Chapter 3 Ronan
RONAN
The cell reeks of piss and despair. I test the shackles around my wrists for the hundredth time, feeling the dwarf-forged steel bite into my skin. Blood crusts the metal where I've rubbed my wrists raw, but the chains hold fast.
"Easy there, beast," Guard Captain Thane laughs from beyond the bars. "Save some fight for tomorrow's match."
"Beast?" I meet his yellow eyes through the iron. "That's the best you can do?"
"What would you prefer?" His partner—a scarred human named Korven—spits into the straw at my feet. "Your Majesty? My Lord?"
"My name is Ronan."
"Names are for people," Thane snarls. "You're property now. Valdris's prize animal."
I bare my teeth. "Property doesn't talk back."
Korven's hand drops to his sword hilt. "It will if we beat the words out of it."
"Try it." I rise slowly, chains dragging against stone. "See how long your pretty faces last."
They step back instinctively, and satisfaction burns in my chest. Fear. Good. Let them remember what they're dealing with.
"Tough words from behind bars," Thane recovers quickly. "Won't save you when the minotaurs tear you apart."
"Minotaurs?"
"Tomorrow's exhibition. Three of them." Korven grins nastily. "Valdris wants to test your limits."
Three minotaurs. Even unchained, that would be a challenge. With these shackles... I force my expression to remain impassive.
"Worried now, beast?" Thane presses.
"Should I be?"
"Last fighter who faced three minotaurs lasted thirty seconds."
"Then I'll aim for thirty-one."
They laugh, but it rings hollow. Deep down, they know what I am. Creatures of storm and fury, born to war and hardened by loss. Their taunts are just whistling in the dark.
"Get some rest, beast," Thane calls as they turn to leave. "Tomorrow's going to be interesting."
"Count on it."
Alone again, I sink back onto the moldy straw.
Three minotaurs. The kind of odds that would make most warriors pray to their gods.
But I no longer pray; not since the night my brothers were scattered to the winds.
I only believe in steel and fury. And tomorrow, these bastards will see exactly what five thousand gold bought them.
Footsteps move through the corridor—lighter than the guards', with the whisper of silk against stone. I don't look up from sharpening a piece of loose stone against the cell wall.
"Hard at work, I see."
The voice is honey over razors. I glance up to find her standing beyond the bars, emerald silk clinging to curves that would tempt saints. Her dark hair falls in waves over bare shoulders, and those green eyes sparkle with malicious amusement. Corrina. The pit master's favorite pet.
"Shouldn't you be somewhere painting your nails?" I return to my makeshift blade.
"How droll." She steps closer, fingers trailing along the bars. "I came to see how our new acquisition was settling in."
"Disappointed?"
"Hardly. Though I expected more chains."
I gesture at my shackled wrists and ankles. "Not enough iron for your taste?"
"Oh, these are just to keep you from hurting the guards." Her smile turns predatory. "The real chains are in your mind. Fear. Despair. The slow realization that you'll never see home again."
My hands still on the stone. "You think you know me?"
"I know your type. Big, proud warrior reduced to entertainment for my amusement." She leans against the bars, close enough that I catch her scent—jasmine and danger. "Tell me, beast, what were you before they caught you?"
"I was free."
"Free to do what? Kill? Rape? Pillage?"
The casual assumption ignites my temper. "To protect the innocent. Something you wouldn't understand."
Her laugh is like breaking glass. "Protect? Is that what you were doing in Oshta? Because from what I heard, your 'protection' got a young girl sold anyway."
The words hit like painful physical blows. I surge to my feet, chains clanking. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" She tilts her head, studying me like a curious cat. "Tell me, hero, how does it feel knowing she's probably chained in some brothel while you rot in here?"
Red rage floods my vision. Before I can stop myself, I lunge at the bars, reaching for that smug face. She dances back just beyond my grasp, laughing delightedly.
"Careful, beast. Your true nature is showing."
"My true nature?" I grip the bars until my knuckles go white. "At least I have one. You're just a pampered whore playing at being dangerous."
Her eyes flash with genuine anger for the first time. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Sitting in your silk tower, watching men die for sport while your master feeds you grapes." I bare my teeth in a feral grin. "Tell me, pet, do you purr when he scratches behind your ears?"
