Page 18 of Crowned In Venom

18

ANYA

T he air stinks of sweat, blood, and something deeper. The difference is staggering between my bedroom and this.

His guards almost dragged me from my sleep.

Something rotten, festering.

I have seen many forms of suffering in this world.

But this—this is different.

The underground fight pits are not a stage, not a spectacle of honor or skill.

They are a slaughterhouse.

A place where flesh and bone are currency, where men are unmade for the amusement of others.

And Varkos—he brought me here tonight.

Not as a guest.

Not as a captive.

But as something far more dangerous.

A witness.

He doesn’t even look at me as if… we never shared an intimate night together. I ignore the feeling, though.

I stand beside him on the elevated balcony that overlooks the main arena, the jagged stone walls carved into the earth like a grave no one plans to fill.

The space below us is a pit in the truest sense of the word—a gaping wound in the palace’s underbelly, lined with torches that cast long, flickering shadows.

A match is already underway.

Two men circle each other, bare-chested, bodies slick with sweat, with blood.

The crowd surrounding the pit is a writhing thing, pressing in, shouting, clawing for more.

Varkos watches it all with a careful, unreadable gaze.

I do not look at him.

Instead, I force myself to see what he wants me to see.

Because this—this is a message.

A reminder.

Of what he is.

Of what he owns.

And, perhaps, what I can never change.

"You are quiet," Varkos murmurs beside me.

I keep my face impassive. "There is little to say."

He chuckles—low, dark.

"That is unlike you."

I shift my gaze to him then, meeting those sharp amethyst eyes.

"Did you expect me to scream?" I ask.

He tilts his head, studying me. "Would you?"

Below us, one of the fighters lunges, his blade carving into the other man's thigh.

A scream splits the air.

It is swallowed by laughter, by roars of approval, by the clinking of coins exchanging hands.

I do not flinch.

Instead, I turn my body slightly toward him, letting the firelight catch the emerald green of my eyes.

"Is this why you brought me here, my lord?" I murmur. "To see if I would break?"

Varkos does not smile.

"Perhaps."

A single word. Careful. Purposeful.

I exhale, slow. Measured.

"And if I don’t?"

He lifts a hand, trailing his fingers lightly along the back of my wrist. A ghost of a touch.

Too soft for the carnage around us.

"Then you are more dangerous than I thought."

The fight below is over.

One elf still stands.

The other does not.

The victor does not celebrate.

There is no triumph, no satisfaction in his expression.

Only emptiness.

Winning does not mean freedom.

There is no escape.

Because Varkos does not let his champions leave.

I turn my gaze back to him.

He is already watching me.

Waiting.

I am supposed to be horrified.

I am supposed to see the depth of his power and be reminded of my place.

And yet—all I see is weakness.

Not in him.

But in this system.

A machine that cannot last forever.

A system that can be broken.

Varkos moves suddenly, stepping away from the balcony, deeper into the stone corridors.

I follow.

Not because I have to.

But because I need to know why I am truly here tonight.

He leads me to a chamber carved into the rock, smaller than the main pit, lined with iron bars.

A prison.

And inside, a man.

The fighter who won.

His hands are bound in chains, his body trembling from exhaustion, from blood loss.

He should be celebrating his victory.

Instead, he is on his knees, waiting for whatever comes next.

A new wave of anger burns through me.

But I cannot show it.

Not yet.

Varkos steps forward, staring down at the broken man.

"You fought well tonight," he says smoothly.

The dark elf does not respond.

He is too tired. Too broken.

Varkos crouches in front of him, gripping his chin, forcing the fighter’s gaze upward.

"You are bleeding on my floors."

The fighter swallows hard. "Forgive me, my lord."

I hate the way his voice shakes.

Varkos tilts his head. "Tell me, do you believe in mercy?"

A pause.

Then, finally—a whisper.

"No."

Varkos smiles, satisfied.

He releases him and stands.

"Good," he says. "Because you will find none here."

Varkos turns back to me.

He steps close, his body a wall of heat, of power.

"You told me to look at my fighters," he murmurs. "To look where I least want to."

I hold my breath.

"Do you think this one tried to kill me?"

I glance at the fighter—shaking, barely conscious, waiting for judgment.

Varkos watches me as if he already knows my answer.

And perhaps, he does.

Because the truth is—I do not believe this creature is the assassin.

But I also cannot afford to be wrong.

So I do what I must.

I meet Varkos’s gaze, tilting my chin up.

"I think," I whisper, "that he knows something."

Varkos studies me.

Then, after a long, heavy silence—he laughs.

Low, dark, amused.

"You are learning, little fox."

He turns toward the guard at the door.

"Bring him to the lower cells," he orders. "We will see if he remembers anything useful by morning."

The guards move.

The fighter is dragged away.

And I stand in the flickering firelight, knowing what I have just done.

I have sent another being to hell.

And for what?

A chance.

A gamble.

A move in this dangerous game that neither of us is willing to lose.