Page 67 of Her Manticore Master
A stunned silence followed the announcement, then a wave of scornful laughter filled the stands, a cruel public humiliation. White-hot rage surged through me, my hands clenched. I fought the urge to roar, knowing losing my temper would give Valdris what he wanted.
Corrina's face is chalk-white, a mask of stone, her chin held high, shoulders rigid, eyes wounded by the impending mockery.
“Don’t let them see it,” I growl, my voice a low command. “Don’t you dare give them the satisfaction.”
“I’m not,” she says through clenched teeth, her voice a bare, shaking whisper. “I won’t.”
Her trembling hands and wavering stance reveal her immense willpower. Pride alone sustains her against the jeering crowd. My words won't suffice; I must act to break their power and ground her in our reality.
Without a word, I reach out, my movement deliberate and sure. I capture her hand.
She didn't pull away when my large, scarred hand enveloped her smaller, delicate one. Her grip was surprisingly firm, clinging to me as if I were her anchor.
“What are you doing?”she asks, her eyes wide as she stares down at our joined hands.
“Reminding you who you’re with,” I say, voice a low, fierce promise meant only for her ears, though the gesture is for all to see. “You are not a pet. You are a warrior. My partner.” I squeeze her hand, a firm, reassuring pressure. “They laugh now. Let them. Soon enough, they’ll be screaming our names.”
The gesture is public, a silent, defiant challenge to Valdris, to the jeering crowd, to every gladiator watching us. I lift our joined hands just slightly, a clear and unambiguous claim. It’s a vow.
I feel her grip tighten in response, the trembling in her hand subsiding, replaced by a new, hard resolve. She looks up at me, and the raw hurt in her eyes has been replaced by a familiar, blazing fire. She is no longer a victim cowering under their scorn. She is a warrior ready for battle.
She is with me. And she is ready.
32
CORRINA
We stand in the crowded holding pen, the air thick with the stench of sweat and anxious bodies, when the announcer's voice booms through the arena, echoing off the high stone walls. It’s a sound I’ve come to associate with dread, a theatrical prelude to death.
“For our first match of the Grand Melee,” he declares, his voice dripping with false enthusiasm, “a test of brute strength against unproven spirit! On the southern sands, the Brothers of Carnage, Horgath and Joric!”
A guttural roar erupts from a pair of massive human gladiators across the pen. They are mountains of scarred flesh and muscle, both wielding heavy, double-headed axes. They look like they were born in a slaughterhouse.
The announcer lets the crowd’s cheer build before continuing, his timing impeccable. “And facing them on the northern sands… our Manticore Beast, Ronan, and his… spirited partner, the lovely Corrina!”
The name hits hard. Of course. Of all the killers in this pen, Valdris chose us to go first. To be the opening spectacle. The crowd’s reaction is a predictable mix of bloodthirsty cheers forRonan and renewed, mocking laughter for me. They smell an easy kill. My kill.
“He wants us gone,” I whisper, my throat suddenly dry. My hands feel cold and clammy.
“No,” Ronan says beside me, his voice a low, grim rumble. “He wants a show. He’s betting on you being terrified. On them going for you first. The odds for me winning alone against two will be high. He’s just trying to fill his coffers.”
“So he’s willing to sacrifice me for a few extra ducats?” The bitterness in my own voice surprises me.
“He’s willing to sacrifice anyone for any reason,” Ronan says, his gaze fixed on our opponents. “That’s what makes him a monster.” He turns to me, his steel-blue eyes intense. “Don’t prove him right. Don’t be terrified. Be angry.”
His words, a shock, turn fear to cold fury. I won't be Valdris's sacrifice or pawn. The crowd's laughter fades, replaced by my heart's war drum.
Guards herd us from the main pen into a small, dark staging tunnel that leads directly to our gate. The air is cool and smells of damp earth and rust. This is it. The final moments before we step onto the sand.
“Take this off,” Ronan says, his voice rough as he tugs at the sleeve of the white, flowing dress I’ve worn since my first day in the cell. It’s a relic of my old life, a symbol of the woman I was.
“What?” I ask, confused.
“You can’t fight in a dress, Corrina. You’ll trip.” He pulls a bundle of stiff, worn leather from the small pack of gear they’d given us. “Here.”
It’s a collection of scavenged armor—bracers, shin guards, and a hardened leather cuirass that looks like it’s seen a dozen battles. It’s ugly and smells of old sweat. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“My silks won’t exactly offer much protection,” I say, trying for a lightness I don’t feel as I pull the white dress over my head, leaving me in my thin undertunic.
