Page 41 of Bought By the Manticore

“You can’t fight the laws of the city with your claws,” Phix said. “It isn’t about the guards. If the Moirae are forced to cast you out, the Lake itself will expel you. You can’t outlast the Acheron.”

“Then what do I do?” I asked her. Outside of the Moirae and Charon, she was the wisest creature in all of Asphodelia. She must have some sort of plan.

My mother smiled. It was an expression I had rarely seen on her face. “Asphodelia doesn’t cast its own away without offering a path. There’s a way to satisfy the law.”

I waited for her to continue.

“The Moirae weave new life from old death,” she said. “That’s the cycle. To simply reverse an unweaving is a refusal of the gift. You must show the city you’re not a ghost clinging to frayed threads. You must prove you’re something new.”

I looked down at my claws. I’d consumed the life-magic of the sickness. I’d dragged the raw power of the city’s foundation into my roots. I’d drunk the death energy from the Acheron itself. The venom at the tip of my tail carried a different heat now, heavier, denser. I wasn’t the same manticore who died in mymother’s garden. But I’d already made that clear when I’d faced Eryx and the Weaveguards.

“And how exactly am I supposed to provide that proof, Mother?”

“The Kratos Circle,” Phix replied. “The Moirae have decreed you must participate in a trial of creation. Show them your weave has evolved. If they recognize you as a new entity, your place here is lawful.”

A trial by combat was a common practice when a dispute reached a bitter stalemate. The Moirae respected power. Words could be debated, but strength on the obsidian stage was undeniable. But the solution came with its own pitfalls.

“If I fight a Weaveguard, they’ll call it a massacre,” I said. “Beating a guard won’t prove I’m evolved. It will just prove I’m dangerous.”

“You will not fight a guard.” Aion stepped forward, his bronze body glinting in the firelight. “You’ll fight me,” he said.

I stared at the colossus. We’d sparred a thousand times, testing our strength against each other, but this wouldn’t be a sparring match. This was a blood trial.

Then I understood. Aion was Medea’s true mate. I’d died as her proxy groom. As long as I lived, the shadow of that old claim lingered on the Loom. Fighting Aion would sever that tie. It would prove to the Moirae that my loyalty belonged entirelyto Ianthe. It was an elegant solution, the kind only my mother could craft.

Ianthe’s warmth was firm against my side, her hand sliding deeper into my mane. She didn’t ask me to yield. She didn’t ask me to run. She held on.

There was only one answer I could offer. “Tell the Moirae to prepare the Circle,” I said. “I accept.”

16

Trial of Creation

Ianthe & Skaros

They had not built the Kratos Circle for mercy.

The arena was designed to contain the brutal justice of the city, its upper tiers carved out of freezing black obsidian. I stood in the lowest ring, pressing my bare palms flat against the stone barricade, letting the biting cold anchor me. Above us, the open twilight stretched endlessly.

Hundreds of monsters filled the stone benches. Winged creatures perched along the highest ridges, and heavy-horned warriors sat shoulder to shoulder. Despite the sheer mass of bodies, the arena was absolutely quiet. The citizens of Asphodelia had gathered to witness a judgment.

“Aion will not hold back,” Medea murmured. She stood close to my left, her fingers twisting the dark fabric of her skirts as she watched the empty stage.

“Skaros wouldn’t want him to,” Theron said from my right. The black-furred Cerberus leaned his thickly muscled forearms against the stone, hellfire flickering faintly at the tips of his claws. “If Aion pulls his punches, the Moirae will call it a farce.”

The grating scrape of stone against stone echoed from the southern archway.

Aion stepped onto the obsidian stage. The colossus moved with a slow, deliberate grace, his living metallic frame catching the torchlight. Thick veins of silver-blue energy pulsed steadily beneath his bronze skin. He carried no weapons because he didn’t need any. He was a living weapon himself, crafted by Charon’s masterful hands.

Aion walked to the center of the ring and waited. A moment later, a low vibration crawled up through the floor. Skaros stepped into the light.

A hot flush crept up my neck, and my hands clamped tighter around the barricade. Seeing him here, fully exposed beneath the unforgiving glare of the braziers, was entirely different from the dim quiet of his den.

He was a nightmare of muscle and fury. He stalked forward on four powerful, leonine legs, his massive, furred body rippling with tension. His leathery wings rested tight against his flanks.Behind him, his long tail swept across the slick floor, the venomous barb clicking against the rock with lethal intent.

To me, it had been beautiful, a part of him that was purely sensual and brought me pleasure. To Aion, it was a threat.

High above us, Phix rose on her carved outcropping. She had come to watch over her son’s challenge, but no longer as a mother. As the imperious sphinx Auctioneer.