Page 20 of Bought by the Broken Beast

VOTOI

B efore I surrender, before I walk to my own execution, there is one last debt to be paid. One final duty to perform. I cannot protect her from the arena floor. But I can leave a guardian in my place.

I find Kor in a collapsed tenement building deep in the Fiepakak slums, a place even the city watch is afraid to tread. He and the two other surviving gladiators have made a grim camp in the ruins, their faces etched with the grief and fury of our defeat.

Kor sees me emerge from the shadows, and he is on his feet in an instant, his one good eye wide with a mixture of shock and relief. “My lord. We thought you were dead.”

“Not yet,” I say, voice a low rumble. I gesture for him to walk with me, away from the prying ears of the others. We stand in the shell of a burned-out room, the sky a sliver of grey above us.

“I am turning myself in,” I state, leaving no room for argument. “I will face Malacc in the arena.”

Kor’s face hardens. “It is a trap. A suicide. Let us fight. We can die on our feet, not as a spectacle for that traitor’s amusement.”

“We will not win a war of blades,” I counter, my voice flat.

“We have already proven that. Our only weapon now is the truth. And the only stage large enough to display it is the one Malacc has built for my execution.” I place a heavy hand on his massive shoulder, my gaze locking with his.

“That is not why I am here. I have a charge for you, Kor. A final request.”

He understands instantly. His gaze flickers with a deep, knowing sorrow. “The human.”

“Her name is Bella,” I say, the name a strange, beautiful thing on my tongue.

“She is the heart of this. Without her, the truth dies with me. I need you to protect her. Swear it to me. Swear to me that you will get her out of that arena, out of this city, no matter what happens to me. Swear it on the blood we have spilled together on the sand.”

“I swear it,” he says as a solemn vow. He hesitates, his brow furrowed. “There is something you must know. About the betrayal.”

My blood runs cold. “You know who it was?”

“I know who delivered the coin,” he corrects, his voice a low, angry growl. “The night after the attack. I saw Hakar slipping from the tavern, he was unconcerned of our dead. I followed him. He met a figure in the alleys behind the docks. A cloaked figure.”

“Did you see a face?” I demand, my hand clenching into a fist.

“No. They were careful. But I saw the payment. A heavy satchel of gold. And on the satchel, I saw Malacc’s crest.” He pauses, his one eye narrowing in thought. “And the cloak… it was a fine one. Heavy wool, dark, with a strange, floral scent clinging to it. The kind a woman might wear.”

The description is a phantom touch, a memory of a heavy cloak being draped over Bella’s shoulders. A cloak that smelled of woodsmoke and… flowers. Lyra owns one. The thought is a serpent, coiling in my gut, but I crush it down. Not Lyra. It cannot be.

“Hakar was not working alone,” Kor continues, his voice grim. “The figure who paid him was no common soldier. They moved with a confidence, a purpose. There is another traitor in our midst, my lord. Someone we trust.”

“The betrayer will reveal themselves in time,” I say, the words a cold comfort. “For now, my trust is in you. You are not my brother by blood, Kor. But you are a brother of my spirit. There is no higher honor.”

He clasps my arm, his grip like iron. “Then I will not fail you.”

I hesitate, the final, most important words caught in my throat. They are a vulnerability, a weakness I have never shown to another soul. But if I am to die, I will die with the truth on my lips.

“If I fall,” I say, voice a deep, rough thing, “and she survives… tell her… tell her I would have asked her to be my mate. Tell her I would have taken her to the sea.”

Kor’s eye widens, a flicker of profound understanding in its depths. He gives a single, sharp nod. “I will tell her.” He tightens his grip on my arm. “Now, go. And come back, brother. Come back and tell her yourself.”

I leave him then, a strange, unfamiliar peace settling over me. Bella will be protected. My final duty is done. Now, I can face my own end.

I walk through the city, my head held high. I do not hide in the shadows. I let them see me. The disgraced one. The rebel. The dead man walking. The citizens of Milthar stare, their faces a mixture of fear, contempt, and a flicker of something else… a grudging respect.

I stop before the main gates of the arena, the place of my greatest shame, the stage for my final act. Two guards, their armor gleaming, block my path, their spears crossed.

“I am Votoi Saru,” I declare, my voice booming across the plaza. “I have come to answer the challenge of Lord Malacc.”

Their shock is a satisfying, fleeting thing.

They lead me through the gates, down the winding, torch-lit corridors, the smell of blood and fear a familiar, suffocating perfume.

They strip me of my sword, of my cloak, of the last vestiges of my freedom.

They throw me into a cell. The cell. The very same one I left what feels like a lifetime ago.

The heavy iron door slams shut, the sound a final, deafening note of doom.

I am alone. Alone with the ghosts of the men who died for me. Grak. Zorn. The hunters. Their faces swim in the darkness, their eyes accusing, questioning. Did I lead them to their deaths for nothing?

I sink to the filthy straw, the cold of the stone seeping into my bones. The shame of this place, of my return, is a physical weight, a crushing despair. I am to die here, a spectacle for the masses, my name forever branded as a traitor.

But then, I think of her.

I think of her fierce, intelligent eyes.

I think of her quiet courage in the face of impossible odds.

I think of the feel of her small, determined hand in mine, guiding me to claim her.

She did not just teach me to hope. She taught me that honor is not a thing to be possessed, but a thing to be fought for, even when the battle is already lost. She is the human who has taught a Minotaur what it truly means to be a Vakkak.

The thought is a fire in the cold, dead ashes of my soul. I am not merely fighting for my name. Not for my family. I am fighting for her. For the future she made me believe in. For the promise of the sea.

The heavy bar on my cell door scrapes back. Two arena guards stand in the opening, their faces impassive. “It is time.”

I rise to my feet. The despair is gone, replaced by a cold, quiet calm. I am Votoi Saru. And I will not die in shame.

I walk the final, long corridor, the fierce roar of the crowd a distant, thunderous wave.

The sound grows louder, more intense, a physical pressure against my skin.

The guards stop before a massive iron gate.

One of them hands me a single, heavy, brutally functional battle-axe.

It is not a Vakkak weapon. It is a butcher’s tool. It will have to do.

The gate groans open, and the light of the arena, the roar of ten thousand voices, crashes over me. I step out onto the blood-soaked sand, the sun a blinding, merciless glare.

And across the arena, I see him.

Malacc stands there, clad in a suit of gleaming, black-and-gold Vakkak armor, a magnificent, perfectly balanced war axe in his hand. He is the picture of honor, of power, of everything I once was. A triumphant, arrogant sneer twists his lips. He has already won. He knows it. The crowd knows it.

But he does not know about the human scribe who holds the truth in her hands. He does not know that I am no longer fighting for myself.

And that is why he will lose.