Page 11 of Crowned In Venom

11

ANYA

I do not see Varkos for the rest of the night.

Not after his summons.

Not after he returned, his presence heavier, darker—like something had been clawing at him from the inside.

He did not speak to me.

But I noticed the tension in his movements, the way his fingers curled as if resisting the urge to crush something.

Something—or someone—had unsettled him.

I want to know what.

But that will come later.

For now, I have work to do.

The underground fight pits are no secret.

Not among the whispered conversations of the servants.

Not among the guards who return from them smelling of sweat, ale, and the copper sting of blood.

They are one of the pillars of Varkos’s empire.

A place where coin flows like water, where men are broken for sport, where nobles and criminals alike come to feast on suffering.

And they are a perfect place to strike.

Because I have learned something in the days I have spent watching, listening—waiting.

There is a flaw in their foundation.

A weakness in the empire Varkos thinks is unshakable.

And it begins with the fighters themselves.

I find him in the lower halls.

One of Varkos’s champions—a dark elf with a scar that splits his cheekbone, his knuckles wrapped in fresh bandages, his posture stiff with the ache of old wounds.

He leans against a stone column, speaking in low, hushed tones to another man.

I do not interrupt.

I listen.

"You think he cares?" the fighter spits, his voice edged with bitterness. "We’re pawns, nothing more. Meat to be thrown into the pit until there’s nothing left to break."

The second dark elf male shifts uncomfortably. "You’re lucky. At least you’re winning."

"Lucky?" A bitter laugh. "You don’t get it, do you? You think it’s about winning?"

A pause.

Then—a single, quiet sentence.

"Varkos doesn’t let his champions leave."

Something clicks into place.

A crack in the foundation.

I turn away before they can sense me, before they realize they are being watched.

I have what I need.

Later that night, I slip into Varkos’s chambers again.

He is seated in a high-backed chair near the fire, his robes loose, his posture rigid.

His expression is unreadable.

But something is different.

I can feel it in the air, thick and suffocating.

Whatever the Matriarch said to him still lingers, heavy and suffocating.

I move carefully, deliberately, as if I do not notice the tension curling through his body.

"You were summoned," I murmur, settling onto the cushioned bench across from him.

His eyes flick to me—sharp, assessing.

"You’ve been listening."

I tilt my head, feigning innocence. "You do not hide it well."

His smirk is slow, knowing.

But it does not reach his eyes.

"What else have you heard, little fox?" he asks, voice smooth, but there is something dangerous beneath it.

I watch him for a moment. Careful. Measuring.

Then, I shift the conversation.

"A fighter spoke out against you today," I say casually, tracing my fingers along the edge of the table.

Varkos stills.

"And?"

I keep my voice light. "He said you do not let your champions leave."

For a moment, he does not react.

Then—a slow, dark chuckle.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on mine.

"And tell me, Anya," he murmurs, "does that surprise you?"

No.

It does not.

But I let a flicker of uncertainty pass over my face. Just enough for him to think he has unsettled me.

To let him believe I am still na?ve.

"You keep them trapped?" I ask, voice quieter now. "Even when they have won?"

Varkos exhales, shaking his head slightly. "Do you think a caged beast, once released, will remain tame? That it will not turn on the master who once held the leash?"

There is no remorse in his voice.

No shame.

Only cold certainty.

I meet his gaze, letting the firelight dance in my eyes. "And if they fight for you out of something greater than fear?"

His lips curl. "Then you understand nothing of power."

I have found the first weak thread in his empire.

But pulling at it will take time.

Varkos does not care about the suffering of his fighters.

But what happens when they stop fearing him?

What happens when they stop fighting?

I must be careful.

One wrong move, and I will not live to try again.

But the pit fighters?

The ones who win, but never leave?

They have nothing to lose.

And that makes them dangerous.

Varkos sees them as caged beasts.

But even caged beasts learn to bite back.