Page 3 of Her Manticore Master
The pit master leans forward, intrigued by my defiance.
I'll survive this hell. I'll escape these chains. And I'll find my brothers, no matter how many bodies I have to climb over to do it.
The crowd wants a show? I'll give them one they'll never forget.
But first, I'll make every bastard in this place pay for what they've stolen from me.
Let the games begin.
2
CORRINA
Languidly stretched on silk cushions, I reach for a grape in the luxurious harem quarters. Persian rugs, golden braziers, and attentive servants create a paradise.
"More wine, Corrina?" Lysa offers, holding up a crystal decanter.
"Please." I extend my goblet, watching the ruby liquid catch the light. "Has Valdris mentioned anything about the new acquisition?"
"The manticore?" Zara laughs from her cushioned alcove, her dark hair spilling over jeweled silk. "He's quite excited about this one. Apparently paid five thousand gold."
"Five thousand?" I nearly choke on my wine. "For one fighter?"
"A manticore warrior," Lysa clarifies, settling beside me with her own goblet. "Captured in Oshta after killing half a dozen slavers."
My pulse quickens despite myself. We rarely see manticores this far south—they're legends from the northern wastes, creatures of storm and fury. Most are dead or scattered after whatever catastrophe befell their kind decades ago.
"When does he fight?" I ask, feigning casual interest.
"Today, actually." Zara's eyes gleam with anticipation. "Valdris wants us all in the viewing box. He says it will be... educational."
I roll my eyes. Everything is educational to our master when it serves his purposes. Still, curiosity burns in my chest like wine-warmed honey. It's been months since anything truly interesting happened in this place.
"What do you think he looks like?" Lysa wonders aloud. "I've heard manticores are beautiful but deadly."
"Probably scarred and broken already," I reply, though something in my voice rings false even to my own ears. "The smart ones don't survive capture. They die fighting rather than submit."
"This one submitted," Zara points out.
"Then he's either a coward or has something to live for."
I resent my captivity but feign compliance, plotting Valdris's downfall. A servant announces Valdris requests our presence in the viewing box for the exhibition. My heart pounds as I rise, eager to see what unfolds. We settle into the viewing box overlooking the arena, the crowd's roar deafening.
"Ladies," Valdris purrs, his pale hands gesturing toward the arena floor, "behold my latest investment."
The gates grind open, and my breath catches.
He's magnificent.
The manticore stands in the center of the arena like a force of nature barely contained in human form. Tall and broad-shouldered, with muscle that speaks of countless battles. His steel-blue eyes sweep the crowd with contempt, and when his gaze passes over our box, I feel it like a physical touch.
"He's... impressive," Lysa breathes.
"Look at those scars," Zara whispers. "Each one tells a story."
But I'm focused on something else entirely—the way he holds himself despite the chains, the defiant set of his jaw, the promise of violence that radiates from every line of his body. He hasn't been broken. Not even close.
"Release the shadowcat!" Valdris commands.
