Page 10 of Crowned In Venom

10

VARKOS

M y mother’s summons comes with no warning.

It never does.

One moment, I stand in the dim quiet of my chambers, the intoxicating scent of Anya’s skin still lingering in the air. The next, a messenger appears, pale-faced, breathless, delivering the inevitable words.

The Matriarch requests your presence.

Requests.

As if I have a choice.

I do not delay. I do not keep her waiting. Not because I am eager to see her, but because delaying invites suspicion, and suspicion invites pain.

I learned that lesson long ago.

The corridor leading to her sanctum is lined with silver lanterns, their flames burning a strange, eerie green. The light is soft, almost beautiful.

But I know the truth of this place.

There is no beauty here.

There never was.

The guards at the entrance do not speak as I pass. They are more statues than men, standing in cold, lifeless silence, their armor polished to a mirror’s gleam.

Inside, the air is too warm, too perfumed.

A room meant to entice, to suffocate.

She waits on her throne—a thing of obsidian and carved bone, its arms curved like the open jaws of some long-forgotten beast.

She is draped in dark silks, her figure reclining with the ease of a dark elf female who has never known fear.

She has only ever inspired it.

The Matriarch.

My mother.

She watches as I enter, her fingers trailing idly over the stem of a crystal goblet. Bloodwine, dark and thick.

Not hers. Never hers. Always someone else’s.

"You are late," she murmurs.

I bow because it is expected, because it is required. "You called for me on short notice."

Her lips curl. "You should always be ready when I call, my son."

Her voice is soft, almost affectionate.

But I know better.

She gestures for me to come closer. I do, though every step feels like walking into a trap.

"Your mind is elsewhere," she says.

A statement. Not a question.

I school my features into apathetic indifference. "My mind is always where it should be."

She hums, as if amused. "I would hope so. I raised you better than to let... distractions cloud your judgment."

I know what this is.

A test.

A warning.

She has heard whispers of Anya.

The thought twists something dark inside me.

"You think I am distracted?" I ask carefully.

She leans forward, the goblet cradled between her fingers, her eyes gleaming like cut amethysts.

"I know you, my son," she murmurs. "I have shaped you. Molded you into something more than what lesser men could ever hope to be."

Her voice wraps around me like silk and chain.

"There is nothing more dangerous than weakness. And nothing breeds weakness faster than attachment."

She sets the goblet down, the sound echoing like a weapon unsheathed.

"Tell me, Varkos... is there something you wish to confess?"

A trap. Laid with careful precision.

I do not step into it.

"I do not waste my time with distractions," I say smoothly.

She smiles, slow and knowing.

And I know she does not believe me.

She stands, moving toward me in a slow, unhurried glide.

The silks of her robes whisper against the stone as she circles me, her hand ghosting over my shoulder, then my throat.

A touch too familiar.

Too lingering.

"Good," she whispers. "Because I have made great sacrifices to keep you free of weakness, my son."

Her fingers trail along my jaw, light, possessive.

"I have burned empires for you."

Her lips brush my cheek—a mockery of tenderness, a kiss that feels more like a claim.

"I have spilled rivers of blood to keep you pure."

I do not move.

I do not let my revulsion show.

But I feel it.

Crawling beneath my skin. Cold. Clawing. Unnatural.

Because this—this is not love.

This is possession.

She pulls back, her gaze unreadable.

"I wonder," she muses, her tone too idle, too careless. "What your father would think of you now?"

The words hit harder than any strike.

I keep my face impassive. I do not react.

"You never speak of him," I say. "I assumed he was unworthy of your time."

She smiles.

A blade disguised as a curve of lips.

"Perhaps," she murmurs. "Or perhaps some things are better left... buried."

I hold her gaze. Waiting.

Daring her to say more.

But she doesn’t.

She only watches me, waiting to see if I will press, if I will ask the questions she does not want answered.

I do not.

Not yet.

Because I know how she works.

And I know this moment is important.

She is watching for cracks.

Waiting to see if I will break.

I won’t.

Not here.

Not in front of her.

She exhales, reaching for her goblet once more. Dismissal.

"You will not fail me, will you, my son?"

It is not a question.

It is a command.

I bow. "Of course not, Matriarch."

She smiles as if she believes me.

But I see the doubt in her eyes.

I turn to leave.

And just as I reach the door?—

"You should be careful," she calls after me.

I pause.

Glance back.

"There are whispers in the palace," she says lightly, swirling the wine in her goblet. "A ghost has been seen lurking in your halls."

A deliberate pause. A warning disguised as a passing remark.

"I would hate to think you had secrets worth watching."

I do not answer.

I do not react.

I only nod once and step into the corridor, my pulse slow, controlled.

But inside?—

Inside, something boils.

Because I know what she is doing.

And I know what this means.

She has already set the pieces in motion.

She is watching.

Waiting.

And the next time she summons me, it will not be for a warning.

It will be to see if I am still worthy of her empire.

Or if I am better off buried with the rest of her disappointments.