Page 21 of Bought by the Broken Beast

BELLA

T he Votoi who leaves the crypt is not the man who held me in the forge.

The tenderness is gone, burned away and replaced by the cold, hard resolve of a warrior marching to his own execution.

He did not touch me. He did not speak of the sea.

He simply met my gaze, a silent, grim acknowledgment passing between us, and then he was gone, a ghost returning to his grave.

My heart should be shattering. It should be a screaming, ragged ruin in my chest. But I feel nothing.

I have taken the broken pieces of my foolish, hopeful heart and locked them in a box of cold, hard logic.

There is no space for grief. For the memory of his touch, of his promises. There is only the mission.

Votoi’s mission is to survive the arena. Mine is to make sure his sacrifice is not in vain.

I meet Lyra in the back room of The Bitter Draught.

The air is rich with the smell of stale ale and fear.

The few survivors of our failed rebellion are gathered here, a pathetic, broken collection of souls.

Kor, the one-eyed gladiator, stands sentinel by the door, his massive form a study in grim loyalty.

Two other gladiators, their faces a roadmap of scars and despair, slump at a table, their knuckles white around their mugs of ale.

A handful of the Fiepakak hunters, their eyes haunted by the memory of their fallen comrades, lean against the far wall. They are an army of ghosts.

And they are all staring at me. The weight of their expectant gazes is a physical pressure. They look at me, a small, human female, and I can see the doubt, the pity, the raw, simmering resentment in their eyes.

“This is what’s left of us?” one of the gladiators, a brute with a flattened nose, scoffs into his mug. “And we’re to be led by a human chit?”

“You will show her respect, Torg,” Kor’s voice is a low, dangerous growl from the doorway. “She has more courage than any Vakkak I have ever known.”

“Courage doesn’t win wars,” Torg spits back. “It gets you killed. It got Grak and Zorn killed.”

The name of the dead hangs in the air, a fresh, open wound. The hunters flinch, their expressions hardening. The doubt in the room solidifies into a wall of hostile grief.

“Torg is right,” Lyra says, her voice cutting through the tension. She stands beside me, a pillar of unexpected support. “Courage alone is not enough. But Votoi trusts her. He chose her. And I trust Votoi.” Her gaze sweeps the room. “We all do. That is why we are here. So you will listen.”

I step forward, unrolling a stolen city schematic on the table, the parchment a familiar, comforting weight beneath my hands. I meet Torg’s hostile gaze, then the gazes of the others, one by one. I don’t try to inspire them. I do not offer words of comfort or hope. I offer them a plan.

“This is not a battle of strength,” I say, my voice clear, steady, betraying none of the terror that is a cold, coiling serpent in my gut.

“We already tried that. We failed. This is a battle of information. Malacc expects us to be broken, scattered. He does not expect us to be organized. He does not expect us to be smart.”

I point to the Grand Plaza on the map. “The trial will be a spectacle. The entire Zu Kus will be in attendance. Every Vakkak and Zotkak of note. This is our true target.”

“Target?” one of the hunters says, his voice rough. “You want us to attack the Senate? We are ten strong, girl. That is a suicide mission.”

“Our target is not their bodies,” I counter, my voice sharp. “It is their minds. The copies of the manifests, the map of the assassination plot—these are our weapons.” I look around the room, at the cynical, broken faces. “We will not be an army. We will be a plague of whispers. A flood of truth.”

I lay out the plan, my voice gaining strength, my mind finding its footing in the familiar territory of logic and strategy.

“We will be scattered throughout the stands, dressed as commoners, as gamblers, as fans. We will be invisible. The street urchins who worship you gladiators will be our runners, passing messages, identifying key senators. The tavern patrons will be our lookouts, watching for Vorlag’s men. ”

“And the evidence?” Kor asks, his one good eye fixed on me, weighing my words.

“We will make dozens of copies,” I explain.

“Small, easily concealed. At the climax of the fight, when all eyes are on Votoi and Malacc, we will release them. Not all at once. A single parchment, dropped from the upper tiers, will land near the Zusvak’s box.

Then another, near the head of the Zotkak guild.

We will create confusion, intrigue. The senators themselves will spread the evidence for us, passing the damning pages to their neighbors out of sheer curiosity.

Before the guards can react, the truth will be in a hundred hands. ”

For the first time since the dockside massacre, I see a flicker of something other than despair in the very eyes of the Minotaurs around me. I see a spark of understanding. A glimmer of hope. They are warriors, lost without a battle to fight. I have just given them one.

Lyra is at my side the entire time, my second-in-command.

She is a rock, her presence a steady, reassuring thing.

She offers suggestions, her knowledge of the Fiepakak district and its people invaluable.

She points out the best positions in the stands, the guards most likely to be bribed or distracted.

Her support is so absolute, so unwavering, that the small, ugly shard of jealousy I felt in the crypt feels petty and shameful.

She loves him. And because she loves him, she is willing to help me save him.

“You are a natural commander, little scribe,” she says in a low murmur as we watch the last of our new recruits disperse into the night. “He was right about you. You are different.”

The compliment should feel good. It feels like a fresh wound.

There is a moment, as I am giving orders to Kor, that my mind betrays me.

I see Votoi’s face, his amber eyes soft in the firelight of the forge.

I will take you to the sea. The memory is a sharp, sudden pain, a ghost of a promise for a future that will never be.

I crush it down, ruthlessly. I have no right to that memory.

To the feelings it evokes. My feelings are a liability, a burden he does not need to carry into the arena.

My only purpose is to ensure he survives.

I want him to see his home by the sea again, even if I am not there to see it with him.

I want it for him. Fiercely. Desperately.

The preparations are complete. The copies of the evidence are bundled, our small network of rebels is in place. It is time.

Lyra and I are alone in the back room. The weight of the coming hours settles over us, a heavy, suffocating blanket.

“He will fight with the fury of a god,” Lyra says as a reverent whisper. “But Malacc is a serpent. He will not fight fair.”

“That is why we are not fighting fair either,” I reply, my voice a cold, hard thing.

She gives me a slow, approving smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I dismiss it as the strain of the moment. She steps closer, a heavy, dark cloak in her hands. It is made of a thick, rough-spun wool, the kind worn by the Fiepakak laborers.

“You will need this,” she says, her voice soft, concerned. “To hide your face in the crowd. You are the most wanted woman in Milthar. You must not be seen.”

She drapes the heavy cloak over my shoulders. It smells of her, of woodsmoke and something vaguely floral. Her hands linger on my shoulders for a moment, her grip surprisingly strong.

“The stands will be chaos,” she says, her dark eyes boring into mine. Her expression is one of perfect, fierce loyalty. “Vorlag’s men will be everywhere. They will be looking for you.” She gives my shoulders a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Stay close to me during the fight. I will protect you.”