Page 2 of Bought by the Broken Beast

VOTOI

T he damp stone of the cell leeches the warmth from my bones, leaving a permanent chill that has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature.

It is the cold of shame, a frost that has settled deep in my soul on the day they shattered my horn and my name in the same, brutal stroke.

I am Votoi Saru of the Vakkak, heir to a legacy forged in honor and victory.

I was . Now, I am a beast in a cage, the reek of unwashed bodies and spilled blood my constant companion.

Sounds from the market above filter down through the iron grate—the clamor of merchants, the bellow of a taura being led to slaughter, the distant, hollow roar of the arena crowd.

That sound, once a symphony that sang of my glory, is now a funeral dirge for the warrior I used to be.

My hand, calloused and scarred, drifts up to the jagged tip of my left horn.

The splintered edge is a map of my downfall, a constant, physical reminder of the lies that condemned me.

Treason. A forged trade deal with Dark Elves—the ultimate blasphemy.

The evidence was irrefutable, the judgment swift.

They offered me the mercy of the executioner’s axe.

I chose this living death instead, a fool’s hope that my family would be spared the deeper shame of my execution.

The heavy bar on my cell door scrapes against stone, a sound that vibrates through my teeth. Two guards, Fiepakak thugs grown fat on their Zotkak master’s coin, stand in the opening.

“On your feet, beast,” one of them grunts, rattling a set of heavy iron chains. “The auctioneer wants you in the pit. Time to show the buyers what their coin is for.”

I rise slowly, deliberately, unfolding my full height until my horns nearly scrape the low ceiling.

I let them see the contempt in my eyes, the unbroken pride that is the only thing they haven’t been able to strip from me.

I offer them no resistance as they shackle my wrists, the cold iron a familiar weight.

Resistance is a privilege of the free. My defiance must be colder, quieter.

They lead me through a winding passage, the torchlight flickering across walls slick with grime.

We emerge not into the sun-drenched expanse of the main arena, but into a smaller, covered pit reeking of fear and cheap ale.

A wooden platform stands in the center, stained dark with things I do not care to name.

The crowd is a motley collection of merchants looking for guards, Zotkak nobles seeking a new gladiator for their private games, and the dregs of the city who come to watch things bleed.

The auctioneer, a portly Minotaur with polished horns and a voice like oiled gravel, gestures for me to be brought forward. “A fine specimen for you today, discerning buyers! A Vakkak, it is said, though fallen from grace. But the bloodline remains! The strength is unquestionable!”

My jaw aches from the force with which I clench it. I am a prize bull being inspected, my muscles prodded, my teeth checked. The humiliation is a physical acid in my gut.

“But words are cheap!” the auctioneer booms. “Let us have a demonstration of this asset’s capabilities!”

He gestures to a heavy iron gate on the far side of the pit.

It groans open, and the stench of something foul and enraged washes over the crowd.

An Urog, one of the orcs twisted by Dark Elf magic into a ten-foot-tall monstrosity of muscle and rage, lumbers into the pit.

Its skin is a patchwork of scars, its eyes burning with mindless fury.

It is not alone. From the shadows behind it, two wiry, four-armed assassins from the southern isles creep out, their hooked blades gleaming.

The crowd roars its approval. A Vakkak against three lesser beings. Good sport.

The guards unshackle my wrists. The auctioneer tosses a single, rust-pitted axe onto the sand at my feet. My weapon of choice has always been a pair of matched war axes, perfectly balanced and bearing the crest of my house. This thing is an insult.

I do not pick it up.

The Urog charges, its roar shaking the very foundations of the pit.

I stand my ground, my body a coiled spring of Vakkak training and arena-honed instinct.

At the last possible second, I drop, sweeping my leg out.

The Urog, for all its strength, is clumsy.

It trips over my leg, crashing headlong into the wooden wall of the pit with a sound like a thunderclap.

I don't waste the opening. I surge to my feet, ignoring the two assassins circling me, and drive my shoulder into the Urog’s back, pinning it to the wall.

I wrap my arms around its thick neck, my muscles straining.

It thrashes, its immense power nearly breaking my hold, but I lock my grip.

With a final, guttural roar that is more animal than Minotaur, I twist. There is a sickening crack of bone, and the Urog goes limp.

One down.

The assassins attack, a whirlwind of flashing blades.