"You bastard—"
"Truth hurt?"
"You know nothing about me," she hisses, her composure cracking like thin ice.
"I know enough." I lean against the bars, bringing us nearly face to face. "You think you're playing some clever game, but you're just as trapped as I am. The only difference is your cage has better decorations."
"At least I'm not the one fighting for scraps."
"No, you're just the one who gets wet watching it happen."
She pales, then flushes. I think she'll strike me, but she instead takes a shuddering breath and recomposes herself.
"Such eloquence from a dumb beast."
"And such fire from a spoiled brat." I study her face, noting the tiny tells—the pulse fluttering at her throat, the way her hands clench in her silk skirts. "Though I suppose even pets have teeth when cornered."
"I am not cornered."
"Aren't you?" I let my gaze drift over her perfect appearance—the artfully arranged hair, the expensive silk, the jewelry that marks her as property just as surely as my chains mark me. "When did you last make a choice that wasn't dictated by your master's whims?"
"When do you remember last winning a fight that mattered?"
The words hit deep, dredging up memories of my failure in Oshta. But I've learned to weaponize pain, to turn it into fuel for the fire that keeps me alive.
"Every day I don't break is a victory," I tell her. "Can you say the same?"
"I don't need to break. I bend."
"Like a reed in the wind. Very inspiring."
"Better than shattering like cheap steel."
"We'll see about that tomorrow when I face your master's minotaurs."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Minotaurs?"
"Three of them. Apparently Valdris wants to test his investment."
Something flickers across her face—surprise? Concern? It's gone too quickly to identify, but it was there.
"You're afraid," I realize.
"I'm not—"
"Not for yourself. For me." The revelation hits like lightning. "You don't want to see me broken after all."
"Don't flatter yourself, beast."
But her voice lacks its earlier venom, and I see the truth in her eyes. Whatever game she's playing, part of her—the part she tries so hard to bury—recognizes a kindred spirit.
"My name is Ronan," I say quietly.
She looks at me—young, beautiful, intelligent, fierce, and desperate to survive a world that sees her as mere decoration. Despite everything, my first thought is how absolutely stunning she is. I hate that I notice.
"Ronan," she says finally, testing the name like wine on her tongue.
"And you're Corrina. The pit master's favorite."
"I'm whatever I need to be."
"Which is what, exactly? His whore? His spy? His entertainment?"
The mask slips back into place, cold and sharp. "I'm his guest. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I sit, you look like just another prisoner with better accommodations."
"At least my accommodations don't come with scheduled death matches."
"No, just scheduled rape. Much more civilized."
She flinches as if I'd hit her, and I immediately regret the words. Whatever else she is, whatever choices she's made to survive, she doesn't deserve that.
"I'm sorry," I start.
"Don't." Her voice cuts like a blade. "Don't you dare pity me."
"It's not pity."
"Then what is it?"
I stare into those green eyes, seeing the fire that burns beneath her carefully constructed facade. The intelligence that she hides behind silk and seduction. The strength that she's forced to disguise as submission.
"Recognition," I admit.
Something shifts between us, electric and dangerous. We're both trapped, both fighting to survive in our own ways. Both refusing to break despite the weight of our chains.
"You think we're alike?" she asks softly.
"I think you're stronger than you let anyone see. Including yourself."
"And I think you're going to die tomorrow, leaving nothing behind but bloodstains and broken dreams."
The words should hurt, but they don't. Because I hear what she's really saying—that she doesn't want me to die, that the thought of my death disturbs her in ways she can't afford to acknowledge.
"Maybe," I concede. "But I'll die as myself, not as someone else's idea of who I should be."
"How noble. I'm sure your corpse will appreciate the distinction."
"Will you?"
The question hangs between us like a blade. She opens her mouth to deliver another cutting remark, then closes it without speaking.
"I have to go," she says instead.
"Running away?"
"Surviving. You should try it sometime."
She leaves defiantly, her measured steps belying her retreat. Despite my predicament and her embodiment of all I despise here, I watch until she vanishes. This pampered pet has claws, making her far more dangerous than any orc.