Page 7 of The Manticore's Human Queen
ANNELISE
My guardian’s library, once a gilded cage for my mind, is now my armory. The long, lonely hours I once spent there, devouring poetry and histories as a form of quiet escapism, are now dedicated to a single, desperate purpose. I am no longer a reader; I am a scholar of rebellion, my field of study the healing of a manticore.
I move between the towering shelves like a ghost, my silk slippers making no sound on the polished floor. The air smells of old parchment and leather, a scent that was once a comfort but now feels charged with a dangerous, secret energy. I seek out the oldest, most dust-covered tomes, the ones on beast lore and battlefield medicine that no one has likely opened in centuries.
"Willow-bark for fever," I murmur to myself, tracing the faded script with a trembling finger. "Comfrey root to knit bone. A poultice of yarrow to ward off infection." Each piece of knowledge is a stolen treasure, a small, sharp weapon in my arsenal. I commit the words to memory, my mind a desperate, hungry sponge. This is a new level of treason. Stealing food is one thing; stealing knowledge, the one thing the elves prize above all else, is a far more perilous crime.
The risk is a constant, cold hum beneath my ribs. But the thought of Tarek, of his slow, painful healing, is a fire that burns hotter than my fear.
Tonight, as I apply a fresh, pungent poultice of crushed leaves to the deep gash on his thigh, I can feel the change in him. The raw, mangled ruin of his leg is slowly, miraculously, mending. His strength is returning. I feel it in the way he shifts his weight, the barely contained power that ripples through the hard muscle beneath my hands.
As I work, my fingers brush against the dense muscle of his calf, and my gaze follows the line of it up to his powerful thigh. I see not just a wound, but the intimidating landscape of his strength, a raw, untamed power that is a world away from the slender, sterile elegance of the elves.
A jolt of heat, sharp and unexpected, coils low in my belly. My hands, usually so steady in my work, begin to tremble. This is a new and dangerous feeling, not the empathetic kinship of two prisoners, but something else entirely—a raw, physical, undeniable attraction.
I quickly lower my gaze, a hot blush creeping up my neck, grateful for the dim, forgiving light of the menagerie. I finish my work in a flustered silence, my mind a chaotic storm. It is madness to feel this way. He is a beast, a monster, a creature of a different world. And I am a promised bride, a political pawn.
The feeling follows me from the menagerie, a secret, burning coal I carry into the cold formality of the evening meal. I sit beside my betrothed, a perfect, silent doll, while he holds court. His sharp, inhuman beauty seems cruel and sterile tonight, his elegant pronouncements nothing more than the preening of a peacock. While he boasts of a recent hunt, detailing a mountain cat's death with a detached, sadistic glee, my mind wanders.
I find myself thinking of Tarek, of the intimidating strength that radiates from him even in his cage. I wonder what it wouldbe like to see him at his full strength, not as a wounded prisoner, but as the warrior he is meant to be. The thought is a sharp, hot burn of guilt.
I can no longer ignore the stark contrast between the two males: the honorable warrior caged in the darkness, and the cruel, preening boy at my side. My attraction to Tarek is a profound act of treason, not just against my guardian, but against the very rules of this world. And I am beginning to realize it is a treason I am willing to commit.
“You are not listening, pet,” Zarren’s voice cuts through my reverie, his tone sharp with annoyance. I blink, returning to the glittering misery of the dining hall.
“I was just saying,” he continues, his silver eyes gleaming with a self-important light, “that I have instructed the stewards to begin preparations. I am hosting a large banquet dinner in a fortnight’s time, to celebrate our impending union. All the noble houses of the region will be in attendance.”
A cold knot of dread forms in my stomach. A large banquet means more scrutiny, more performance, more of his suffocating presence. It is a tightening of my cage. He reaches over and pats my hand in a gesture of mocking condescension that is meant to look like affection. “Your attendance, of course, is required. You will be the centerpiece.”
He leans closer, his voice a low, menacing purr. “All you need to do is wear the gown I have chosen for you, shut up, and look pretty. You can manage that, can’t you?”
I look at him, at his handsome, cruel face, and I force a smile. “Of course, my Lord.”
He smiles, satisfied, and turns back to his meal, his prize properly chastised. But inside, I am transformed. The announcement of his banquet, his ultimate act of ownership, does not feel like a final chain. It feels like a battlefield being chosen. And now, I have an ally.
9
TAREK
Her name. I realize with a jolt, as she carefully reapplies a poultice to a gash on my chest, that I do not know her name.
She is a ghost, a rebel, a healer, a fellow prisoner. She has become the central, solitary point of light in my suffocating darkness. And yet, she is nameless. The anonymity has been a shield for us both, a way to maintain a necessary distance in our impossible situation. But that distance is no longer necessary. It is an obstacle.
I have spent my life in the company of warriors, my bonds forged in the heat of battle and the shared silence of the barracks. I know my brothers’ minds as well as I know my own. But this small, fierce human woman is an unknown country, a landscape of quiet courage and hidden depths that I am only just beginning to explore. I need a map. I need a name.
"What are you called?" The question is a low rumble in my chest, and the sound of my own voice, used for something other than a growl or a command, feels foreign in the quiet menagerie.
She freezes, her hands stilling on my chest. I feel the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her breath catches in her throat.She slowly lifts her head, her forest-green eyes wide with a surprise that is quickly followed by a flicker of something else, something vulnerable. In this world of titles and transactions, a simple, personal question is a profound intimacy.
"Annelise," she whispers, the name a soft, fragile thing in the vast silence.
I let the name settle in my mind, tasting the shape of it. Annelise. It is a name that suits her, a name of quiet elegance that belies the core of steel I know she possesses. I repeat it, my voice a low murmur, a promise. "Annelise."
The sound of her name, spoken by me, makes her shiver. A faint, beautiful blush colors her cheeks, and she quickly drops her gaze, returning to her work. The intimacy of the moment is too much for her, a sudden, bright light in the accustomed darkness of her world.
I have asked for a piece of her. It is only right that I offer a piece of myself in return. "I am Tarek," I say.
This time, her head snaps up, her eyes locking with mine. I see a flicker of fear, the instinctive reaction of a prey animal learning the name of its predator. But it is quickly replaced by a raw, undisguised curiosity. She repeats my name, her voice a whisper that is barely audible over the soft rustle of the caged beasts. "Tarek."
