Page 2 of The Manticore's Human Queen
But as my consciousness begins to fade, as the welcome darkness rushes in to claim me, I feel a tingling sensation on my skin. I hear a low, humming sound, a sound of awakening, powerful, ancient magic. I force my heavy eyelids open one last time.
Shimmering, green runes appear on the iron bars of the beast-pen, weaving themselves into a complex, unbreakable web of light. The enchantments, woven into the very fabric of the cage and designed to hold predators far more powerful than awounded manticore, flare to life. Their magical energy is a final, mocking insult to my own fading strength.
I have not found a shelter. I have crawled into a trap.
In my long, storied, and proud life, I, Tarek Thalric, the strongest and most disciplined of my brothers, am powerless. My survival is no longer in my own hands. I am a prisoner.
And as the darkness finally takes me, I do not know if I will ever wake up again.
2
ANNELISE
"You will wear this for me tonight, little pet."
Lord Zarren’s voice is a silken purr that does nothing to mask the steel beneath. He corners me in the grand, echoing gallery, the portraits of his long-dead ancestors watching with cold, silver eyes. He holds up a gown, a confection of deep, blood-red silk that is as beautiful as it is revealing. It shimmers in the pale morning light, the color of a fresh wound.
"It will complement the flush of your cheeks so perfectly," he continues, his smile a handsome, cruel slash in his elegant elven features. His hand shoots out, gripping my arm, his long, slender fingers digging into my flesh with a bruising force. "And you will smile. You will show all of our guests what a beautiful, obedient little prize you are."
I do not answer. I simply stare at him, my silence my only shield, my only act of rebellion. It is a small, pathetic defiance, but it is all I have left. My world is a gilded cage. I live in a suite of rooms in the east wing of Lord Renlir’s sprawling estate, with silks on my bed and jewels at my throat. I am his human ward, a political ornament he acquired in a trade deal with a distanthuman kingdom, my presence a symbol of his far-reaching influence and his modern, “enlightened” sensibilities.
I am praised for my beauty, displayed at feasts, and treated with the same careless, proprietary affection that my guardian bestows upon his prized collection of hunting hounds. My mind, my thoughts, my own will—they are inconvenient, and largely ignored, accessories.
Zarren, however, does not ignore them. He takes a keen, sadistic pleasure in reminding me of their utter irrelevance.
His smile widens now, his silver eyes gleaming with a familiar, predatory light. He enjoys my silent defiance. It makes the game more interesting for him. "No witty retort today, Annelise? Have you finally learned your place?" he murmurs, leaning closer, his breath cool against my cheek. "It is for the best. A bride's mind should be on her duties, not on… thoughts."
He releases my arm, leaving angry red marks that will soon turn to bruises. He thrusts the gown into my hands. "See that you do not disappoint me," he says, his voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper. "I am in a particularly foul mood today. It would be… unwise to provoke me further."
He turns and walks away, his movements fluid and graceful, a beautiful mask for a soul that is as cold and barren as the winter tundra. I watch him go, the blood-red silk a weight in my hands, my heart a cold, heavy stone in my chest. I know, with a sickening certainty, that this game he is playing is one he intends to win once we are married. He will not just own me. He will break me.
I need to escape. Not a true, physical escape—that is a childish dream that has been beaten out of me long ago. But a temporary one. A small, secret rebellion. I need a place where his eyes are not on me, a place where I can breathe, just for a moment, without the suffocating weight of his presence.
My sanctuary. My one, secret place of solace in this vast, cold estate.
I slip away from my handmaid, my movements a practiced, silent glide through the deserted corridors of the estate. The main halls are masterpieces of cold, sterile beauty, the air thick with the cloying scent of elven incense and the weight of unspoken threats. Every polished surface seems to reflect my own trapped existence, every shadow seems to hold a lurking accusation.
But as I descend the servants’ stairs and slip out into the frozen courtyard, the air changes. It is sharp, clean, and honest. The menagerie, a place of misery and confinement for the creatures within, has become my refuge. It is a gallery of other caged and broken things that, in their own silent, miserable way, understand the nature of my own imprisonment.
The heavy oak door groans as I push it open, and the familiar scents of hay, beast, and damp earth are a welcome comfort. The air inside is warm, heated by the same unseen magic that keeps the estate from freezing. I move past the cages, my heart aching with a familiar, empathetic sorrow for the creatures within.
The griffin with its broken wing, a magnificent creature that should be soaring through the mountain peaks, now huddles in a corner, its golden eyes dull with despair. The pack of worgs, their powerful muscles meant for the hunt, pace their small enclosure with a relentless, desperate energy that mirrors the frantic beating of my own heart. And the beautiful, sad-eyed creature from the southern jungles whose name I do not even know, a being of vibrant color and life, now sits listless and gray, its spirit slowly dying in the perpetual twilight of its cage. These are my people, my fellow prisoners.
Tonight, a new addition joins the collection.
In a large, magically-reinforced cage in the darkest corner of the menagerie, a spot typically reserved for my guardian'smost dangerous acquisitions, lies a massive, leonine creature. My breath catches in my throat, a primal, instinctual fear rooting me to the spot. He is a creature of raw, untamed power, his muscular frame radiating a silent, intimidating menace even in his wounded and unconscious state. A manticore. I have only ever read of them in books, creatures of myth and legend, warriors of immense strength and honor.
I should flee. I should retreat to the safety of my own gilded cage and forget what I have seen. But I cannot. I am drawn to him, to the sheer, profound tragedy of him.
I take a hesitant step closer, my silk slippers making no sound on the straw-strewn floor. I can see the full extent of his injuries now. His leg is twisted at an impossible, unnatural angle, the bone clearly shattered. His tawny fur is matted with dried blood and the filth of a long, arduous journey. His face, which in sleep should be peaceful, is a mask of a deep and abiding pain.
He is a proud, powerful warrior who has been brought low, a king who has been dethroned and thrown in a dungeon. And as I look at him, at the proud, defiant set of his jaw, at the way his powerful body is so cruelly contained by the iron and magic of his cage, my fear begins to recede. It is replaced by a new, startling, and powerful emotion.
Recognition.
I see not a monster. I see not a beast. I see a mirror of my own soul. I see another prisoner. I see another creature who is trapped, and wounded, and alone in the darkness. The kinship I feel with him, this monstrous and beautiful creature, is a more real and profound connection than any I have ever felt with the cold, elegant elves who are my captors. He and I are the same.
We are both just pretty, broken ornaments, put on display for the amusement of our masters. His cage is made of ironand magic. Mine is made of silk and jewels. But they are cages nonetheless.
