Page 22 of Crowned In Venom

22

ANYA

T he palace is never truly silent.

Even in the stillest hours of night, there is always the creak of shifting stone, the distant murmurs of unseen mouths, the rustling of robes moving through dimly lit corridors.

It speaks in hushed voices.

And tonight, I listen.

The torches are dimmed, leaving long shadows that stretch along the walls like hungry specters. I move through the lower halls with careful precision, my bare feet soundless against the cool marble. The cold bites at my skin, but I welcome it—better to feel something than to let fear take root.

The servants do not notice me.

Not because I am invisible.

But because they have learned not to look too closely.

A survival instinct. One I understand all too well.

And yet, tonight, there is something different about the air. A strange tightness, a weight pressing against the palace walls.

Something is coming.

Something is already here.

I follow the hushed voices, trailing the sound through winding corridors, keeping to the edges where the flickering torchlight cannot catch me.

Because I know?—

They are whispering about her.

"She has been in a mood today."

"Did you see the girl from the kitchens? Gone. Just like that."

"I heard she skinned a man alive last week."

"I heard she doesn’t even need a blade anymore."

"It’s the human girl, isn’t it? He’s keeping her too long."

My pulse tightens.

I press my back against a column, blending into the shadows as I listen.

The voices belong to two older women—palace attendants, their hands dusted with flour, their aprons speckled with dried wine.

They shouldn’t be talking about this.

But fear loosens tongues as much as wine.

"She doesn’t like it when they linger," one mutters, glancing over her shoulder.

"He never keeps them this long," the other whispers back.

A slow, creeping dread wraps around my spine.

They mean me.

I am the one who has lingered.

And the Matriarch does not allow that.

I turn to leave—but a hand grips my wrist.

My body tenses on instinct.

I nearly twist out of the grip before I recognize the face.

Mira.

One of the younger maids, barely older than me, her round face drawn in tight worry.

She shouldn’t be here.

And she definitely shouldn’t be looking at me.

But she is.

And there is fear in her eyes.

"You need to be careful," she whispers.

Her fingers dig into my wrist, not in malice, but urgency.

I don’t pull away.

I don’t let her see the pulse hammering beneath my skin.

"Careful of what?" I murmur.

Mira glances over her shoulder, then back at me, her breath quickening.

"The Matriarch."

The word alone makes my stomach coil.

I do not react. Not visibly.

But something inside me stills.

I already know she is a threat.

I already know my time is running short.

But I need to know why.

"What about her?" I press, my voice light. Careful.

Mira hesitates.

Then, her fingers tighten, her whisper sharp as a blade.

"She knows you’re still here."

The words sink in like a dagger between my ribs.

Of course she knows.

She always knew.

But the fact that Mira is warning me? That is something different.

Something worse.

"She doesn’t like them to last," Mira continues, her voice barely audible.

Her dark eyes dart left, then right.

"And you—you’re still here."

It is not a question.

It is a death sentence.

I do not let my expression shift.

But Mira sees it anyway.

"You should run," she breathes.

I almost laugh.

Run.

As if it were that simple.

As if I have not spent every waking moment preparing for the chance.

But now—I may not have time.

A sharp sound snaps through the corridor.

Mira jerks back, her face paling.

I freeze.

A footstep.

Not rushed.

Not loud.

But deliberate.

Measured.

Someone is here.

Someone is watching.

I don’t wait to see who it is.

I grip Mira’s hand and pull her close, spinning us behind the column, pressing her against the stone.

A moment later—a shadow moves across the corridor.

Slow. Silent.

It does not pass.

It lingers.

My heart tightens.

Mira is trembling beneath my fingers.

I do not tremble.

But I feel it.

The mysterious unseen.

A hunter in the dark.

Watching.

Waiting.

For what?

I do not know.

But I am certain of one thing.

The Matriarch has already set her sights on me.

And if I do not act soon?—

I will not leave this palace alive.

Mira is the first to break the silence.

"Did you see it?" she whispers, voice barely audible.

I nod.

Her fingers clench in the fabric of her apron.

"I—I shouldn’t have said anything," she mutters. "She’ll know I spoke to you."

Fear flares in her eyes again.

I press a hand over hers—gentle, but firm.

"You did the right thing," I say.

A lie.

The right thing would have been to stay silent. To pretend she did not see me, did not know what was coming.

Because now, I am not the only one in danger.

"You should go," I whisper.

Mira hesitates.

Then, with a quick nod, she disappears down the corridor, her form swallowed by the flickering torchlight.

I wait a moment longer.

The shadow in the corridor is gone.

It remains. It lingers like a touch, never fading.

I press a hand against the cold stone wall, steadying myself.

And then, slowly, I slip back into the dark.