I spin, using the Urog’s massive body as a shield.

Their hooks sink into the dead flesh. I shove the corpse forward, sending them stumbling back.

Now I snatch the discarded axe from the sand.

It feels wrong in my hand, poorly weighted, but it is steel. It will cut.

The first assassin comes at me, a blur of motion, all four arms striking at once.

I do not attempt to parry. Parrying is for honorable duels.

This is a slaughter. I duck under his wild swing and bring the axe up in a brutal, disemboweling arc.

He screams, a high, thin sound, as his own entrails spill onto the sand.

He crumples, his three remaining arms clutching at the gaping wound.

The second one is smarter. He feints, trying to draw me out.

I do not fall for it. I let him come to me.

He lunges, his blade aimed for my throat.

I turn my shoulder, letting the hook bite deep into the muscle.

The pain is a hot, white fire, but I ignore it.

I have him. My free hand shoots out, grabbing his throat.

I lift him off the ground, his legs kicking uselessly.

I watch the life drain from his eyes before I slam his head into the stone floor with enough force to shatter bone.

Silence.

The entire pit is silent for a heartbeat, the crowd stunned.

Then, they erupt. The roar is deafening, a wave of bloodlust and awe.

I stand over the carnage, my chest heaving, blood dripping from my arm and spattering the sand.

I feel no triumph. This is not a victory.

It is a performance. The work of a butcher, not a warrior.

“As you can see,” the auctioneer’s voice booms, slick with greed, “the quality is undeniable! Let us begin the bidding!”

I tune it out, my gaze sweeping over the leering faces in the crowd.

I see a Zotkak merchant I recognize—a man named Ghorak who once bowed to me in the halls of the Senate.

He is the high bidder, his face flushed with the thrill of owning something he once feared.

The humiliation is a fresh wound, deeper than the one in my arm.

A new voice cuts through the din.

“Five hundred gold.”

It is a woman’s voice. A human’s. Clear and steady, without a trace of the bloodlust that fills the air.

I search the crowd and find her. She is small, unassuming, her dark hair pulled back in a severe knot.

She is dressed in the simple garb of a servant or a scribe, utterly out of place in this den of vipers.

Ghorak scoffs, turning to locate the source of the bid. “The human mistakes the slave market for the fish market. Six hundred!”

“Seven hundred,” she counters immediately, her gaze fixed on me. There is no emotion on her face, only a calm, unnerving resolve.

The back-and-forth is a spectacle. The Zotkak merchant, his pride wounded, against the slip of a human girl with a seemingly bottomless purse. The crowd murmurs, intrigued. A human owning a Vakkak, even a disgraced one, is unheard of.

“One thousand gold!” Ghorak bellows, his face turning purple.

“Two thousand,” she says, her voice never wavering.

Ghorak stares at her, his mouth agape. He looks from her to me, then back again, sputtering. He throws his hands up in disgust and storms away.

“Sold!” the auctioneer cries, slamming his gavel down. “To the human woman!”

My world tilts. My fate, my very life, now belongs to this fragile creature. The rage that has been simmering within me boils over, a storm of shame and fury so potent it threatens to shatter my control.

The guards shackle me again and lead me to a small, torch-lit chamber off the pit. She waits for me, a rolled piece of parchment in her hand. The contract. My leash.

I stop a few feet from her, letting the full weight of my presence bear down on her. My shadow swallows her whole. I tower over her, a mountain of scarred muscle and barely contained violence. I want to see her flinch. I want to see the terror in her eyes. It is the only power I have left.

But she does not flinch. She meets my gaze directly, her brown eyes sharp and intelligent. It is a subtle act of defiance, and it stokes my rage to a white-hot inferno.

She holds out the contract. “Your name is Votoi Saru. You will answer to me now. You will protect me.”

A growl rumbles in my chest, a sound like stone grinding on stone. I am about to unleash a torrent of contempt, to tell her exactly what I think of her, of her species, of this ultimate degradation.

But before I can speak, she takes a single step closer, into my space, into the very heart of my fury. Her voice drops to a bare whisper, a sound meant only for me, a sound that cuts through the roaring storm in my mind.

“Lord Malacc.”

The name is a key turning in a lock I thought was rusted shut forever. The sounds of the market, the pain in my arm, the rage in my heart—it all vanishes. Everything stops, silenced by that single, impossible name on the lips of a human slave.