Page 72 of Her Manticore Master
“I know,” I say, but the word feels like a lie in my mouth.
As the crowd cheers and the betting criers begin shouting the odds for the final match, a cold knot of dread tightens in my stomach. The flicker of hope I felt just moments ago is extinguished, smothered by a cold, hard certainty. This is too easy. Too perfect. Valdris is not a man who honors bargains. He is a man who enjoys games. And the more elaborate the game, the more he enjoys the final, cruel twist.
My mind flashes back to the conversation I overheard outside his office, the words echoing in my memory.The game being rigged…This is it. This is the final act of his play. He has built us up in the eyes of the crowd, given us a name, given us hope. All to make our fall that much more spectacular.
“What is it?” Corrina asks, her smile fading as she sees the expression on my face. “What’s wrong? We’re almost there.”
“Nothing,” I lie, forcing my own face into a grim mask of determination. “I’m just getting ready for the final fight.”
I can't tell her the truth. Her hope is her only defense for what's to come. This final test won't be a fight, but a betrayal. I don't know how I'll get her out alive.
36
CORRINA
Stepping onto the arena floor for the final match, the familiar roar and blinding sun now feel different. The crushing weight of the crowd's eyes has lifted. Clad in leather armor, I walk head held high, no longer a frightened pet, but a warrior.
Ronan is a solid, reassuring presence at my side. He doesn't hold my hand this time; there is no need. Our connection is deeper than a physical touch. We are a team, forged in the crucible of our shared cell, bound by blood and desperation and something more that I don't dare put a name to. He glances at me, a quick, sharp look, and I see the grim determination in his eyes.
"Ready, Lioness?"he asks, his voice a low rumble.
The name, the one the announcer gave me, still sends a thrill through me. It’s a name I earned. "Ready," I say, and my own voice is steady, clear.
The Shadow Syndicate, two dark elves, already on the sand, are our lithe and deadly opponents. They dispatched the lone human fighter and now eye me with cold contempt, seeing a novelty, not a threat.
"Good," I whisper to myself. "Let them think that."
Ronan must have heard me, because a ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Let them," he agrees. We take our positions on the northern sand, the final barrier between us and a freedom I can now almost taste. It feels real. For the first time, it feels real.
Just as the tension in the arena reaches its peak, Valdris’s voice, magically amplified, cuts through the air. “A moment, my friends!” he calls out, his tone dripping with theatricality. “Before we begin our final, glorious match, let us make this interesting, shall we?”
A collective murmur runs through the crowd.
“The odds are, of course, heavily in favor of our skilled elven champions,” Valdris continues, his voice laced with false sympathy. “But our… newcomers have shown a surprising amount of spirit.” He lets the comment hang in the air for a moment. “So, I will make a special offer. For anyone brave enough to wager on the Manticore and his… pet… I will offer odds of ten to one!”
A gasp of surprise, followed by a wave of excited chatter, ripples through the stands. Ten to one. Those are impossible odds. He is actively, openly encouraging the crowd to bet against us, to profit from our expected deaths. It’s a final, public humiliation, a reminder that to him, we are nothing more than pieces in his game, assets to be liquidated for maximum profit.
“He’s a bastard,” I snarl, my hand tightening on the hilt of my dagger.
“He’s a businessman,” Ronan corrects, his voice a low growl. “He’s just cashing out his investment.”
“And I find myself feeling generous,” Valdris adds, his cold eyes seeming to find mine even from this distance. “So generous, in fact, that I myself will place a wager of ten thousand ducats… on the Shadow Syndicate.”
The crowd approves his confidence. He bets on our deaths, a ultimate display of contempt. My gaze is drawn to Valdris's viewing box. He smirks, and beside him, Zara fans him. She wears my favorite emerald gown and sapphire necklace—she has taken my place. A year, a month, even a week ago, I'd have been jealous. Now, I feel only profound pity.
She is still in the cage. I am not.
She fears and envies me,still playing the game, a beautiful puppet in Valdris's cruel hands. I, however, am no longer a prize, nor beautiful, but covered in dirt, blood, and bruises. Yet, I've never felt more free.
I am no pet, but a warrior. My soul is my own. Meeting Valdris’s gaze, I smile, unafraid, promising violence. The puppet is coming for him. Valdris’s smile falters, then he signals the arena master. The final bell rings. The fight has begun.
The two darkelves slowly advance, separating to encircle us, clearly aiming to divide and conquer. Their synchronized movements reveal years of training as a team.
“Stay with me,” Ronan growls, his own body shifting into a low, defensive crouch. “Don’t let them get between us.”
“I won’t,” I say, my own blade now in my hand, the feel of the leather-wrapped hilt a familiar comfort.
The swift, silent elf grins, lunging with his curved blade at my sword hand, aiming to disarm. The world shrinks to this fight. Live or die. I stand my ground. I fight.
