Page 3 of The Manticore's Human Queen
He is wounded. He is dying. And I, with my small, secret knowledge of herbs and of healing, a knowledge I have gleaned from my guardian’s own library in my long, lonely hours, I can help him. The thought is a reckless, and almost certainly suicidal one. To be caught helping my guardian’s new prize would be to invite a punishment so severe, I dare not even imagine it.
But I cannot bear the thought of abandoning him here to die, alone and suffering in this dark cage. For the first time in a very long time, I am not focused on my own survival, but on his.
I refuse to let him perish.
3
TAREK
Athrobbing, grey misery replaces the darkness. I am awake, though I wish for the continued oblivion of unconsciousness. My leg pulses with a ravenous, living pain, a beast gnawing at the bone, and my body feels like a cold, leaden weight I cannot command.
I try to push myself up, to orient myself in the gloom, but a wave of white-hot agony from my shattered leg slams me back into the filthy straw. I am trapped, not just in this cage with its shimmering magical wards, but in the prison of my own broken body.
A bitter, metallic taste, as foreign and unwelcome as the pain, fills my mouth. It is the taste of frustration, of a powerlessness so absolute it feels like a physical poison.
From within the fog of my personal torment, I see her: a human woman.
She stands a few feet from my cage, her slender form a pale, delicate specter in the menagerie's dim light. She observes me, her expression a mix of almost tangible fear and a deep, unsettling, utterly unexpected curiosity.
I can feel her gaze on me, a physical touch, and I do not welcome it. I resent her pity. I abhor her fear. I refuse to have her here, a witness to my weakness, to my failure. I am the strongest of my brothers, the one they have always relied on to be the unbreakable wall in the shield line. And now I am this. A broken, caged beast, unable to even stand.
That shame cuts deeper and causes more agony than any battlefield wound I have ever sustained.
She takes a small, hesitant step closer, her movements as silent and cautious as a fawn in a wolf’s den. In the quiet menagerie, I hold perfectly still, my breathing a ragged, shallow whisper in my own ears.
I watch her as she studies me, her intelligent green eyes taking in the full, brutal inventory of my injuries: the unnatural angle of my leg, the deep, ragged gashes on my arms and chest, the dried blood that mats my tawny fur. I can see the war she fights with herself. Her every instinct for self-preservation screams at her to flee, to run from the massive, wounded predator in the cage.
But her curiosity, and a powerful empathy I can feel radiating from her like a heat, hold her in place. This shared, unspoken understanding is not a comfort. It is a threat. Her presence here is a complication I cannot afford, a variable I cannot control. Her pity is a poison I will not drink. I have to drive her away. I have to protect the last, tattered remnants of my own pride. I have to be the monster she expects me to be.
I gather what little strength I have left. I push myself up onto my elbows, a movement that sends a fresh, grinding wave of agony through my broken leg. A low groan escapes my lips before I can stop it, a sound of pure, animal pain.
I bare my teeth, the fangs that are usually hidden, and I let a low, menacing growl rumble in my chest, a pure, primal, anddeliberate threat. I am a beast. I am a monster. And she should be afraid of me.
Her eyes go wide, a flicker of that primal, prey-animal fear finally appearing in their green depths. But it is not enough. She does not run. She simply stands her ground, her gaze unwavering, her fascination and empathy warring with her fear.
I have to be more direct. I have to be more cruel. I have to use the one weapon I have left to me. My voice.
“Leave.”
The single, sharp word is more potent than any physical blow. I watch her flinch as if slapped, the raw, open, and beautiful hurt in her eyes a fresh wound. She holds my gaze for a moment longer, a silent, wounded question in their depths, before she turns and flees.
Her soft footsteps become a frantic, fading echo in the quiet menagerie, leaving me alone once more.
Her departure leaves a silence far more profound than the one that preceded it. I have won. I have driven her away. I have protected my pride. Yet, this victory feels hollow, bitter, and utterly empty.
The strategist in my brother, Silas, would have approved of my move. It was the logical, the tactical, the safe choice. It removed the unpredictable variable. But as I lie in the darkness of my cage, an unfamiliar feeling begins to seep through the cracks in my fortress of discipline.
Regret.
The feeling is a foreign and unwelcome one, but I do not have the luxury of dwelling on it. I channel the bitter taste of it into something else, something more useful. Determination.
Despite my broken body, I vow to heal, to regain my strength, to escape this prison. I will find my brothers. I will complete my mission.
Her image, and the shared, wounded hope in her eyes, solidify my resolve. She will return. I know it with a certainty that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the strange, undeniable connection I feel in her presence.
And when she does, I will be ready.
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