Page 14 of Crowned In Venom

14

VARKOS

I am woken by the sound of steel.

A sharp tang, too close.

A breath.

Not my own.

I move before the blade finds my throat.

My body twists, instincts honed from years of survival driving me forward. The dagger slices through the space where my neck had been, grazing my shoulder instead.

Blood warms my skin, but the pain is secondary.

I do not hesitate.

I attack.

The assassin is fast.

Their body moves like a shadow, fluid, precise.

But I am faster.

I catch their wrist mid-swing, twisting it sharply. A sickening snap.

They do not scream.

Trained. Conditioned.

Their knee slams toward my ribs.

I shift my weight, absorbing the blow, using the momentum to drive them backward, off balance.

They recover too quickly. A roll, a shift of weight, and they are back on their feet, a second blade flashing in the dim firelight.

Who sent you?

The question coils in my mind, but I do not waste breath asking.

Words are for those who fear death.

And I am not afraid.

The assassin lunges again, this time lower, sharper.

I let them come.

At the last second, I sidestep, my body twisting just enough to avoid the blade.

Their own momentum works against them.

I seize the opening.

My hand snaps forward, catching them by the throat.

A single, brutal movement and they are slammed against the nearest wall.

Their body bucks, struggles.

I press harder.

The dagger clatters to the marble floor.

Only then do I look at them—truly look.

And I see nothing.

Their face is covered by a dark mask, fabric wrapped tight over their mouth, their eyes black pools of hatred.

Trained to kill.

Trained to die without speaking.

How disappointing.

I lean in, my fingers tightening just enough to make them panic.

"Who sent you?" My voice is calm. Unrushed.

Their pulse flutters beneath my palm.

They say nothing.

They are expecting mercy.

They will receive none.

I press harder, watching their hands claw at my wrist, their body fighting for air.

Good.

I hold them just long enough—just long enough for them to believe they are about to die.

Then I release them.

They collapse, gasping, dragging in air like a drowning man.

I step back, watching them struggle.

They should be grateful.

They are not.

Their eyes lift—pure, unwavering defiance.

They would rather die than break.

Interesting.

I could kill them.

It would be easy. A single snap of the spine.

But death is a waste of a message.

I crouch before them, reaching out.

They flinch before they can stop themselves.

I smile.

"Your hands," I murmur.

They still.

I take them—both wrists in my grip.

And then I break them.

Sharp, precise.

The sound echoes through the chamber.

The assassin does not scream.

But they shudder.

Their body writhes from the sheer, excruciating weight of it.

I lean in, my lips just beside their ear.

"Tell whoever sent you that I am not so easily killed."

I rise, wiping the blood from my fingers.

"Go."

They hesitate, trembling.

Then, slowly, they drag themselves toward the door.

A broken thing. But still breathing.

That is the message.

Because corpses cannot carry warnings.

But the maimed do.

As soon as they are gone, I exhale, rolling my shoulders.

Pain pulses where the dagger grazed me, but it is nothing. A whisper of an inconvenience.

I cross the room, stepping over the bloodied dagger.

It gleams in the dim light, a reminder that tonight, I was vulnerable.

And that?

That is unacceptable.

Someone has grown bold.

Someone thinks I am slipping.

Anya.

The thought coils through me, slow and insidious.

She has been watching me differently. Not with fear, not with obedience.

With calculation.

With intention.

Did she orchestrate this?

I picture her—her steady gaze, her careful words.

No.

Not yet.

This was not her.

She plays the long game.

But someone else—someone else is growing impatient.

And I will burn them from my city before they dare try again.