Page 4 of The Manticore's Human Queen
ANNELISE
The rest of my day is a silent, internal war. His single, harsh command—Leave—echoes in my mind, a constant, sharp counterpoint to the memory of the raw pain in his eyes. He wanted to drive me away, to be the monster he thinks I see. But I have not seen a monster. I have seen a proud warrior brought low, his shame a more potent agony than his wounds.
My mind, so long accustomed to the quiet, subtle strategies of survival in this cold court, is now a battlefield of its own. One part of me, the part that has kept me alive for years, screams at me to obey. To forget the beast in the cage. To retreat to the safety of my gilded prison and never look back. To tell Lord Renlir of his new acquisition would be the sensible, the safe thing to do. It might even earn me a rare word of praise.
But another part of me, a part I have not known exists, refuses. It is a small, stubborn ember of defiance that his wounded pride has somehow fanned into a flame. To abandon him now feels like a betrayal, not just of him, but of that flicker of recognition I felt in the menagerie. We are the same. To leave him to die alone in the darkness would be to admit that my own cage is inescapable.
The debate rages within me as I move through the empty rituals of my day. I sit through a tedious luncheon with my guardian’s other ladies-in-waiting, their conversation a meaningless twittering of court gossip and fashion. I smile, I nod, I play my part, but my mind is in the cold, damp straw of the menagerie.
By the time evening falls, the war is over. The sensible, frightened part of me has lost. The reckless, defiant ember has won. I will not tell the elves. I will not abandon him. I will help him.
The decision, once made, is a terrifying liberation. My heart hammers against my ribs with a frantic, exhilarating rhythm I have never felt before. This is not the passive, silent defiance of a doll. This is an act. A choice. My choice.
Stealing the supplies is the first test of my new resolve. I wait until the household is deep in the quiet hours of the night, the corridors patrolled only by the slow, predictable tread of the sentries. My movements are a whisper in the shadows, my silk slippers making no sound on the cold marble floors.
The kitchens are a cavern of sleeping warmth, the air thick with the scent of baked bread and old hearth smoke. My hands tremble as I wrap a small loaf of bread and a piece of dried meat in a linen napkin. It is not much, but it is more than he has now. Next, the infirmary. This is more dangerous. The door is kept locked, but I have spent years observing, learning the secrets of this place. I know of a small, loose stone in the wall of the adjoining linen closet, a forgotten servant’s trick from a bygone era.
My fingers, slick with nervous sweat, fumble with the stone. It finally comes loose with a soft scrape, revealing a small, dark opening. I squeeze through, my heart a wild bird in my chest, and find myself in the cool, herb-scented darkness of the infirmary. I take only what I know I will need: a small pot ofsoothing salve and a roll of clean linen bandages. I am a thief in my own home, a traitor to my own captors, and I have never felt more alive.
I return to the menagerie under the cloak of a moonless, star-dusted sky. The heavy oak door groans, a sound that seems deafening in the stillness. I freeze, listening, but there is only the soft rustle of the caged beasts and the frantic beating of my own heart.
He is awake. I see the faint glint of his eyes in the darkness, watching my approach. He is a massive, still shadow in the back of his cage, his silence a heavy, waiting presence. I kneel before the bars, my own body trembling, not with fear, but with the sheer, overwhelming audacity of what I am doing.
I push the small bundle of food and bandages through the feeding slot. He does not move at first. He simply watches me, his gaze intense, unreadable.
"I know you told me to leave," I whisper, my voice a fragile thread in the vast silence. "But I couldn't."
I meet his gaze, my own fear and determination a raw, open thing. "I will not stand by and watch you die in this place."
For the first time in my life, I am not a pet. I am not an ornament. I am a rebel. And in the dark, silent menagerie, in the presence of this broken, beautiful beast, I feel the first, dangerous, and exhilarating taste of my own power.
5
TAREK
The groan of the menagerie’s heavy oak door is the only warning I get.
“Leave me be!” I groan.
I have been drifting in a haze of pain, the throbbing in my leg a relentless drumbeat against the inside of my skull. Hunger is a dull, coiling ache in my gut. I have pushed myself up against the back wall of the cage, trying to find a position that doesn't send fresh waves of agony through my shattered bone.
I force my eyes open, my vision swimming into focus on the slender silhouette framed in the doorway.
“You again?” I hiss.
My first thought is a surge of raw irritation. I sent her away. I showed her the beast, and she fled as she was supposed to. Her return is a complication I do not need. I remain perfectly still in the shadows, a predator waiting, and watch as she approaches.
“Yes,” she replies.
I watch her simply kneel before the bars, her movements fluid in the dim light, and push a small, cloth-wrapped bundle through the feeding slot.
The scent of bread and dried meat hits me, and my stomach clenches with a painful, desperate cramp. I don't move. I watch her, my eyes narrowed, my pride warring with the primal, undeniable need for sustenance. She doesn't press or plead. She just waits, her gaze steady.
With a grunt of concession that feels like a surrender, I crawl forward, the movement sending a fresh, grinding torment through my leg. I snatch the bundle and retreat to the shadows to eat, my back to her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of watching me devour the scraps she's brought.
The bread is hard, the meat tough, but it is the most glorious meal I have ever tasted. It is fuel. It is life. When I am finished, I turn back. She is still there, kneeling patiently. She pushes a small ceramic pot and a roll of clean linen through the slot.
"Your wounds," she whispers, her voice a fragile thread in the vast silence. "They will fester if they are not cleaned."
