Page 27 of Crowned In Venom

27

VARKOS

T he night air is thick with the scent of damp stone and burning torches as I make my way through the underground halls.

The revelry of the city hums beyond the palace walls, but here, beneath the floors of my own empire, the air is still, waiting.

Waiting for the poison to finish its work.

For years, I have fed it to her.

A slow death.

Drop by drop.

A flower that only blooms under the moons of my people, its nectar hidden in wine, in perfume, in the very air she breathes.

But she still lives.

She should be weaker by now. Wilting, trembling.

And yet—she is growing stronger.

Something is wrong.

Something has changed.

I need to move faster.

Before she realizes what I have been doing.

Before she finds another way to undo me.

The underground chamber is empty when I arrive.

At least, it appears to be.

I do not wait.

I do not call out.

I simply pour the thick, darkened liquid into the goblet and place it on the stone table at the center of the room.

Then, I lean back, waiting.

The torches flicker.

And just like that, they are no longer alone.

A presence shifts the air.

Silent.

A shadow where there was none before.

The Ghost.

I do not turn as the figure materializes from the darkness, a ripple in the fabric of reality itself.

They move without sound, without breath, until they stand beside me.

Watching.

Waiting.

"You’ve been quiet lately," I murmur.

The Ghost does not answer.

They never do.

But I know they are listening.

I pick up the goblet, swirling the liquid inside.

"My mother grows stronger," I say, my voice low, steady. "I want to know why."

The Ghost shifts slightly, the only sign that they acknowledge my words.

"She is drinking the poison," I continue. "I watch her take it with her own hands. And yet, she does not wither. She does not break. Why?"

Silence.

But silence is an answer in itself.

I place the goblet down with a quiet clink.

"You know something," I murmur, turning to face them. "Tell me."

The Ghost tilts their head slightly, their presence as cold as a blade pressed to my throat.

Then—finally—a whisper.

"Blood."

The single word scrapes through the air, dry as bone.

My jaw tightens.

"Whose?"

A pause.

Then—"Not yours."

The answer burns through me like acid.

Not mine.

Someone else’s.

Someone new.

I exhale slowly, letting the words settle.

The Matriarch is drinking blood that is not mine.

Something rare. Something I have not accounted for.

Something that has made her stronger.

I rake a hand through my hair, calculating, piecing together a puzzle I do not like.

I know what she does.

The experiments. The creatures lurking in the depths of this palace, things twisted beyond recognition, things she has tried and failed to perfect.

But now?—

Now she is feeding herself something new.

Something that is undoing my work.

And I need to find out what.

Or rather—who.

My gaze flicks back to the Ghost.

They do not move.

They never do.

"You have not told her about Anya," I say.

A test.

A truth I already know.

The Ghost is loyal only to the Matriarch.

And yet—they did not tell her about the ledger.

They did not tell her what Anya stole.

They have not told her that I know.

And that interests me.

The Ghost does not respond.

But they do not deny it.

I let the silence stretch, watching them, measuring them the way I would an opponent in the pits.

Then, I take a step closer.

"Why?"

The air shifts.

Something too subtle to name.

A crack in something that was once unbreakable.

But they say nothing.

And I do not ask again.

Because I already know.

Loyalty is a thing that can break.

Even for them.

Even for the Matriarch’s most trusted blade.

I exhale slowly, stepping back.

I do not need an answer from them.

I have already decided.

I must move faster.

I must find what she is drinking.

I must cut off her supply.

Before she realizes she is no longer dying.

Before she turns on me first.