Chapter 11 Ronan
RONAN
The cell door crashes open before dawn, jarring me from uneasy sleep. Thane and Korven stand silhouetted against torchlight, their faces grim with business.
"Up, beast," Thane barks. "Arena calls."
I rise from the stone floor, joints protesting after a night on cold ground. Across the cell, Corrina stirs in her silk cocoon, green eyes blinking in confusion.
"Early today," she observes, voice husky with sleep.
"Special exhibition," Korven explains with cruel satisfaction. "Dawn matches draw better crowds. Something about blood in morning light."
They chain my wrists with practiced efficiency while more guards appear for Corrina. She rises with fluid grace despite her circumstances, somehow managing to look regal even with straw in her dark hair.
"Where are you taking her?" I ask before I can stop myself.
"Not your concern, beast."
They drag us from the cell in opposite directions. As we part ways in the corridor, I catch her looking back over her shoulder. Something unreadable flickers in those green eyes.
"At least I'll have a few hours' peace from that insufferable woman," I mutter to myself as guards march me toward the arena.
But the words ring hollow even as I speak them.
The preparation chamber buzzes with activity—healers, weapons masters, guards laying odds on my survival. A curved sword waits on the familiar wooden table, its edge keen enough to split silk.
"Three shadow wolves today," the weapons master informs me casually. "Fresh from the northern wastes. Hungry."
Shadow wolves. Fast as lightning, smart as men, utterly without mercy. And I'm still healing from my last fight.
"Wonderful."
The arena gates grind open to reveal three sleek forms stalking across the sand. Each shadow wolf stands nearly as tall as a horse, their black fur seeming to drink the morning light. Yellow eyes fix on me with predatory intelligence.
The crowd sounds its approval, but something feels different today. More electric. More anticipatory.
I don't have time to analyze it before the wolves attack.
They come from three directions simultaneously, coordinated like the pack hunters they are. I roll aside as massive jaws snap where my head was moments before, bringing my sword up to catch the second beast across its muzzle.
It screams—a sound like tearing metal—and blood sprays across the sand.
The third wolf circles behind me while I'm engaged with the first two. I sense rather than see its attack, spinning just in time to take its claws across my ribs instead of my spine.
Pain flares white-hot as talons part flesh, but I manage to drive my blade between its ribs. The wolf collapses, but not before its dying swipe opens a gash along my arm.
Two down. One to go.
The remaining wolf is the largest, its eyes burning with intelligence and fury. It doesn't charge blindly like its packmates—it stalks, circles, waits for the perfect moment.
Blood loss makes me dizzy, but I will myself to remain focused. One mistake and those jaws will tear out my throat.
When it finally lunges, I'm ready. My blade takes it through the heart in a perfect thrust, but its momentum carries us both to the ground. We roll across bloodstained sand, its claws raking my chest before it finally goes still.
I rise on shaking legs, victorious but barely. The crowd's approval seems distant, unimportant. All that matters is that I'm still breathing.
For now.
The descent to the cells passes in a haze of blood loss and exhaustion. Guards half-carry me down stone steps, my legs unsteady beneath me. The wounds aren't fatal, but they're deep enough to need attention.
They shove me through the cell door without ceremony. I stumble, catching myself against the far wall as iron clangs shut behind me.
Moments later, the door opens again. Corrina is thrust inside with less violence but equal disregard. Her emerald dress is wrinkled, her hair disheveled, but she appears unharmed.
"Lovely accommodations," she says dryly, brushing dust from her silk.
"Could be worse."
"Could it? You're bleeding all over the floor."
I look down at the growing red stain beneath me. The wolf's claws went deeper than I thought.
"It'll stop."
"Not anytime soon." She studies my wounds with clinical detachment. "That one along your ribs is particularly nasty."
"I've had worse."
"I'm sure you have. You seem to collect scars like other men collect coin."
Despite the pain, I almost smile at her sardonic tone. "What can I say? I'm talented."
"Talented at nearly getting yourself killed, apparently."
"Nearly doesn't count."
"Tell that to your blood loss."
We glare at each other in the narrow cell, neither willing to show weakness. But I can see concern flickering in her green eyes despite her sharp words.
"Where did they take you today?" I ask, partly to distract from my wounds.
"To watch you fight." Her voice turns flat, emotionless. "Front row seats to your glorious near-death experience."
The words hit harder than expected. She was forced to watch me battle for my life, to see me nearly torn apart for entertainment.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I've seen worse."
"You need those cleaned," Corrina says after a long silence, nodding at my wounds.
"They'll heal."
"Not if they fester. And I refuse to share a cell with a rotting corpse."
Before I can protest, she moves closer, silk rustling against stone. Her hands hover over the worst gash along my ribs, not quite touching but close enough that I feel her warmth.
"This needs binding."
"With what?"
Without hesitation, she grasps the hem of her expensive dress and tears. Emerald silk parts with a sound like sighing, revealing a strip of clean fabric.
"That gown probably cost more than most people earn in a year," I observe.
"It's just clothing." She tears another strip, then another. "And it's not like I chose it."
The casual dismissal of such luxury surprises me. But then, what's silk worth in a stone cage?
She approaches with the makeshift bandages, moving slowly as if approaching a wounded animal. "This will hurt."
"Everything hurts."
"How philosophical." But her touch is surprisingly gentle as she presses fabric against the worst wound. "There. Try not to bleed through it immediately."
"Your bedside manner needs work."
"I'm not a healer. I'm a prisoner playing nursemaid to an ungrateful brute."
Despite the words, her fingers are careful as they wrap silk around my ribs. Professional, efficient, but without the clinical coldness I expected.
"Why?" I ask quietly.
"Why what?"
"Why help me?"
She pauses in her work, meeting my eyes for the first time since entering the cell. "Because someone should."
The simple honesty of it catches me off guard. After everything—the cruel words, the mutual loathing, the impossible situation—she still tends my wounds with gentle hands.
"Soft," I murmur, but my voice lacks its usual edge.
"Practical," she corrects sharply. "Dead cellmates smell terrible."
The comeback is so perfectly her—sharp-tongued and defensive—that laughter escapes before I can stop it. Rich, genuine laughter that echoes off stone walls.
She stares at me in shock. "Did you just...?"
"Apparently."
"I didn't know you could laugh."
"Neither did I."
And for just a moment, in this hellish cell with blood on my skin and silk binding my wounds, something almost like companionship flickers between us.