Page 19 of The Manticore's Human Queen
The room begins to spin and I think I might actually faint. But then, a new feeling, a fierce and desperate adrenaline, surges through me. There is no time for fear. I have to get to him. I have to warn him. I have to do something. I pull back from the alcove and I run.
My flight to the menagerie, not the silent, stealthy creep of my previous visits, but a frantic, desperate race against a future that has just become an imminent and unbearable nightmare.
My silk slippers slide on the polished marble, my breath coming in ragged, tearing gasps, my heart hammering against the cage of my ribs. The disapproving portraits of long-dead elves blur past me, their cold, silver eyes seeming to follow my panicked flight.
Every shadow is a lurking guard, every distant sound the echo of my own impending doom. I burst out into the frozen courtyard, the cold air a shock to my lungs, and I do not slow.
The heavy oak door of the menagerie groans under the force of my shove.
An oppressive, waiting stillness hangs in the air. I race to the back, to the corner where his cage has always been, my mind a chaotic storm of half-formed plans and desperate prayers. And then I see it. The cage door hangs open, its lock broken, a piece of it dangling from a single, twisted hinge. The cage is empty.
For a moment, a wild, impossible hope surges through me. He has escaped. He has broken free. But the hope dies as quickly as it was born. I see the signs of a violent struggle. The heavy wooden feeding trough has been splintered, its pieces scattered across the floor.
The straw is kicked into chaotic piles, and among them, I see a dark, spreading stain that I know, with a sickening certainty,is blood. A single, heavy, and magically-enchanted chain lies discarded near the back wall, a testament to the battle that was fought here. He did not escape. He was taken.
I stand there, frozen, the silence of the empty cage roaring in my ears. The world narrows to the blood on the straw, to the broken lock, to the gaping emptiness where he should be.
A choked sob escapes my lips, a sound of pure, absolute, hopeless despair. I have failed. I was too late. While I was playing the part of the perfect, obedient doll, they came for him. They have taken him. And now, they are going to kill him.
A small sound behind me, a soft scuff of a slipper on stone, shatters my trance. I spin around, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a scream. Lyra, my handmaid, stands in the doorway, her hands twisting in the fabric of her apron, her face a pale, terrified mask in the gloom. My first thought is one of relief, a desperate, drowning instinct to cling to a familiar face. But the relief vanishes as I look at her, truly look at her. The fear in her eyes is not the fear of a servant worried for her mistress. It is the fear of a conspirator, of a guilty party that has been discovered.
And at that moment, I understand everything. Her nervousness over the past weeks. Her constant, probing questions about the menagerie. Her fear that was not for me, but of me. The pieces click into place with devastating, soul-shattering certainty. The betrayal is not a possibility. It is fact.
She begins to stammer, “My Lady… I… I was so worried. You ran from the hall, I… I only followed to make sure you were safe.” The lie is so pathetic, so transparent, an insult. My grief, my horror, my despair—all melts away, burned off by a wave of rage so pure and so cold it’s a clarifying force. I walk toward her, my steps slow and deliberate.
She flinches, taking a half-step back, her eyes wide with a dawning understanding of what she has just unleashed. The slapis sharp, the force of it sending her stumbling back against the doorframe. It is not just an act of anger.
It is a final, brutal severing of my old life, of the woman who endured everything in silence. I see the red mark blooming on her pale cheek, the tears welling in her terrified eyes, and I feel nothing but a vast, empty coldness. My voice, when it comes, is not a scream. Instead, a chillingly final whisper.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.”
23
TAREK
Arage so intense it is a physical force throws me against the bars of the cage. It is a useless, desperate act. The ancient magic flares, its green light a mocking reminder of my powerlessness, but I do not care. I roar, a sound of pure, thwarted fury that shakes the very stones of the menagerie, a promise of the violence I will visit upon them if I ever get free.
My roar is answered not by silence, but by the sound of heavy, booted feet approaching at a run. It is not the clumsy shuffle of the usual sentries; this is the disciplined, purposeful tread of a warrior squad. The door to the menagerie crashes open, and a dozen dark elf guards flood the room.
They are not the usual household guards. These are clad in black, functional armor, their faces cold and impassive, their silver eyes gleaming with a cruel efficiency. They carry not just swords, but heavy, enchanted chains and a thick iron collar that hums with a sickening magical energy. They have come not just to guard a prisoner, but to break a beast.
The leader, an elf with a jagged scar across his lip, smirks at my defiance. “It seems the pet has found its voice. A pity we mustsilence it.” He produces a heavy iron key. “Lord Renlir wants it moved to a more… festive location. Open the cage.”
The moment the lock clicks, I launch myself. I am a blur of wounded but furious motion, a cornered predator making his final, desperate stand. I take down the first two guards before they can even raise their weapons, my claws tearing through their leather armor, my roar of defiance echoing in the enclosed space.
But it is not enough. They are too many, and I am too weak. They overwhelm me, a tide of black armor and cold steel. They bind me with the enchanted chains, the magic in them a living, parasitic thing that saps my strength, draining my will with every passing second. The iron collar is the final humiliation, its cold weight clamping around my neck, the magical energy in it a suffocating fog that settles over my mind.
“That’s enough,” the leader commands as his men begin to beat me with the hilts of their swords. “He must be conscious for the feast. Barely.”
I collapse onto the filthy straw, my body a symphony of fresh agonies. As my vision blurs, the last thing I see is the sneering face of the scarred elf. The shame of my failure is a more potent poison than any venom. I have failed her. I have failed my brothers. My final conscious thought is a silent, unbreakable vow:I will kill them all.
Awareness returns not as a gradual dawn, but as a violent, jarring crash. The first sensation is the cold. Not the damp, earthy chill of the menagerie, but the polished, sterile cold of marble beneath me. My body is a landscape of new bruises and old aches. I force my heavy eyelids open, and the world swims into a blurry, glittering focus. I am in a new, and infinitely more humiliating, prison.
The cage is an ornate, golden creation, its bars twisted into the shapes of cruel, leering vines. It sits in the very center of avast, opulent ballroom. Crystal chandeliers, currently unlit, hang from a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of elven victories. This room, designed for celebration, for life, is now my dungeon. And I am its centerpiece.
I am not just caged; I am chained. Heavy, iron manacles, their surfaces etched with shimmering, magical wards, bind my wrists and ankles, tethering me to the floor. The chains are short, giving me just enough room to sit or kneel, but not to stand to my full height. A deliberate, calculated humiliation. The memory of my brief, glorious taste of freedom, of the fight, of my failure, is a bitter ash in my mouth.
I have promised her freedom, and now that vow feels like a cruel, mocking lie. The shame of it wounds me more deeply than any blow.
