Debris rained on the bait beast, and as he cringed back, Titus struck again. And again.
Chained to the wall, the bait beast could do nothing. The man whistled, but Titus kept at it. He moved with the fluid grace of untamed savagery.
The bait beast yelped, and Manon could have sworn the Blueblood heir flinched. She’d never heard a cry of pain from any of the wyverns, yet as Titus sank back on his haunches, she saw where he’d struck—right atop the earlier wound in the bait beast’s flank.
As if Titus knew where to hit to inflict the most agony. She knew they were intelligent, but how intelligent? The man whistled again, and a whip sounded. Titus just kept pacing in front of the bait beast, contemplating how he would strike. Not out of strategy. No, he wanted to savor it. To taunt.
A shiver of delight went down Manon’s spine. Riding a beast like Titus, ripping apart her enemies with him . . .
“If you want him so badly,” Iskra whispered, and Manon realized she was still standing beside her, now only a step away, “why don’t you go get him?”
And before Manon could move—before anyone could, because they were all enthralled by that glorious beast—iron claws shoved into her back.
Asterin’s shout echoed, but Manon was falling, plunging the forty feet right into the stone pit. She twisted, colliding with a small, crumbling ledge jutting from the wall. It slowed her fall and saved her life, but she kept going until—
She slammed into the ground, her ankle wrenching. Cries came from above, but Manon didn’t look up. If she had, she might have seen Asterin tackle Iskra, claws and teeth out. She might have seen her grandmother give the order that no one was to jump into the pit.
But Manon wasn’t looking at them.
Titus turned toward her.
The wyvern stood between her and the gate, where the men were rushing to and fro, as if trying to decide whether they should risk saving her or wait until she was carrion.
Titus’s tail lashed back and forth, his dark eyes pinned on her. Manon drew Wind-Cleaver. It was a dagger compared to the mass of him. She had to get to that gate.
She stared him down. Titus settled onto his haunches, preparing to attack. He knew where the gate was, too, and what it meant for her. His prey.
Not rider or mistress, but prey.
The witches had gone silent. The men at the gate and upper platforms had gone silent.
Manon rotated her sword. Titus lunged.
She had to roll to avoid his mouth, and was up in a second, sprinting like hell for that gate. Her ankle throbbed, and she limped, swallowing her scream of pain. Titus turned, fast as a spring stream down a mountainside, and as she hurtled for the gate, he struck with his tail.
Manon had enough sense to whirl to avoid the venomous barbs, but she caught an upper edge of the tail in the side and went flying, Wind-Cleaver wrenching from her grip. She hit the dirt near the opposite wall and slid, face scraping on the rocks. Her ribs bleated in agony as she scrambled into a sitting position and gauged the distance between herself and the sword and Titus.
But Titus was hesitating, his eyes lifted behind her, above her, to—
Darkness embrace her. She’d forgotten about the bait beast. The creature chained behind her, so close she could smell the carrion on his breath.
Titus’s stare was a command for the bait beast to stand down. To let him eat Manon.
Manon dared a glance over her shoulder, to the sword in the shadows, so close to the chained anchor of the bait beast. She might have risked it if the beast wasn’t there, if he wasn’t looking dead at her, looking at her like she was—