Chapter 22 Annelise
ANNELISE
It is Zarren, his tone slick with a triumphant, proprietary glee, and the sound of it makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
I press myself into the shadows of a stone alcove, my heart a cold, heavy sensation in my chest. He is speaking to his father, their words echoing slightly off the racks of polished, deadly steel.
“The final preparations are made,” Zarren boasts, and I can picture the arrogant smirk on his face. “The ballroom cage, a work of art, Father. A fitting centerpiece for the feast. The beast will be a brilliant spectacle before the hunt.”
My blood runs cold. The hunt.
Lord Renlir’s voice, a low, silken purr of approval. “And the… special prize you mentioned? Will it serve its purpose?”
“Perfectly,” Zarren laughs, a sound devoid of any real humor.
“It will fuel the competition. Every young lord in the hall will be vying for the killing blow, for the honor of… breaking in the new bride. It will be a night of exquisite sport.” I feel the world tilt on its axis.
The air rushes from my lungs in a silent, horrified gasp.
It is not just a hunt. I am the prize. My body, my wedding night, is to be the trophy for whichever one of his sadistic friends manages to slaughter Tarek.
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 slap is 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.”