make me strong.An unexpected ultimatum from the pampered harem girl who once viewed me as filth.
“Damn you, Corrina,”I mutter into the darkness, my voice low, barely a growl.
She sleeps, small and fragile, moonlight illuminating her form. The sharp-tongued vixen is gone, replaced by a woman who challenged me to destroy or save her—a responsibility I never wanted.
“What in thehells am I supposed to do with you?” I say, softer now, the words meant for no one but the shadows.
A faint clank echoes from the corridor, and a gravelly voice cuts through the quiet. “Talking to yourself, beast?” It’s Gavric, the grizzled orc guard who patrols the cells at night, his tusks glinting in the torchlight as he peers through the bars. “Or you sweet on that harem pet now?”
“Mind your own business,” I snap, sitting up, my fists clenching. “Unless you want to lose those tusks.”
He chuckled, mocking, "Touchy. Tamed?" He banged his club, then left, laughing.
I cursed. The orc's taunt fueled my rage. My path: survive, escape, find my brothers. Simple, violent.
But Corrina complicated it. Her fate tangled with mine, I can't leave her. It's madness; she's a liability. Yet, the thought of abandoning her sparks a fierce, unfamiliar protectiveness I distrust.
Shifting on the lumpy mattress, I weighed my options. Option one: train her. Teach her to fight, to kill.
“Teach me to kill,” she’d said, as if it’s as easy as pouring wine. I glance at her hands, delicate and pale in the moonlight.
They’ve never gripped anything heavier than a goblet. Her body, all soft curves, moves with a courtier’s grace, not a fighter’s precision.
“She’s a lamb,” I mutter, my voice barely audible. “And I’d be leading her to a slaughterhouse.”
I picture Corrina in the arena, facing a brutal end. The thought enrages me; I don't want her harmed, a dangerous sentiment.
Alternatively, I could abandon her, win my freedom, and leave Vhoig. It's the logical, warrior's choice; my loyalty is to my king, not a harem girl. Yet, leaving her to Valdris's cruelty—or worse, to another champion—is unthinkable.
“Like hell,” I growl, my fists clenching until my knuckles crack.
“What’s that, beast?” A new voice, high and mocking, cuts through the darkness. It’s Lysa, one of Valdris’s harem women, passing by the cell with a tray of water jugs, her silhouette lit by the flickering torchlight. “Dreaming of your little pet? Or just growling at ghosts?”
“Keep walking,” I snarl, my voice low and dangerous. “Unless you want to see what happens when you poke a manticore.”
Lysa's taunt about Corrina's potential to be a dangerous "pet" stings because it holds truth. Corrina is a powerful force, capable of destruction. Training her is risky, a "death sentence," but abandoning her to Valdris is worse.
The thought of her spirit broken is unbearable. Despite barely knowing or liking Corrina, the decision is made: he cannot abandon her. It's the "less monstrous" choice. He's seen her inner strength, enough to believe he can make it work. With a heavy sigh, he approaches her sleeping form, observing her gentle slumber.
“Ronan?” Her voice is a sleepy whisper, her eyes fluttering open, amber-brown and hazy. “What’re you doing?”
“Making a mistake,” I mutter, sliding one arm beneath her knees, the other under her back. She’s lighter than I expected, a fragile weight in my arms, her head lolling against my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck.
She smells of jasmine and sleep, a scent that stirs something dangerous in my chest.
“What…?” she mumbles, half-awake, her hand brushing my chest as I carry her to the cot.
“Shut up and sleep,” I say gruffly, laying her down carefully, pulling the rough blanket over her. She stirs, brow furrowing, but doesn’t wake fully. It’s a silent acceptance of her challenge, an unspoken promise made in the dead of night.
I turn away, moving to the center of the cell. The straw crunches underfoot as I drop into a low stance, beginning my training forms.
The familiar burn in my muscles is a lifeline, a distraction from the weight of the choice I’ve made. But as I move, a shadow shifts in the corridor, and a low voice hisses through the bars.
“Soft on her already, eh, beast?” It’s Tormund, another gladiator, his scarred face barely visible in the torchlight. “Training her’s a fool’s errand. She’ll drag you down in the melee.”
“Say that again,” I growl, pausing mid-form, my fists clenched. “And I’ll rip your tongue out before the arena does.”
He chuckles, unperturbed. “Just saying, you’re betting on a losing horse. Cut her loose, or she’ll be your death.” He spits on the floor and moves on, his footsteps fading.
