Page 43 of Bought By the Manticore

Lachesis glided forward, her dark robes trailing over the scorch marks. She held a long bronze measuring rod in her hands. Shestopped in front of Skaros, tilting her head as her ancient eyes mapped the heavy muscle of his chest, the span of his wings, and the lingering, chaotic pulse of life-magic still humming in his veins.

“The thread we wove together so many cycles ago was severed,” Lachesis announced. She didn’t shout, yet her voice resonated in the very foundations of the city. “As per Thanatos’s dictates, Skaros the manticore unraveled into death energy.”

She raised the bronze rod, pointing it directly at Skaros’s chest.

“The creature standing before us is woven anew,” she continued. “Forged from the chaotic sickness of Korinos, and tempered by the deep currents of the Acheron. A creation of balance.”

Atropos moved up beside her sister. The eldest Moira rested a withered hand on the iron shears tucked into her belt. “The taboo is satisfied. You did not reverse your death, manticore. You evolved.”

Clotho stepped to his other side. The youngest sister smiled, her eyes crinkling with a warmth that felt terrifyingly out of place in the City of the Dead. “The bond you forged is absolute. You and your bride belong to Asphodelia.”

The silence shattered. A feral roar tore through the stands. Hooves hammered against the obsidian tiers, the force vibrating through the stone beneath my boots. Massive predators launched themselves into the air to scream their approval across the city.

I was too relieved to scream or even speak. But in the end, I didn’t need to.

For years, the Thorn-Sickness had told me I was broken. A fragile thing meant to be discarded. Then, Eryx and Iaso had treated me as though I had no will of my own.

Skaros and I had fought the poison in my blood, the healers, and the stubborn laws of death itself to prove everyone wrong. And we had won. We were finally, undeniably free.

The acrid tang of scorched bronze and venom burned the back of my throat.

I stood on the open combat stage, dragging the freezing air of the arena into my lungs. The violent rush of the clash still thrummed in my blood. A shallow cut on my shoulder stung where Aion’s heavy bronze knuckles had grazed me.

I leaned into the ache. For years, I’d been nothing but a creeping awareness scattered through the masonry of this city. A ghost without mass. To feel pain now, to feel the solid, unyielding obsidian pressing back against my four paws, meant I was flesh and bone again. I had physical weight.

Aion stood a few paces away. The living metal of his chest was deeply gouged, thick veins of silver-blue energy flickering steadily beneath the damage. I let the beast recede. Bone andmuscle ground together with a wet, brutal snap as I shifted into my two-legged form. My fur thickened over my chest, and my wings folded tight against my back.

Aion stepped forward and extended a dented arm. I met him halfway and gripped his forearm. The metal burned hot from the exertion of the duel.

“Next time you need to prove you’re alive,” Aion said, his voice rough with exhaustion, “pick a fight with Theron.”

“Theron sheds too much,” I replied. I squeezed his arm, feeling the solid density of the metal. “It’s good to see you, Aion.”

He nodded. The unspoken guilt, lingering between us since my unweaving, vanished. We let go, and I turned my back on the center of the Kratos Circle.

I walked toward the lower tiers of the stone seating. The crowd of monsters parted, giving me a wide berth as I approached the barricade. Theron stood near the steps. The Cerberus didn’t say a word. He simply reached out and clapped a massive hand against my shoulder, his claws digging in with a fierce, grounding grip.

I stepped past him, keeping my gaze locked on Ianthe.

She stood waiting for me, her palms resting on the freezing rock. The golden mark burned bright on her hand. I reached over the barricade, curled my hands around her waist, and lifted her over the stone.

I pulled her flush against my chest. She pressed her face into my golden mane, her arms wrapping tight around my neck. I buried my nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin. There was no trace of the chaotic, feral life-magic that had been slowly crushing her from within. There was no numbing frost from the healer’s draught. She was warm. She was pure.

“Skaros.”

The word came from my left. I turned my head, every muscle in my body going rigid once more.

Eryx stood at the edge of the stone steps, the dark silk blindfold covering his eyes. Iaso was by his side. Her hands twisted nervously in her robes, and her living bronze serpents were perfectly still, their heads bowed toward the stone.

I held one arm tightly around Ianthe’s waist and pulled her even closer. I managed to keep myself from snarling, but I let my tail drift into view. The barbed tip scraped a slow line across the obsidian.

“Healer,” I rumbled.

Eryx could not truly meet my gaze, but his snakes did so in his stead. “Skaros. I’d welcome you back, but I’m not certain you want to hear such words from me.”

Certainly not. The last time we’d crossed paths, he’d tried to unweave me all over again. “What do you want, Eryx?”

“Nothing. Not from you, at least. I think, in your heart, you understand why I acted the way I did. You and I aren’t so different, after all.”