Chapter 2 Corrina
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.
The beast that emerges from the opposite gate makes several women gasp. Black as midnight with eyes like molten gold, it's nearly the size of a horse with claws that could shred steel.
The manticore doesn't even flinch.
"Fascinating," I murmur, loud enough for him to hear if his senses are as sharp as legend claims. "I wonder how long this one will last."
Those steel eyes find mine across the arena, and something charged passes between us. I smile slowly, letting him see my amusement at his situation.
His expression hardens, jaw clenching with barely contained fury.
Perfect. I've gotten under his skin already.
The shadowcat pounces with liquid grace, but the manticore moves like lightning despite his bonds. He rolls aside, using the creature's momentum against it, and somehow manages to wrap his chains around its throat.
The crowd erupts as beast and warrior struggle in the sand, but I only have eyes for him. The way he fights—brutal, efficient, utterly without mercy. It's poetry written in violence.
"Magnificent," Valdris breathes. "He'll make me a fortune."
The shadowcat's neck snaps with an audible crack.
The manticore rises slowly, sand coating his sweat-slicked skin, and looks directly at me again. This time, I'm the one who feels exposed under that burning gaze.
I lift my wine goblet in a mocking salute. "Well done, beast," I call out. "Perhaps you'll survive the week after all."
His hands clench into fists, chains rattling.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
"Bring him to the preparation chambers," Valdris orders as healers tend to the manticore's minor wounds. "I want him presentable for tomorrow's matches."
"All of him?" I ask innocently. "He's rather... dirty."
Valdris chuckles, missing the undercurrent in my words. "Indeed. Have the slaves prepare a bath. We can't have our prize fighter looking like a common criminal."
As we descend from the viewing box, my mind races. Most fighters are kept in the underground cells between matches, but Valdris clearly has special plans for this one. The preparation chambers are luxurious by arena standards—still prison cells, but with actual beds and washing facilities.
"You seem unusually interested in this fighter," Zara observes as we walk the marble corridors.
"He's different," I admit. "Most break within days. This one..." I let the words hang.
"This one what?"
"This one might actually be dangerous."
We reach the preparation level as guards escort the manticore down the opposite corridor. Even chained and surrounded, he moves with predatory grace. His steel eyes sweep our group, lingering on me with undisguised hostility.
"Problem, warrior?" I ask sweetly.
He stops walking, forcing the guards to halt. "You enjoyed the show?"
His voice is a low rumble, roughened by the arena's dust. It sends an unexpected shiver through me.
"Immensely," I purr. "Though I expected more from someone who cost five thousand gold. The shadowcat barely scratched you."
"Next time, I'll ask them to bring something more challenging." His tone could cut glass. "Perhaps something with a sharper tongue."
The guards chuckle nervously, but I smile wider. "Oh, I do like this one. He has fire."
"Fire gets you killed in the arena," one guard—Marcus, I think—warns. "Better to learn submission quickly."
"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?"
"Most likely."
Part of me wants to see if he's been recaptured or escaped, but the practical part knows I should stay hidden. Yet, watching the guards, I secretly hope he succeeds—a dangerous thought.
"He won't make it," Lysa says quietly. "They never do."
"No," I agree, pressing my palm against the cool glass. "They never do."
Yet my heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird, desperate with something I haven't felt in years.
Hope.