Page 13 of Crowned In Venom

13

ANYA

T he walls of the palace breathe in silence.

It is late, just past the second toll of the city bells, and the air carries the bustle of a world that does not sleep, but waits.

Servants move like ghosts, their footsteps quick, their voices hushed. No one lingers in the halls longer than they must.

Not with The Ghost lurking.

I have heard the whispers.

The murmured fears that something unseen watches in the dark, that there are eyes where there should be none.

It should scare me.

And yet, I am the one slipping into the shadows tonight.

I keep my steps light, my breath measured as I move toward the lower halls.

Not toward the dungeons. Not toward the fight pits.

Toward something worse.

The place I should not return to.

The place where the wrongness still clings to my skin like an old bruise.

Two nights ago, I stumbled into a nightmare.

A corridor lined with whispering horrors—flesh that was not flesh, voices that did not belong to a single throat.

The Matriarch's secret.

Varkos's greatest fear.

I should leave it alone.

But power is not in caution.

Power is in knowing.

And tonight, I will learn.

The door is still where I left it—heavy, iron-bound, a wound in the stone.

But this time, I am not careless.

I press my ear against the cold wood. Listen.

No breath. No movement.

Still, I wait. Count to five.

Only when the silence remains unbroken do I move.

I slip inside.

The air is thicker than I remember.

The scent of damp stone, of old parchment and spilled ink. Not the sickly-sweet stench of before.

I exhale, slow. This part of the chamber is different.

Less… alive.

Less wrong.

I move carefully, my fingers tracing along the cold stone wall, my steps quick but deliberate.

The chamber is not empty.

Desks are scattered in no clear order, parchments strewn across surfaces, some crumpled, some half-burned.

I run my fingers over the wooden surface of a table, pausing when I see it—the thing that will change everything.

A book.

Not a tome, not some grand spellbook filled with horrors, but a simple ledger.

Its cover is dark, smooth leather, worn with years of handling.

I flip it open.

My breath catches.

Names.

Not just names.

Debts. Promises. Betrayals.

A record of every noble, every merchant, every warrior who has ever owed the clan something.

Or who has ever wronged him.

I run my fingertips over the ink, my pulse quickening. This is leverage.

Power is not always held in steel.

Sometimes, it is held in ink and secrecy.

I scan the entries, searching for something that matters.

And then I see it.

A name I recognize.

A name that should not be here.

Eryx Tathorin.

I still.

The breath leaves my lungs too fast, too sharp.

Tathorin.

I know that name.

It belonged to a noble house—once.

A house that was erased long before I was taken, long before my family was slaughtered.

A house the dark elves burned to the ground.

The ink beside the name is smudged, but the debt is clear.

Oath of Silence. Life Held in Reserve.

I do not understand what it means.

But I understand enough.

This name should be ashes.

This name should be dead.

And yet, Varkos wrote it here.

Why?

A noise.

Behind me.

Not the scrape of boots. Not footsteps.

Something softer.

A breath?

I turn too fast, my pulse slamming against my ribs.

Nothing.

No one.

The room is empty.

And yet?—

I know I am not alone.

I press the book to my chest.

I move swiftly, slipping back toward the door.

I listen. Count to five again.

Nothing. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.

I step out.

The hall is silent. The air is still.

And yet, the feeling does not leave.

Something watched me.

Something knows.

I clutch the ledger tighter, slipping back into the palace before my luck turns against me.

Because tonight, I have found something dangerous.

But I have also made a mistake.

Tonight, I was not careful enough.

And I will soon learn?—

The Ghost never blinks.