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The scales are no longer tipping. They have toppled to one side.
My master hisses through his teeth, green skin mottling with fury.
My mistress turns to him. "No, you cannot," she begs.
No, you cannot, I silently entreat. I do not know this Devlin monster, but I know what happens to the slaves the winners claim, and it is invariably bad.
I have seen many males of many species die in the gladiator sports. The Devlin is powerful. The reptilian he slew is a veteran of many games. Yet, this great warrior before me left his decapitated remains on the floor.
Perhaps my master is also reflecting upon this, as he still has not answered.
We are all reflecting upon this.
Only it is far more personal for me.
The Devlin wants me. He has won. It is his right.
I am tiny before Kastor's great bulk. He is enormous and powerful, his body carved from great slabs of muscle, Herculean shoulders, powerful thighs, horns, and a tail that lashes from side to side as he grows impatient.
He is a killing machine. I have just watched him kill.
"He cannot have her," my mistress repeats. "You cannot give him my human pet."
"There was an agreement," my master says coldly. I feel the blood drain from my face. "I have offered one of my personal slaves for the prize. There is honor in the games. I cannot retract what has been offered. There was no thought of adding a clause excluding our pet because they have no interest in humans so tiny and fragile. It is likely he will break her."
"Maybe he just wants to look at her," my mistress says, her tone hopeful. "She is beautiful. I enjoy looking at her myself."
My master growls and gives his mate a look that says he does not believe this. "He will break the poor thing. But it is not our choice anymore. I have an agreement. Would you see us cast out of Zure and the games? Would you see us lose our position here?"
"No," my mistress says, her eyes on me. There is sensitivity there. And yet there is not enough sensitivity for her to save me from this fate.
"You may have this slave if that is your wish," my master says.
"It is," the warrior confirms, his lips tugging up to show a row of sharp teeth.
"Then the matter is closed," my master says, and, tucking his mate's hand against his arm, he turns and walks away.
A guard steps forward, grasping me by the arm. "What? No!" The cage door opens, and I am marched toward the gap. My feet plant wide. I cling. I beg. My words are insensible with fear.
I am thrust inside, and behind me, the door rattles shut against the jamb. The gladiators are not slaves. There is no lock, but instead, a high bolt the Devlin reaches to latch.
I stare between the bars at my retreating master and mistress, my fingers grasping the metal bars, trying to shake them loose. "Come back! Please!"
They do not come back.
They continue on, unmoved.
I thought my life was terrible when I first found myself drugged and dropped into this world. But I realize now there are many levels to fall and horrors that can happen to a slave at any time.
Kastor is behind me. I feel his presence and the heat from his body, although I did not hear his footsteps. My knuckles turn white around the bars and I fear I might empty my bladder.
Then he touches my hair. A shudder ripples through me.
"No," I whisper. My chest rises and falls unsteadily, despite his touch being gentle.
The Devlin is monstrously big. He has just killed a competitor to claim me.
"Name," the beast behind me rumbles.
