Page 38 of Her Manticore Master

"I know about watching men die trying."

Her voice carries a weight I hadn't expected, memories of other gladiators who didn't survive their encounters. How many fighters has she watched fall over the years?

"Then what would you suggest?"

"Speed over power. Stay mobile, strike fast, get out before they can retaliate."

"Easier said than done when you're actually facing two tons of muscle and rage."

"Is it?" She rises with fluid grace, studying my stance with uncomfortable intensity. "Show me."

"Show you what?"

"How you'd fight something that size." Her green eyes hold a challenge I don't quite understand. "Pretend I'm the orc."

"You're half my size and twice as fragile."

"Then it should be easy to demonstrate proper technique."

There's something in her tone—a desperate kind of hunger that has nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with the need to understand, to participate rather than just observe.

"This is insane."

"Probably. Show me anyway."

Against my better judgment, I settle into a fighting stance. "Fine. But don't blame me when you get hurt."

"I won't."

I move slowly at first, demonstrating footwork and basic strikes while she watches with the intensity of a scholar studying ancient texts. Her eyes track every movement, memorizing angles and timing with frightening precision.

"Like this?" She attempts to mirror my stance, and I bite back a laugh.

"Your feet are wrong. And your hands. And basically everything else."

"Then fix it."

"I'm not a teacher."

"No, you're a killer. Teach me to kill."

The raw honesty in her voice stops me cold. Because that's what she's really asking for, isn't it? Not self-defense or martial arts, but the tools to take control of her own fate.

"Why?"

"Because I'm tired of being helpless."

The admission costs her, I can see it in the way her hands are shaking before she clenches them into fists. How long has she been watching from the sidelines, powerless to affect her own destiny?

"You're not helpless."

"Aren't I? I can't fight, can't protect myself, can't even leave this place without permission." Her laugh is bitter. "What would you call that?"

"Temporary."

"Nothing about this feels temporary."

"Your stance is all wrong," I tell her, moving closer despite every instinct screaming at me to maintain distance. "Feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced."