Chapter 5 Ronan
RONAN
Guards drag me from my cell before dawn, my chains scraping against stone with each stumbling step. My ribs still ache from the troll fight three days ago, but Valdris grows impatient for fresh entertainment.
"Move it, beast," Korven snarls, jabbing me with his spear tip. "The crowd's already gathering."
"Eager for blood today?" I ask, rolling my shoulders to work out the stiffness.
"Always." Thane grins nastily. "Though today should be interesting. Your opponent's got quite the reputation."
They shove me into the preparation chamber where a single blade waits on the scarred wooden table. Not my twin swords—those were lost in Oshta—but a decent enough weapon. The steel feels cold and familiar in my palm as I test its weight.
"Generous of your master," I observe, making practice swings despite the chains still binding my ankles.
"Don't get attached," Korven warns. "You'll be giving it back soon enough."
The key turns in my shackles with a satisfying click. For the very first time in days, my wrists are free. I roll them slowly, working feeling back into numbed fingers.
"Remember the rules, beast," Thane says, though we all know there are no rules in the arena save one: survive. "Fight well, and maybe you'll see another sunrise."
"How thoughtful."
As I'm led toward the arena, I consider scaling the pit master's box to kill Valdris, despite the risk.
The fantasy of vengeance burns, but I dismiss it, knowing his guards would kill me and my brothers would remain lost. Others have surely failed such attempts.
I need a smarter way, a death that means something.
The arena gates open, and the crowd's roar greets me.
I step into the ring, fueled by their hatred.
"Citizens of Vhoig!" the announcer's voice booms loudly across the arena. "Today we have a special treat! Our manticore warrior faces Grokthar the Skull-Cleaver!"
The opposite gates open with mechanical precision, revealing my opponent.
The orc stands nearly eight feet tall, his green hide scarred by countless battles.
Twin curved blades gleam in his massive fists, and his tusks are filed to razor points.
This is no beast driven by hunger—this is a thinking killer who's survived long enough to earn a name.
"Grokthar! Grokthar!" The crowd takes up the chant, clearly favoring the veteran over the newcomer.
The orc grins, revealing those sharpened tusks. "Fresh meat," he rumbles in accented Common. "Been too long since I killed manticore."
"First time for everything," I reply, settling into a fighting stance.
"You talk pretty for dead thing."
"I'm still breathing."
"Not for long."
He charges with surprising speed for something his size, twin blades whistling through the air where my head was a heartbeat before. I roll aside, sand grinding between my teeth as I come up swinging.
My blade skitters off his thick hide without drawing blood. He laughs, a sound like grinding stone.
"Soft steel," he taunts. "Soft fighter."
"Let's find out."
I feint left, then dive right as his massive fist punches through the air. My blade finds the gap between his ribs and his arm, drawing first blood. It's not deep, but the crowd notices.
"Lucky cut," Grokthar snarls, pressing his free hand to the wound.
"Skill," I correct. "Something you might want to learn."
He roars, shaking the arena. His blades force me back; I lack his strength and reach but possess speed and rage. Memories of lost brothers, failed rescues, and captivity fueled my fire. I weave through his attacks, my blade striking repeatedly. Small cuts added up, soon his green hide runs red.
"Stand still!" he roars in frustration.
"Make me."
He weakens from blood loss. I seize my chance, opening his throat. The arena falls silent, then erupts in applause. I stand victorious, another step closer to freedom. I meet Valdris's gaze, my eyes promising more violence. He studies me, calculating my value.
"Well fought!" his voice carries across the arena, magically amplified. "Truly magnificent!"
The crowd takes up the cheer, though I know their loyalty is as fickle as morning mist. They'll cheer my death just as loudly when it comes.
But for now, I'm their champion.
Lord Caelum says something that makes Valdris laugh, and I catch the gesture he makes—fingers rubbing together in the universal sign for profit. That's all this is to him. Entertainment and coin.
My eyes drift to Corrina, draped in midnight blue, her skin like pearl, dark hair spilling.
Despite exhaustion and blood, I notice the fabric clinging to her curves, and I hate it.
Our gazes meet; no admiration, excitement, or bloodlust in her green eyes, only cold, sharp loathing.
Good, the feeling is mutual. She sees me as a beast, a crude killer.
I see her as a pampered whore. We're probably both right.
"Beautiful, isn't she?" Grokthar's voice is a wet whisper behind me.
I spin, shocked to find the orc still alive despite his ruined throat. Blood bubbles from his lips as he grins with the last of his strength.
"The dark-haired one," he continues. "Valdris's favorite. Many fighters have tried to claim her."
"And?"
"All died. She is... protected." His eyes grow distant. "But oh, what a prize she would be."
"Die quietly," I suggest.
"Already am, manticore." His grin widens. "But you... you interest her. See how she watches you."
I glance back at the viewing box despite myself. Corrina is indeed watching, her green eyes fixed on me with an intensity that almost makes my skin crawl.
"She hates me," I point out.
"Does she?" Grokthar's laugh turns into a bloody cough. "Or does she hate... what you represent?"
The orc dies, but his last words about what I represent haunt me. Guards arrive. I look up at Corrina in the viewing box; her face shows controlled hatred. I decide her hatred is simpler, cleaner, and less dangerous than anything else.
The walk back to my cell gives me time to think. Grokthar's words keep echoing: "She is protected." Protected how? By Valdris's jealousy? By his guards? Or by something else entirely?
And why should I care?
"Thirsty work, killing orcs," Korven observes as we descend into the dungeon levels. "Maybe we should get you some water."
"How generous."
"Don't be smart. You did well today, earned your keep. That counts for something."
Does it? I wonder if earning my keep means anything beyond prolonging this nightmare. Still, I'm alive, and while I breathe, there's hope of finding my brothers.
They shove me into my cell with less force than usual. Respect, perhaps, or simply the knowledge that I could probably kill them both before they could draw steel.
"Rest up, beast," Thane says, but there's less venom in it now. "Tomorrow's another day."
Jailed but unchained, I recall Corrina in the arena—her eyes, a mix of hatred and something like longing.
I dismiss it, knowing she's Valdris's pet, yet her past words, "Better to die a man than live a pet," hint at genuine pain.
Still, she's a distraction from my survival, escape, and mission to find my brothers.
Despite my resolve, her image, beautiful and complex, haunts my dreams. I know I'm lying to myself; she's under my skin, and I, hers—two prisoners recognizing a dangerous connection.
It's going to make everything so much more dangerous.
And despite myself, I'm looking forward to it.