Chapter 32 Corrina
CORRINA
We stand in the crowded holding pen, the air thick with the stench of sweat and anxious bodies, when the announcer's voice booms through the arena, echoing off the high stone walls. It’s a sound I’ve come to associate with dread, a theatrical prelude to death.
“For our first match of the Grand Melee,” he declares, his voice dripping with false enthusiasm, “a test of brute strength against unproven spirit! On the southern sands, the Brothers of Carnage, Horgath and Joric!”
A guttural roar erupts from a pair of massive human gladiators across the pen. They are mountains of scarred flesh and muscle, both wielding heavy, double-headed axes. They look like they were born in a slaughterhouse.
The announcer lets the crowd’s cheer build before continuing, his timing impeccable. “And facing them on the northern sands… our Manticore Beast, Ronan, and his… spirited partner, the lovely Corrina!”
The name hits hard. Of course. Of all the killers in this pen, Valdris chose us to go first. To be the opening spectacle. The crowd’s reaction is a predictable mix of bloodthirsty cheers for Ronan and renewed, mocking laughter for me. They smell an easy kill. My kill.
“He wants us gone,” I whisper, my throat suddenly dry. My hands feel cold and clammy.
“No,” Ronan says beside me, his voice a low, grim rumble. “He wants a show. He’s betting on you being terrified. On them going for you first. The odds for me winning alone against two will be high. He’s just trying to fill his coffers.”
“So he’s willing to sacrifice me for a few extra ducats?” The bitterness in my own voice surprises me.
“He’s willing to sacrifice anyone for any reason,” Ronan says, his gaze fixed on our opponents. “That’s what makes him a monster.” He turns to me, his steel-blue eyes intense. “Don’t prove him right. Don’t be terrified. Be angry.”
His words, a shock, turn fear to cold fury. I won't be Valdris's sacrifice or pawn. The crowd's laughter fades, replaced by my heart's war drum.
Guards herd us from the main pen into a small, dark staging tunnel that leads directly to our gate. The air is cool and smells of damp earth and rust. This is it. The final moments before we step onto the sand.
“Take this off,” Ronan says, his voice rough as he tugs at the sleeve of the white, flowing dress I’ve worn since my first day in the cell. It’s a relic of my old life, a symbol of the woman I was.
“What?” I ask, confused.
“You can’t fight in a dress, Corrina. You’ll trip.” He pulls a bundle of stiff, worn leather from the small pack of gear they’d given us. “Here.”
It’s a collection of scavenged armor—bracers, shin guards, and a hardened leather cuirass that looks like it’s seen a dozen battles. It’s ugly and smells of old sweat. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“My silks won’t exactly offer much protection,” I say, trying for a lightness I don’t feel as I pull the white dress over my head, leaving me in my thin undertunic.
“No,” he agrees, his gaze flickering over my body for a fraction of a second before becoming all business. “Turn around.”
As he efficiently straps on the cuirass, his impersonal touch on my bare back sends a surprising jolt of heat through me. His focused proximity oddly calms my frayed nerves amidst the impending violence.
“The bracers,” he commands. I hold out my arms, and he secures them tightly, his calloused thumbs brushing against the tender skin of my wrists.
“What about you?” I ask, looking at his own unarmored chest.
“I’m faster without it,” he says simply. “You’re not. Your job is to stay alive. Let the leather do its job.” He meets my eyes, his expression deadly serious. “Stay behind me. Stay alive. Do not engage unless you have no other choice. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the roaring of the crowd.
Blinded by light, we enter the arena. The overwhelming noise, dizzying scale, and coppery smell of blood and sand assault me. My heart pounds like a trapped bird.
Horgath and Joric, massive and menacing, grin at me from the sand, their eyes dismissive of Ronan. They see an easy kill, a mere appetizer.
The signal horn blows, a long, mournful sound that marks the beginning of the fight. And they charge.
They don’t run. They stampede. The ground seems to shake with their thundering footsteps. And they are both coming straight for me.
In that moment of pure, unreasoning terror, all of Ronan’s training evaporates from my mind. Every lesson, every drill, every bruised piece of muscle memory vanishes, replaced by a single, primal instinct: run.
My mind went blank, but my feet moved. I scrambled backward, dodging Horgath's axe, which buried itself in the sand.
Joric's axe swept low for my legs; I leaped back, stumbling in the soft sand.
My heart pounded, a scream caught in my throat.
This was a real fight, terrifyingly fast, and I was going to die.
Just as Joric raises his axe for a second, more calculated swing, a blur of motion explodes from my left. Ronan is there, a whirlwind of protective fury, his body a living shield between me and the two hulking brothers.
“I told you to stay behind me,” he snarls, his voice a low, terrifying growl that is not directed at me.
He fought both men simultaneously with brutal efficiency, his single arena sword a deadly extension of himself. He parried Horgath's overhead chop, using his momentum to unbalance him, then ducked Joric's swing, leaving a deep gash on his thigh. I watched, horrified and awestruck.
Joric roared, and both brothers attacked sloppily. Ronan, a master of violence, seized an opening as Horgath overextended. His blade plunged into Horgath's side, and the man collapsed, eyes wide, axe falling from lifeless fingers.
“Horgath!” Joric screams, his face a mask of grief and rage. He abandons all pretense of technique and charges at Ronan, his axe held high like a club.
It’s a fatal mistake. Ronan sidesteps the reckless charge with contemptuous ease and ends the fight with a single, clean, merciless thrust to the heart.
The second body thuds to the sand. The crowd, which had been jeering moments before, is momentarily stunned into silence, and then erupts into a roar of approval. The whole fight took less than a minute.
Ronan stands over the two corpses, his chest heaving, his sword dripping red onto the sand. Then his blazing blue eyes find mine, a silent, frantic question in their depths. Are you hurt?
I shake my head, unable to speak. The first round is over. We are still alive.