Page 5 of Her Manticore Master
"Submission is for the weak," the manticore replies, his gaze never leaving mine. "I don't submit."
"Everyone submits eventually," I say, stepping closer despite the guards' protective positioning. "The sand drinks the blood of heroes and cowards alike."
"Then I suppose we'll see which one I am."
There's something in his eyes—not just defiance, but genuine strength. The kind that doesn't bend or break, only adapts and endures. It's been so long since I've met someone who understands the difference between surviving and living.
"Indeed we will," I murmur.
As the guards lead him away, I catch myself watching the play of muscle beneath scarred skin, the proud set of his shoulders despite the chains.
Dangerous thoughts for a woman in my position.
But perhaps that's exactly what makes them so appealing.
That evening, I pace my chambers like a caged animal, silk nightgown whispering against marble floors. The manticore's words echo in my mind—"I don't submit." Such simple words, yet they carry the weight of absolute conviction.
When did I last feel that kind of certainty about anything?
A soft knock interrupts my brooding. "Come."
Lysa enters, her expression troubled. "Corrina, I've been thinking about what you said earlier."
"Which part?"
"About him being dangerous." She settles on the edge of my bed, voice dropping to a whisper. "What if he tries to escape?"
I laugh, but it sounds forced even to me. "From the arena? Impossible. The walls are thirty feet high, topped with iron spikes. The gates are dwarf-forged steel."
"But if anyone could find a way?—"
"He's one man against hundreds of guards." I wave dismissively, but my heart pounds with something that seems like hope. "Even a manticore can't fight those odds."
"You seem almost... disappointed by that."
Her words hit closer to home than I care to admit. Am I disappointed? The thought of him broken and submissive like every other fighter fills me with unexpected revulsion.
"Don't be ridiculous," I say instead. "I simply appreciate quality entertainment. It's been dull here lately."
Lysa studies my face with knowing eyes. "Entertainment. Is that what we're calling it?"
Before I can respond, distant sounds echo through the corridors—shouting guards, running feet, the clash of weapons. We both freeze.
"What's happening?" Lysa breathes.
I move to the window overlooking the arena courtyard. Below, torches bob like fireflies as guards search the shadows. Their voices carry on the night air.
"Find him!"
"Check every corridor!"
"How did he get out of the chains?"
My pulse races as understanding dawns. The magnificent bastard actually tried it—attempted an escape on his very first night.
"They're looking for someone," I tell Lysa, not trusting my voice to remain steady.
"The manticore?"
