Page 66 of Her Manticore Master
As if my vow has summoned them, the heavy clang of the holding pen door echoes through the space, making everyone jump. I straighten up, my hand instinctively moving to the dagger hidden beneath my tunic.
The guards stride in, their armor clanking, their faces impassive masks. Their captain’s voice booms, harsh and final, a death knell in the heavy silence.
“It is time.”
I meet Ronan’s eyes across the room. He opens them, and they are clear, focused, and ready. He gives me a single, sharp nod. The moment of quiet is over.
“The grand melee begins now.”
31
RONAN
The familiar, ominous groan of the gate signals either death or glory, as it has for every battle in this pit. But today, the stakes are higher than just my life.
Blinding sunlight floods the tunnel as the roar of the crowd engulfs us. I step onto the sand, eyes scanning the towering walls, hungry faces, and blood-stained earth—a familiar hell.
Corrina tenses beside me, her sharp intake of breath revealing her terror at seeing the arena from this side for the first time. The leathers I gave her accentuate her pale skin, but even her fierce pride can't hide her fear.
“Stay close,” I grunt, my voice a low rumble meant to cut through the din. “Keep your eyes open, but don’t look at the crowd. They feed on fear.”
“Where am I supposed to look?” Her voice is tight, strained. “Gods, Ronan, there are so many of them.”
“Then look at me,” I command, forcing her to meet my gaze. “The crowd is just noise. The other fighters are just meat. Nothing else matters. Do you understand?”
She swallows hard, but nods, her green eyes wide and dark. “I understand.”
“Good. Remember your training. Remember why we’re here.”
“To get free,” she whispers, the words a prayer.
“No,” I say, my voice grim as the guards begin to herd us toward the center of the arena. “To survive.”
We advance toward the arena's heart, each step a struggle as the treacherous sand shifts beneath our boots. This vast killing circle offers no cover, leaving us exposed, two vulnerable targets. From every gate along the perimeter, gladiators emerge, a procession of killers blinking in the blinding sun.
I assess the threats: four synchronized orcs, two silent dark elves, and several lone fighters—a minotaur, a scarred human, and others.
“Citizens of Vhoig!” the announcer’s voice booms, magically amplified to echo off the high stone walls. “Welcome to the Grand Melee! A contest of blood and courage, where only the strongest will earn the ultimate prize: freedom!”
The crowd’s roar intensifies. I can feel its energy, a living thing that presses in on us, demanding sacrifice. I instinctively shift my position, putting my body between Corrina and the pack of orcs, who are staring at her with undisguised hunger.
“Don’t listen to him,” I say, my voice low and urgent. “He’s just a voice. He can’t hurt you. He’s just part of the show.”
“He’s telling them all I’m weak,” she whispers back, her eyes wide as she takes in the sheer brutality of the fighters surrounding us. “They all see me as an easy kill.”
“Good,” I reply grimly. “Let them think that. Let every single one of them underestimate you. It’s your best weapon.” I see her hand hover for a moment near her thigh, where the dagger is hidden. “Remember that.”
She gives a short, sharp nod, her fear solidifying into a grim resolve. She’s terrified, but she’s not broken. Not yet.
The announcer begins his theatrical introductions, his voice dripping with false reverence. “From the northern wastes, the champions of a dozen skirmishes, Grokthar’s Maulers!” The orcs roar, banging their axes against their shields. “From the shadowed alleys of our own great city, the deadly duo known as the Shadow Syndicate!” The dark elves give a slight, almost imperceptible bow.
He goes down the line, giving each team a grand, ridiculous title, stoking the crowd’s excitement. I can feel Corrina’s tension ratcheting tighter with every name, every cheer. I brace myself, knowing Valdris would have saved his most creative cruelty for us.
“And our final team,” the announcer calls, his voice suddenly laced with a theatrical, mocking pity. “A warrior who has captured your hearts with his savage grace… the Manticore Beast, Ronan!”
A wave of cheers, mixed with boos, rolls through the stadium. I ignore it.
“And his partner,” the announcer continues, pausing for dramatic effect, “a competitor of a very different sort! Plucked from the silken cushions of our noble Master’s own harem… his most treasured pet, Corrina!”
