Page 10 of Her Manticore Master
The words wound like physical blows, but I keep my voice steady. "Then it will be a short entertainment."
"You don't sound convinced."
I whirl to face her, letting a fraction of my real feelings show. "What would you have me do, Lysa? Storm the arena? Demand Valdris spare his precious investment?"
She steps back, startled by my vehemence. "I just thought... you seemed interested in him."
"Interested?" I laugh, the sound brittle as broken glass. "He's a curiosity. Nothing more."
"Of course." But her eyes are knowing. "Still, it seems wasteful. All that strength and fire, snuffed out for the crowd's amusement."
"Such is the way of things here." I turn back to the window, watching servants scurry across the courtyard below. "We all serve our purpose."
"And what's yours, Corrina?"
The question hangs in the perfumed air between us. I've asked myself the same thing countless times, usually in the dark hours before dawn when sleep eludes me and the silk sheets feel like burial shrouds.
"To survive," I answer finally. "Nothing more, nothing less."
"There has to be more than survival."
"Does there?" I press my palm against the cool glass, remembering steel-blue eyes that burned with uncompromising defiance. "Sometimes I think survival is the cruelest joke of all."
A horn sounds in the distance—the call to the arena. My heart lurches against my ribs like a bird desperate to escape its cage.
"Come," I tell Lysa, forcing steel into my voice. "Valdris expects us in the viewing box."
But as we leave my chambers, I catch my reflection in a polished mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. Her eyes are too bright, her smile too sharp. She looks desperate.
The viewing box buzzes with excited chatter as spectators settle into their cushioned seats. Valdris holds court from his ornate throne, regaling nearby nobles with tales of his latest acquisition's prowess.
"Three shadowcats in two days," he boasts. "And barely a scratch on him."
"Minotaurs are different beasts entirely," Lord Caelum observes, his scarred face skeptical. "Bigger. Stronger. Harder to kill."
"Which is precisely why I'm testing him." Valdris's pale eyes gleam with anticipation. "If he survives, his value increases tenfold. If not..." He shrugs elegantly. "I'll find another toy."
The casual dismissal of a life—even a gladiator's life—sends cold fury through my veins. I arrange my features into polite interest and take my place among the other harem women.
"You look pale," Zara whispers, settling beside me. "Are you feeling well?"
"The heat," I murmur, fanning myself with painted silk. "It's stifling today."
My hands tremble not from heat, but from the impending, impossible odds Ronan faces. The arena gates open, revealing Ronan, shackled but graceful, his bruised body testament to Valdris's constant tests.
"Magnificent specimen," Lord Caelum admits grudgingly. "Look at those shoulders."
"And those scars," Lady Miriel adds with breathless appreciation. "Each one tells a story of violence."
I dig my nails into my palms, wanting to scream as three massive, ten-foot-tall minotaurs with crude clubs and hungry yellow eyes lumber into the arena, fixing their gaze on Ronan. He doesn't flinch.
"Kill!" Valdris shouts, his voice magically amplified across the arena. "Let the games begin!"
The minotaurs charge with surprising speed for creatures so large. Ronan dives aside, using his chains to whip across the lead troll's eyes. The beast roars in pain and fury, swiping blindly with massive claws.
"Clever," Valdris purrs. "But cleverness only delays the inevitable."
The second troll's club crashes into the sand where Ronan stood a heartbeat before. He rolls between its legs, somehow managing to wrap his chains around its ankle. When it tries to step forward, it crashes face-first into the arena wall.
