Page 50 of Her Manticore Master
The air thrums with barely contained violence and desperate ambition. Everyone knows this grand melee represents their only chance at freedom—real or imagined—and they're willing to do anything to secure it.
"You fought the minotaur champion last season," a scarred orc tells a dark elf warrior. "I could use someone with that kind of speed."
"And I could use someone who doesn't die in the first five minutes," the elf replies with casual cruelty.
Everywhere I look, alliances are forming and dissolving like smoke. Gladiators size each other up, measuring strengths and weaknesses, calculating who might be useful and who represents a threat.
It's fascinating in a horrifying way. Like watching hungry wolves decide whether to hunt together or turn on each other.
But what makes my teeth clench is the steady stream of fighters approaching Ronan. One after another, they sidle up to him with offers and proposals, recognizing him as a valuable ally.
"Heard you took down three shadow wolves in one match," a minotaur rumbles, his massive frame towering over even Ronan's impressive height. "That's warrior's work."
"It was survival," Ronan replies with typical bluntness.
"Same thing. I could use a partner who knows how to survive."
I watch from my corner as more gladiators circle him like scavengers around fresh meat. A pair of dark elves whisper about his killing efficiency. An orc brags about his own victories, trying to prove his worth. Even a few humans attempt to curry favor through flattery and shared stories of conquest.
They're selling themselves to him, and he's evaluating their offers with the cool calculation of a merchant at market.
It shouldn't bother me. I have no claim on him, no right to feel possessive about his choices.
So why does watching them grovel for his attention make me want to scream?
"Well, well. What have we here?"
The voice makes my skin crawl before I even look up. A naga gladiator has approached my barrel, his serpentine lower body coiled in lazy curves while his humanoid torso leans forward with predatory interest.
He's handsome in a cold, reptilian way—sharp features, scales that gleam like emeralds, muscles that speak of deadly strength. But there's something in his yellow eyes that makes every instinct scream danger.
"A lost little bird," he continues when I don't respond. "So far from her gilded cage."
"I'm not lost."
"No? Then what are you doing here among the killers and criminals?" His forked tongue flicks out to taste the air. "You smell of silk and luxury. Of soft living and softer flesh."
"I'm here because Valdris commanded it."
"Ah, but he's not here now, is he?" The naga's smile reveals fangs designed for tearing flesh. "Down here, different rules apply. Stronger rules."
I shift on my barrel, suddenly very aware of how isolated this corner has become. The other gladiators are too focused on their own negotiations to pay attention to one harem girl being harassed.
"What do you want?"
"Company. Conversation. Perhaps something more... intimate."
"Find it elsewhere."
"But I want it from you." He moves closer, scales rustling against stone. "I am Zephyr the Strangler, champion of twelve fights. I could protect you during the melee, ensure your survival."
"In exchange for what?"
"I think you know."
The casual assumption that my body is available for trade makes rage flare in my chest. But I keep my voice level, polite even.
"I'm flattered by your offer, but I must decline."
