Chapter 21 Ronan
RONAN
The female gladiator has been circling me for the better part of an hour, and my patience is wearing thin.
Lyralei is her name—a dark elf with ritual scars covering her olive skin and steel rings woven through her braided hair.
She's survived fifteen matches, which makes her dangerous and experienced.
Also persistent as a plague rat.
"The key to surviving a grand melee is positioning," she explains, standing closer than necessary. "You need someone who can watch your back while you handle the heavy fighting."
"And you think you're that someone?"
"I know I am." Her hand touches my arm lightly, a gesture that's meant to seem casual but carries clear intent. "We'd make an excellent team, Ronan. My speed, your strength. My magic, your brutality."
"I work alone."
"So far. But this is different. Teams will have advantages over individual fighters. Why handicap yourself with pride?"
Because I don't trust anyone enough to watch my back. Because alliances in places like this are temporary at best, deadly at worst.
"Fuck off."
The sharp command makes us both turn. Corrina approaches with murder in her green eyes, silk dress swaying with each determined step. There's something different about her—a predatory grace I haven't seen before.
"I'm sorry?" Lyralei's eyebrows rise with aristocratic disdain.
"You heard me. Fuck. Off."
The crude language sounds strange coming from someone who normally speaks with refined precision, but there's no mistaking the venom behind it.
"How... colorful," Lyralei observes with a smirk. "It looks like your pet is angry."
The word 'pet' makes something dangerous stir in my chest, but before I can respond, Corrina moves closer with fluid menace.
"Say that again."
"Which part? Pet? Because that's what you are, isn't it? Valdris's pretty little—"
"Enough."
Before this situation can escalate into bloodshed—and judging by the way Corrina's hand hovers near something hidden in her dress, it's heading that direction—I take action.
Using my superior strength, I scoop Corrina up and deposit her firmly on my lap, one arm wrapping around her waist to keep her in place. She's light as a feather but vibrates with suppressed fury.
"She's always angry," I tell Lyralei with casual amusement, as if Corrina's possessive rage is nothing more than a minor character quirk. "It's part of her charm."
Corrina makes a sound in her throat—half growl, half snarl—that would be threatening if it came from someone who actually knew how to fight. As it is, it's more adorable than intimidating, like an angry kitten trying to roar.
"I am no one's pet," she hisses at Lyralei, green eyes blazing.
"Of course not," the dark elf replies with false sweetness. "You're much too spirited for simple pet status. More of a... treasured possession, perhaps? Something to be displayed and admired?"
"Better a treasured possession than a desperate whore throwing herself at anything with a sword."
The insult hits home. Lyralei's smirk falters, replaced by something colder and far more dangerous.
"Careful, little girl. Your protector won't always be around to shield you from consequences."
"I don't need a protector."
"Don't you? Because from where I stand, you look remarkably helpless. All silk and sharp words, but no substance underneath."
Corrina tries to lunge forward, but my arm tightens around her waist, keeping her secure on my lap. She's practically vibrating with the need for violence.
"Speaking of sharp words," I interrupt before this can turn into actual combat, "I'm not interested in partnerships. Find another team."
Lyralei's expression turns bitter. "Your loss. When you're bleeding out in the sand, remember that you had options."
"I'll keep that in mind."
She stalks away with wounded pride, leaving us alone in our corner of the holding area. The moment she's gone, Corrina starts fighting against my grip with renewed fury.
"Let me go," she demands, elbowing me in the ribs.
"Not until you calm down."
"I am calm!"
"You're about thirty seconds from committing murder. Again."
That stops her struggling. "You saw?"
"Everyone saw. Nice work with the naga, by the way. Clean kill."
She twists in my lap to face me, and I'm struck by how her eyes seem to glow with inner fire when she's angry. Beautiful and deadly—a combination that's proven consistently dangerous to my peace of mind.
"She had no right to call me your pet."
"Technically, you are Valdris's pet."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
"Yes, because..." She struggles for words, then settles on: "It just is."
"Compelling argument."
"Shut up." But there's less venom in it now. "Why did you defend me?"
"Maybe I don't like people insulting my... whatever you are."
"Your whatever?"
"I'm still figuring that out."
She studies my face with uncomfortable intensity, as if trying to read thoughts I'm not ready to share. When she speaks again, her voice carries a determination that makes my pulse quicken.
"I want to be on your team."
The unexpected request catches me off guard. "What?"
"For the grand melee. I want to fight beside you."
I stare at her for a long moment, waiting for the punchline. When none comes, I can't help but laugh.
"You're not a gladiator, Corrina. Hell, you're not even a fighter."
"I killed Zephyr."
"You surprised one overconfident snake. That doesn't make you a warrior."
Her jaw clenches with stubborn pride. "It's a start."
"It's suicide. The grand melee isn't going to be ambushing distracted opponents. It'll be chaos, violence, skilled killers trying to murder each other for sport."
"Then teach me."
"Teach you what?"
"How to fight. How to survive. How to be more than just a pretty decoration that gets passed between masters."
There's something raw in her voice, a desperation that cuts through my practical objections. This isn't about the grand melee, I realize. It's about agency. About having some control over her own fate.
"You want to get yourself killed."
"I want to get myself free."
"Those might be the same thing."
"Maybe. But at least I'll die on my feet instead of on my knees."
The fierce determination in her green eyes reminds me why I was drawn to her in the first place. Not the silk or the beauty—though both are undeniably appealing—but the unbreakable spirit that refuses to be crushed despite everything she's endured.
"You have no training. No weapons experience. No idea what you're asking."
"I have you."
"I'm not a teacher."
"You're a killer. Teach me to kill."
The blunt honesty of it steals my breath. Because that's exactly what she's asking for—not self-defense or martial arts, but the tools to take control of her own destiny through violence.
"This is insane."
"Probably."
"You'll most likely die in the first five minutes."
"Better than living the rest of my life as someone else's property."
I study her face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. Find nothing but steel-hard resolve wrapped in silk and stubbornness.
"The training would be brutal. No mercy, no accommodation for your comfort."
"I don't want mercy."
"You'd have to follow my orders without question."
"I can do that."
"Can you? Because five minutes ago you were ready to murder another woman for talking to me."
Heat flares in her cheeks, but her voice remains steady. "That was different."
"How?"
"She was trying to take something that's mine."
The possessive admission hangs between us like a drawn blade. Because that's what this is really about, isn't it? Not just freedom or agency, but the need to fight for something—someone—that matters.
"I'm not yours, Corrina."
"Aren't you?"
The quiet question carries more weight than any declaration. Because looking into her eyes, seeing the fierce protectiveness there, I'm not entirely sure she's wrong.
"This is a terrible idea," I tell her.
"But you'll do it?"
I should say no. Should find her a safe corner to hide in while the real fighters handle the melee. Should protect her from herself and the violent world that will chew her up and spit out pieces.
Instead, I hear myself saying: "But I could make you one."
Her smile is bright as sunlight, sharp as steel.
"When do we start?"