Page 18 of The Manticore's Human Queen
He hurls the rotten fruit. I move with a speed that surprises them, my healing leg protesting with a sharp jab of pain. Thefruit splatters against the back wall of the cage, the impact releasing a cloud of spores and the sickly-sweet stench of decay.
The other two guards grin, catching on to the game. “My silver on the left eye,” one of them says, scooping up a handful of wet, clotted filth from the floor. The smell of ammonia and dung fills the air.
“You’re on,” Kaelen replies. “I’ll take the right.”
What follows is a new kind of degradation. It is not the clean pain of a battlefield wound. It is a calculated, humiliating assault designed to strip away the last vestiges of my dignity, to remind me that in their eyes, I am not a warrior. I am an animal. A thing.
They throw rocks, clumps of dirt, and the foul refuse from the other cages. I become a creature of pure instinct, my body moving, twisting. A sharp-edged stone catches me on the ribs, the impact a bright, starburst of pain that steals my breath. I don't give them the satisfaction of a scream. Instead, a roar of pure, unadulterated fury rips from my throat, a sound so primal and so full of hate that it makes the very bars of the cage vibrate.
They pause, shocked by the ferocity of it. “It speaks,” one of them murmurs, a flicker of unease in his eyes.
“Then let’s make it scream,” Kaelen snarls, angered by the defiance. He hurls another stone, which I catch, my reflexes sharp. I crush it to powder in my fist, letting the dust trickle through my fingers.
“You will have to do better than that to break me, little elves!” I roar, my voice a gravelly promise of violence. “I have endured pain from true warriors! This is an insult, not a torment!” I meet Kaelen’s furious gaze. “Memorize my face, gaoler! It will be the last thing you see when I am free of this cage!”
His face contorts with rage. “Insolent beast! You’ll be a rug in the young lord’s chambers by week’s end!”
“And you will be a corpse in a ditch long before that!” I counter, my voice cold and certain. A wet clump of dung hitsmy shoulder, the impact a soft, disgusting smack. The stench is overwhelming, a vile combination of piss and rot that clings to my fur.
Instead of recoiling, I laugh. It is a low, guttural, terrifying sound that holds no humor. “You throw filth like frightened children because it is all you have! You are soft! Decadent! You have forgotten what a real fight is!”
“It’s no fun if it just talks,” one of the other guards complains, unnerved by my laughter.
“He’s right,” Kaelen agrees, a new, more vicious light in his eyes. He picks up a long, sharpened goad used for prodding stubborn beasts. “No more games. Let’s see if we can’t get a proper roar out of him.”
He approaches the cage, sliding the tip of the goad through the bars, aiming for the tender flesh of my flank. “Come closer, coward,” I invite, my voice a silken threat. “Let me see the fear in your eyes when I kill you.”
As the sharpened point lunges toward me, I move. My hand, a blur of motion, shoots out, my fingers closing around the wooden shaft of the goad in a grip of pure iron. Kaelen’s eyes widen in shock, his drunken amusement vanishing, replaced by a flicker of genuine terror. He tries to pull the weapon back, but it is like trying to move a mountain.
With a guttural snarl, I yank. Kaelen is pulled off-balance, his face slamming hard against the iron bars of the cage. I hear a satisfying crunch as his nose breaks, and he lets out a high-pitched squeal of pain, stumbling back, his hands flying to his bloody face.
I do not release the goad. Holding it firm, I use the bars as a fulcrum and, with a surge of pure, focused rage, snap the thick, iron-reinforced wood in two. The sharp crack echoes in the sudden, shocked silence of the menagerie.
I hold the splintered half of the goad in my hand, its sharpened end now a crude, deadly spear. I meet the terrified gazes of the other two guards over Kaelen’s whimpering form, and for the first time, I let them see the beast they had been so eager to provoke. I let them see the cold, intelligent, murderous promise in my eyes.
They scramble back, their drunken bravado evaporating, dragging their bleeding, blubbering friend with them. They flee the menagerie like the frightened, pathetic children they are, leaving me alone in the echoing silence.
I stand in the center of my cage, my body bruised and filthy, the splintered goad held tight in my hand. The physical pain is nothing. But the humiliation, the violation, has burned away the last of my patience. My resolve, which has been focused on escape and survival, now narrows to a single, cold, and absolute point.
I am no longer just a prisoner, planning his escape.
I will not just escape this place. I will dismantle it, stone by bloody stone. And I will start with them.
22
ANNELISE
It is Zarren, his tone slick with a triumphant, proprietary glee, and the sound of it makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end. I press myself into the shadows of a stone alcove, my heart a cold, heavy sensation in my chest. He is speaking to his father, their words echoing slightly off the racks of polished, deadly steel.
“The final preparations are made,” Zarren boasts, and I can picture the arrogant smirk on his face. “The ballroom cage, a work of art, Father. A fitting centerpiece for the feast. The beast will be a brilliant spectacle before the hunt.”
My blood runs cold. The hunt.
Lord Renlir’s voice, a low, silken purr of approval. “And the… special prize you mentioned? Will it serve its purpose?”
“Perfectly,” Zarren laughs, a sound devoid of any real humor. “It will fuel the competition. Every young lord in the hall will be vying for the killing blow, for the honor of… breaking in the new bride. It will be a night of exquisite sport.” I feel the world tilt on its axis. The air rushes from my lungs in a silent, horrified gasp.
It is not just a hunt. I am the prize. My body, my wedding night, is to be the trophy for whichever one of his sadistic friends manages to slaughter Tarek.
