Chapter 1

Ronan

The stench of rotting fish and unwashed bodies fills my nostrils as I push through Oshta's crowded streets. This port city is a cesspit, but it's my only chance to find passage to Northern Rach and reunite with my scattered brothers.

"Please, no! Let me go!" A girl's terrified voice cuts through the marketplace chaos.

I freeze. Across the narrow street, four slavers have cornered a young human against a crumbling wall. She can't be more than sixteen, tears streaming down her dirt-stained cheeks.

"Quiet, little dove," one slaver growls, his scarred face twisted in a leer. "You'll fetch fine coin in the pleasure houses."

"The younger, the better," another laughs. "More gold for fresh meat."

The girl whimpers as calloused hands reach for her. "My father will pay ransom!"

"Your father's dead, girl. Saw to that ourselves."

Red rage floods my vision. I don't think—never do when innocents suffer. My twin swords sing from their sheaths as I charge, shouldering aside merchants.

"Hey!" I roar.

The slavers turn, registering the threat I pose. Smart ones would run. These aren't smart.

"Mind your business, stranger," the leader snarls, drawing a curved blade. "Unless you want to join our merchandise."

I bare my teeth. "Try me."

They attack together—tavern brawlers, not warriors. My left blade opens the first one's throat while my right punches through the second's ribs. Blood sprays across cobblestones as they drop.

"Run!" I shout to the girl, not taking my eyes off the remaining two.

The third swings a club at my head. I duck, spinning to drive my elbow into his gut before opening his belly with a vicious slash. He screams, clutching spilling entrails.

The leader backs away, fear replacing bravado. "You're making a mistake, manticore. We have friends—"

"Send them to hell."

But heavy boots thunder behind me. My blood chills—more slavers pour from the tavern, at least a dozen. I am so focused on saving her that I ignore my surroundings.

"Take him alive!" the leader shouts. "A manticore brings fortune in fighting pits!"

They swarm me. I fight like a demon, blades weaving death, but there are too many. A weighted net drops from above, dragging me down. Hands grab my limbs despite my struggles.

A club cracks across my skull. As darkness takes me, my last sight is the girl—already being dragged away by fresh slavers.

I fail her.

Pain hammers through my skull as consciousness returns. I'm chained inside a cramped, filthy cage on a jolting wagon, stripped of weapons and dignity. The iron shackles bite into my wrists, and the sun beats down mercilessly on my bare torso.

"Look at him snarl," one guard laughs from the driver's seat. "Like a caged beast."

"That's what he is now," his companion replies. "Berrik, you think he'll last long in the pits?"

"Manticores are tough bastards," Berrik spits. "He might survive a few fights before something tears his throat out."

My chains, stronger than steel, bind me as rage simmers. Hours pass. The landscape changes from coastal scrubland to rolling hills, then to Vhoig, the gladiatorial capital, marked by blood-red scorpion banners.

The wagon stops in a crowded marketplace. Guards drag me from the cage to a bloodstained auction block. Chained to my knees, an auctioneer begins his spiel. "Fresh meat from the eastern provinces! Behold—a manticore warrior in his prime!"

The crowd murmurs with interest. I glare at each face, memorizing them, promising silent violence. Coins change hands as bets are placed on my survival odds.

A figure approaches the platform—tall, pale, with silver hair bound in elaborate braids. Dark elf nobility, judging by his fine robes. His cold eyes appraise me like livestock.

"Magnificent specimen," he purrs, running one finger along my jaw. "Such fury in those steel-blue eyes."

I jerk away from his touch, earning cruel laughter from the crowd. The urge to bite his hand off nearly overwhelms me.

"Five thousand gold," the dark elf announces.

"Sold to Master Valdris!" the auctioneer shouts.

Guards brand me with a red-hot iron—Valdris's mark searing into my shoulder. I don't give them the satisfaction of screaming, though the smell of burning flesh makes my stomach churn.

They drag me toward a stone archway leading underground. As we descend into darkness, Valdris's voice follows us. "Welcome to your new home, beast. Try to survive long enough to entertain me."

The cell door slams shut with crushing finality.

Darkness takes me, but not peacefully. I'm back on the ship's deck, salt spray kissing my face as Corvak adjusts our heading toward Northern Rach. The memory is so vivid I can feel the warm wood beneath my feet, hear the canvas snapping in the wind.

"Think we'll find the crystals easily?" Lucaris asks, his young face bright with anticipation.

Caspian laughs, tousling our youngest brother's hair. "With your luck, we'll stumble into them within hours of landing."

"More likely we'll have to fight for them," Tarek rumbles from where he's sharpening his axe.

Silas looks up from his maps. "The Dark Elves won't surrender their prize willingly. We should prepare for—"

His words are lost as the sky above us turns black. Unnatural clouds boil overhead, shot through with veins of sickly green lightning. The temperature plummets, and the sea begins to churn with impossible fury.

"What in the Triad's name—" Corvak starts.

The storm hits like a fist from the gods. Waves tall as buildings crash over the deck, and the wind screams with voices that sound almost human. I see something moving in the clouds—a massive shadow with too many eyes.

"Hold fast!" I shout, but my voice is nothing against the tempest's roar.

The ship splits apart like kindling. My brothers' voices reach me through the chaos—Corvak shouting orders, Silas calling for formation, Lucaris screaming my name.

"Ronan! Help me!"

I fight toward the sound, but the churning water drags me down. I see Corvak's hand reaching for mine, so close I can almost touch it, before another wave tears us apart.

"Corvak! Silas!" I scream their names until my throat is raw, but the storm swallows everything.

Drowning in the crushing depths, I am consumed by failure. I am meant to protect them, to keep us whole. Instead, I fail. I welcome the sea's embrace, preferring death to facing a world where I let my brothers down. Yet, death doesn't come, only cold, crushing emptiness. A forceful splash of cold water jolts me back to harsh reality, gasping and choking on the foul liquid.

"Wake up, beast," a guard sneers, tossing aside the empty bucket. His name tag reads 'Korven.' "Time for your debut."

Kneeling in a vast arena, rough sand beneath my palms, I'm enveloped by the roar of a bloodthirsty crowd. Towering stone walls, topped with spears, prevent escape.

"Welcome to the Crimson Sands!" an announcer's voice blares across the arena. "Where heroes are born and cowards die!"

The crowd's bloodlust washes over me in waves. I can smell their excitement, their hunger for violence. Above me, in an ornate box draped with silk banners, sits my new master. Valdris lounges on a cushioned throne, surrounded by scantily clad women who fan him with feathers.

He raises one pale hand, and the crowd falls silent.

"Today, we have fresh meat!" His voice carries magically across the arena. "A manticore warrior, captured in the eastern provinces. Will he survive his first taste of the sands?"

The roaring crowd bets on my death, but despair solidifies into resolve. My brothers' memory fuels my rage. They think I'm dead, but they're wrong. I rise, meeting Valdris's gaze with cold, focused hatred.

The pit master leans forward, intrigued by my defiance.

I'll survive this hell. I'll escape these chains. And I'll find my brothers, no matter how many bodies I have to climb over to do it.

The crowd wants a show? I'll give them one they'll never forget.

But first, I'll make every bastard in this place pay for what they've stolen from me.

Let the games begin.