Page 13 of The Manticore's Human Queen
ANNELISE
Hope is a poison. A beautiful, agonizing venom that now courses through every vein in my body. Tarek’s promise—As my mate—was a spark in the suffocating darkness, and now it is a wildfire in my soul, consuming the pragmatic despair that has been my only shield for years.
The world has shifted on its axis. The golden cage that once offered a predictable, monotonous misery now feels impossibly small, its silken bars pressing in until breath itself is a struggle.
“You look… distracted, My Lady.”
The voice, sharp and cold as splintered ice, cuts through my reverie. I turn from the window where I have been staring out at the unforgiving snow. Vaelia, one of my guardian’s senior house elves, stands in the doorway of my chambers. Her silver eyes, devoid of warmth, sweep over me in a quick, dismissive appraisal.
“I was just enjoying the quiet, Vaelia,” I reply, my own voice a careful, placid murmur.
Vaelia glides into the room, her movements silent and fluid. She runs a long, slender finger over a jewel-encrusted vanity box, checking for dust that is never there. “You have beenenjoying the quiet a great deal lately,” she says, her tone light, but her words heavy with insinuation. “And in such… unusual places. The menagerie. An odd choice for solitude. So… earthy.”
A cold knot forms in my stomach. They are watching. Of course, they are watching. “I find the creatures calming,” I say, forcing a note of innocence into my voice.
“Do you?” Vaelia’s smile is a thin, cruel line. “Lord Zarren does not find it calming. He finds it… peculiar. He is beginning to think his little human pet is becoming bored with her toys.” She pauses, letting the threat hang in the air between us. “Bored pets often require new, more stringent training to remind them of their place.”
My anger, which has been a low, simmering coal for a lifetime, now burns with a new heat. My compliance, which I once mistook for strength, now feels like nothing more than a slow, quiet surrender.
“I will be sure to spend more time in the gallery,” I say, my voice tight.
“See that you do,” Vaelia purrs. “The wedding feast is approaching. It would be a shame if the bride were to appear… unwell. Or worse, unwilling.” She turns to leave, her parting shot delivered with casual precision. “Lord Zarren’s patience is not as boundless as his father’s estate. Do try to remember that.”
The moment she is gone, the placid mask I wear crumbles. Her visit is not a warning; it is a declaration. The walls are closing in. My small, secret acts of rebellion are no longer enough. Tarek’s leg is healing, but the crude bandages I smuggle are a temporary measure. The risk of infection, of his brilliant strength failing because I am too afraid to procure what he truly needs, is a far greater torment than any punishment Zarren could devise.
The debate is a short and silent war. My fear is a cold, familiar weight, but the fire of my newfound purpose is hotter. I will do it. For him.
The estate is a labyrinth of silent, disapproving luxury. Every polished surface seems to reflect my guilt, every shadow seems to hold a lurking accuser. I move through the corridors with the practiced silence of a ghost, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. Zarren’s study is on the opposite side of the estate, a testament to his desire for privacy. This is an infiltration deep into enemy territory.
The door is unlocked. He is arrogant, so certain of his power that he never considers defiance from a creature as insignificant as his human fiancée.
The room smells of old leather, cloying incense, and a faint, metallic tang of dried blood from the monstrous, glass-eyed heads mounted on the walls. I move quickly, my hands shaking as I scan the ornate shelves. I find what I am looking for in a carved obsidian box: several small, ceramic pots of a powerful, elven healing salve. As I tuck them into the hidden pockets of my gown, I hear voices from the adjoining chamber, the door left slightly ajar.
It is Zarren and one of the younger human servants, a girl whose only crime was a clumsy spill at dinner. “You are a clumsy, useless creature,” Zarren says, his tone one of bored amusement. “Perhaps a lesson is in order. Hold out your hands.”
I hear the girl’s terrified whimper, followed by the sharp, stinging crack of a riding crop against flesh. Once. Twice. The girl’s choked sob is a physical blow to me. Any lingering doubt, any flicker of fear for my own safety, is incinerated in a blaze of pure, righteous fury.
While his attention is occupied, my eyes fall upon another object on his desk: an old, beautifully crafted dagger, its hilt inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A letter opener, a forgotten trinket.But it is steel, and it is sharp. On impulse, an act of pure, unthinking rebellion, I snatch it. I will not be a victim. And Tarek will not be a beast without claws.
Fleeing the study is a blur. The sound of the servant’s weeping follows me down the corridor, a harrowing reminder of what I am fighting against.
The menagerie now feels like a rebel camp. I reach his cage, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Tarek is awake, his dark eyes immediately finding mine. He sees the terror on my face, and he pushes himself to his feet, a low, questioning growl rumbling in his chest.
I fumble with the latch on the feeding door, my hands still trembling, not with fear, but with the sheer, overwhelming force of my own adrenaline. I push the stolen items through the small opening. Tarek looks from the pots of elven salve to the pearl-handled dagger, and then back to my face, his dark eyes wide with a dawning, stunned understanding. He sees not just the objects, but the rebellion they represent. I see a flicker of something in his expression I have never seen before: a raw, fierce pride that is so profound it steals my breath.
I press my face close to the bars, the cold iron biting against the heat flooding my own cheeks. "This is not just for you," I whisper. I meet his gaze, and in the depths of his dark, beautiful eyes, I see my own courage reflected back at me. "I will not let this place be your tomb," I vow, my words a promise not just to him, but to myself. "And I will not let it be mine."
I press the stolen items more firmly into his hands, my own fingers brushing against his. "Take them," I whisper, my voice now a fierce, desperate, unwavering command. "I want you to live."
17
TAREK
The pearl-handled dagger and the elven salves lie on the straw beside me, a small hoard of stolen courage. I look from them to her face, still pressed close to the bars, and for the first time since waking in this frozen hell, the cold, hard knot of my own despair begins to dissolve.
She has not just brought me tools for survival. She has brought me a testament to her own transformation. The frightened girl who first stumbled into this menagerie is gone, and in her place stands a warrior.
“Calm yourself,” I say, “You're braver than you think.”
