Page 16 of Bought by the Broken Beast

VOTOI

T he pre-dawn air is cold and heavy with the salt spray of the sea. A thick, wet fog clings to the western docks, a shroud of grey that muffles sound and turns the towering cranes and stacks of crates into monstrous, slumbering beasts. It is a perfect cloak for an ambush.

I crouch on the roof of a fishmonger’s warehouse, the rough tiles digging into my knees.

Below me, my small, desperate army moves into position.

The hunters, led by Grak, melt into the shadows of the alleyways, their movements as silent and fluid as the fog itself.

The gladiators, my brothers in disgrace, find cover behind stacks of barrels and coiled ropes, their scarred bodies coiled springs of barely contained violence.

They are a collection of broken things, of forgotten souls, but as I watch them, a flicker of something I thought long dead stirs in my chest. Pride.

They have placed their lives in my hands, not because of a title or a bloodline, but because they believe in the honor I spoke of. They believe in me.

Bella is hidden in a small alcove on the warehouse roof across from me, a position I chose for her myself.

It offers a clear view of the docks but is far enough from the expected fighting to keep her safe.

Kor, the one-eyed gladiator whose life I once saved in the arena, is with her, his massive form a silent, unmoving sentinel.

My gaze finds her, a small, cloaked figure in the gloom.

Even from this distance, I can feel the fierce, unyielding intensity of her spirit.

She is the heart of this rebellion. She is the reason I fight.

The promise I made to her in the forge, the taste of her on my lips, the feel of her small, perfect body shattering in my arms—it is a fire in my blood, a warmth against the cold certainty of the coming battle.

For the first time in years, I’m not only fighting for vengeance. I am fighting for a future.

A low, mournful horn blast echoes across the water, cutting through the fog. The Sea Serpent . She is here.

My hand tightens on the hilt of my sword. I give the signal, a low whistle that mimics the cry of a night bird. Below me, my men tense, their weapons ready. The tension is a physical thing, a wire pulled taut, humming with the promise of violence.

The ship, a dark, hulking shadow, glides toward the pier. Its sails are furled, its movements unnervingly silent. There are no sailors calling out, no lamps lit on its deck. A cold knot of unease tightens in my gut. Something is wrong.

The gangplank is lowered with a dull thud. The cargo hold opens. I expect to see thugs, hired mercenaries, struggling with heavy crates of “festival supplies.”

Instead, the first figures to emerge are soldiers.

They move with a crisp, disciplined efficiency, their black armor gleaming even in the dim light, the snarling wolf’s head of Vorlag’s personal guard emblazoned on their shields.

They are not thugs. They are a legion. They form a perfect, impenetrable shield wall at the base of the gangplank, their spears held at the ready.

Dozens of them. More pour from the ship, archers taking up positions on the deck, their bows drawn.

And then he appears. Captain Vorlag himself, stepping onto the pier, his cruel face twisted into a triumphant sneer. He scans the silent, fog-shrouded docks, his eyes seeming to pierce the very shadows where my men are hidden.

It is not a shipment. It is an army. It is not a smuggling operation. It is an execution.

It is a trap.

The blood in my veins turns to ice. Who? Who could have warned them? Only a handful of us knew the plan. Lyra. Grak. The gladiators. One of them… one of them betrayed us. The thought is a shard of glass in my soul, a pain sharper than any blade.

“Now!” Vorlag roars, his voice echoing across the docks.

The world explodes.

From the rooftops, from the alleyways, from behind the crates, a hail of crossbow bolts rains down on my men’s positions.

The air is filled with the thrum of bowstrings and the sickening thud of bolts finding flesh.

Cries of pain and surprise erupt from the shadows.

The hunters, my proud, loyal hunters, are cut down before they can even raise their spears.

“Charge!” I roar, my voice a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated fury. There is no more strategy. There is no more hope of victory. There is only the battle, only the blood.

I leap from the roof, landing on the cobblestones with a ground-shaking impact. I am a whirlwind of destruction, my sword a blur of silver, my rage a cleansing fire. I carve a path through the shield wall, the sounds of my men, my brothers, dying behind me a torment in my ears.

The gladiators charge from their cover, their battle cries the desperate, hopeless roars of cornered beasts.

They are magnificent. They are born for this, for the blood and the chaos.

Zorn, the freedman, fights at my side, his massive axe a blur of motion, his face one of grim determination.

We are a two-man army, a force of nature, but we are hopelessly outnumbered.

For every one of Vorlag’s men we cut down, two more take his place. The docks become a slaughterhouse, the cobblestones slick with the blood of my followers. I see Kor, on the rooftop, shielding Bella with his own body as crossbow bolts shatter the tiles around them.

I see Grak, the old hunter, emerge from an alley, his spear in hand, his face a hard mask of grim resolve. He sees an archer on the deck of the ship taking aim, not at me, but at the rooftop where Bella is hidden.

“No!” Grak roars.

He does not hesitate. He throws himself into the open, a perfect, desperate target. The crossbow fires. The bolt takes him in the chest, lifting him off his feet, his spear clattering to the ground. He looks at me, his eyes wide with a final, silent apology, before he collapses.

A scream of pure, animalistic rage rips from my throat. I abandon all pretense of defense. I’m no longer a warrior. I am an executioner. I fight my way toward the gangplank, my only thought to kill Vorlag, to tear the sneer from his face with my bare hands.

Zorn is at my side, his axe a whirlwind. “They are too many, my lord!” he cries, his voice strained. “We cannot win!”

“Then we will die with honor!” I roar back, my sword cleaving a soldier’s helmet in two.

A spearman lunges at me from my blind side. Zorn shoves me out of the way, taking the blow himself. The spearhead punches through his leather armor, and he lets out a sharp, surprised grunt. He looks down at the shaft protruding from his gut, then back at me, a sad, knowing smile on his lips.

“It was an honor… to fight beside you again… brother,” he whispers, before he collapses at my feet.

The world goes red.

I am no longer Votoi Saru. I am a beast of the arena, a creature of pure, undiluted rage. I lose myself in the red mist of battle, my sword a living extension of my will, my body a vessel for a grief and a fury so profound it threatens to burn me alive from the inside out.

I am vaguely aware of Bella screaming my name from the rooftop, her voice a desperate, terrified plea. I am aware of Kor, pulling her back, away from the edge. I am aware of the city watch bells beginning to clang in the distance, a death knell for our failed rebellion.

We are not just defeated. We are massacred. Annihilated.

And we were betrayed. By one of our own. By someone I trusted. The thought is a cold, hard stone in the pit of my stomach, a poison more potent than any blade.