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I dislike the undercroft and the gladiators who make this their home while contracting to fight. It is all part of the ambiance for those that appreciate it. Some lordly masters and mistresses spend a night with the gladiators, indulging in the pleasures of the flesh.
I can think of no reason anyone would choose to spend time here. It makes my artistic soul crawl into a corner and die. I force my mind away from memories of my beautiful forest home and keep my eyes locked on the gritty stone floor where my next step will go. It is cooler down here than it was above. But where above, it is arid and dry, the undercroft is sticky and ripe with the scents of sweat, sand, and blood. It is cloying and my chest labors to draw in a full breath.
It grows darker the deeper we go, with limited recessed lighting that offers a low gloom. The colosseum's creators desired a specific mood. Stone is rough. The bars fronting the cells have become dented and scraped over time, the floor is dusty and weathered by the passage of many feet.
We come to a stop outside the cell where the winner waits. It is a spacious cell that bespeaks him as a high-ranking gladiator. A bed rests to one side, no more than a platform carved out of stone and covered in thick, dark pelts. It gets cold here at night, and even the hardiest beings need something to keep them warm.
To the other side is an open recess that I presume to be a bathroom area. Probably little more than a cold spray of water that will disappear down the heavy-set drain.
It is sometimes hard to judge the scale of competitors when viewing from above. But the male Devlin who emerges from the back is enormous. I don't want to stare, but I cannot tear my gaze away from the great, towering male who makes even my master and mistress seem small.
Kastor has removed his armor, and his deep, blood-red skin glistens and drips water over the rough floor. He has cleaned himself in the primitive shower, I presume. This close, I appreciate the size of his two great, black horns, each the length of my arm. Only a loincloth covers his crotch… where there is a thick bulge tenting the leather material.
I tear my eyes away.
His face is humanoid but broader, eyes pitch black with no discernible white. I would not call it an attractive face, but it is compelling. His huge hands clench and flex, and his tail lashes from side to side as he paces like he still roils with tension from the challenge recently passed.
Wounds litter the warrior’s body where his opponent found the mark. A couple still weep, though he does not seem troubled by them. Some creatures can heal without intervention from a medical scanner or replicator. They do not all feel pain the way humans do. Nevertheless, the injuries look painful to me.
His black eyes settle upon my masters before sliding across to me. His nostrils flare. "I'm owed a debt," he rumbles.
"You are forward," my master says.
Kastor chuckles; it’s a deep rumble that makes my tummy flutter. "A male does not win the competition unless he is bold," the gladiator responds.
My master smiles. He enjoys a little banter so long as the competitor does not overstep his position, which is low compared to my lordly orc owners.
"Do you have a preference?" my master asks, motioning another servant forward with the data tablet on which his slave catalog can be viewed.
"I do," the Devlin says, his eyes shifting to me again. "She's standing beside you."
There is a long pause where I do not draw breath.
"You dare to insult my mate?" my master says.
I blink a few times. There is bold, and there is foolhardy.
Kastor huffs a breath before rolling his big shoulders and setting muscles rippling. "Forgive my poor phrasing. It is not your mate I seek, but your mate's home slave."
Chapter 2
Cassiopeia
I gasp, my mind turning blank, wavering on my feet as this statement settles in.
"She is not available," my mistress says. "We have thousands of slaves you may choose from. The human is not part of the agreement nor a prize."
"I have won the competition," Kastor says, eyes narrowing on my master and mistress in a way that shifts the power balance.
How is it possible for this beast behind bars to hold any power?
Yet I sense he does.
When my master does not answer, I send a furtive glance his way. I fear I may empty my stomach at any moment. He cannot mean to hand me over, can he?
"It is not your place to question the rules," my master says.
The Devlin looks on, patient, his stance relaxed, like he has already won. "I am no slave," the gladiator says, "but a free male who entered the games. Your position and status do not intimidate me. I give my time, and when my time is up, I will leave. The rewards are considerable." Kastor's eyes return to me briefly. "The money is enticing, but when I heard you were gifting a slave from your stock and saw the human at your mate's side, it enticed me to fight."
