Page 3 of Crowned In Venom

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ANYA

T he first rule of survival is to watch.

So I do.

From the moment I step into Varkos’s chambers, I absorb everything—the way the silver-inlaid marble reflects the candlelight in ghostly ripples, the way the heavy velvet drapes stifle sound, the hidden alcoves where shadows gather like waiting specters.

A cage is still a cage, even when it is lined with luxury.

He stands across the room, watching me with that sharp, dissecting gaze, his long fingers curled around the stem of a silver goblet. As if he is already imagining how I will break.

He does not realize that I do not break.

I am the splinter beneath the skin, the thorn disguised as a petal.

I let my gaze flicker past him to the balcony doors—barred shut, heavy iron locks ensuring there is no easy escape. No windows large enough to slip through. The main doors are guarded, but the hidden servant passage near the wardrobe? That is interesting.

I do not move toward it. Not yet.

I pretend to be oblivious, trailing my fingers over the carved desk, running my hand along the intricate folds of a tapestry depicting dark elven conquests, human bodies writhing beneath their boots.

Varkos does not stop me.

But he watches.

Always watching.

“You have sharp eyes,” he muses.

I do not turn to him. “It would be foolish to be blind in a place like this.”

His chuckle is low, smooth as black silk. Mocking. “And yet many before you have chosen ignorance.”

Many before me were not hunters.

I turn now, tilting my head. “Did they survive?”

His smile is lazy, a cruel curve of amusement. “No.”

A chill wraps around my spine, but I do not let it show.

Instead, I step forward, bridging the space between us, my bare feet silent against the floor. His amethyst gaze tracks my movements, the way a wolf studies the rabbit—not with immediate hunger, but with the satisfaction of knowing it has already won.

He thinks he has won.

I let my gaze drop to the goblet in his hand. “I assume you do not intend to poison me,” I say lightly.

Varkos raises a dark brow, then lifts the goblet to his lips, taking a slow sip. His throat moves, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, a strangely human gesture for someone who is anything but.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, lowering the cup.

I lift my chin, unbothered by his threat. I step even closer. Too close.

It is a gamble.

A dangerous one.

But if I want to survive, I need to know what kind of monster I am dealing with.

His scent coils around me—smoke and steel, something darker beneath. His robes brush against my bare arm, cool fabric against heated skin.

I do not flinch.

Instead, I reach out.

Not to touch him. No, that would be reckless.

I trail my fingers along the rim of his goblet, brushing his hand in the process. A whisper of contact, a fleeting press of skin to skin.

A test.

His breath catches, just barely.

And then his hand snaps up, capturing my wrist in a vice-like grip.

I still.

Not out of fear.

Out of calculation.

Varkos studies me, his grip firm, but not cruel. Not yet.

“You like to push, don’t you?” His voice is lower now, quieter.

I meet his gaze, unblinking. “You like to be pushed.”

His lips part—a sharp inhale, a flicker of something dangerous.

Then, he releases me.

Not with a shove, not with violence.

With precision.

A choice.

I step back, my pulse thrumming at the base of my throat.

He watches me as if I am a puzzle, one he has not yet decided if he will solve or shatter.

I take the goblet from his hand and bring it to my lips, never breaking eye contact as I drink.

The wine is dark and spiced, fire rolling down my throat.

I lower the cup, tilting my head. “Satisfied?”

Varkos laughs. A real laugh this time, rich and slow, a sound that slides over my skin like silk and thorns.

“Oh, little fox,” he murmurs, that smirk returning. “We’re only just beginning.”

By the time the servants come for me, I have already committed much of the layout to memory.

I follow them silently, my gaze flickering to every corridor, every guarded post, every possible weakness.

The palace is a maze of dark stone and silver veins, corridors twisting in labyrinthine paths meant to confuse intruders.

Or captives.

They take me through the lower halls, past tapestries that depict elven conquest, past rooms where the smell of incense and spilled wine lingers in the air.

Brothels.

Not all slaves in this palace are here for pleasure, but many are.

I do not shudder.

I refuse to let them see weakness.

Finally, we reach the upper levels, where the nobles reside.

The doors we pass are grand, adorned with sigils marking which house each occupant belongs to.

I commit them to memory.

They will be useful later.

We reach a large set of double doors—not as ostentatious as the others, but somehow more menacing.

One of the guards smirks at me. A cruel, knowing thing.

“He will summon you when he wishes,” he says, leering slightly. “Try not to keep our lord waiting.”

I say nothing.

I step inside.

The doors close behind me.

And I exhale.

Not relief.

Never relief.

Just another breath, another moment where I am still standing.

I glance around the chamber—a smaller, private space compared to the main quarters.

And then—there it is.

The seam in the wall.

Faint, nearly imperceptible. But now that I know where to look, I can see it.

A hidden passage.

Not an escape. Not yet.

But a secret is a weapon.

And I collect weapons like breath.

I move to the window, pressing my fingers against the cold iron bars.

Beyond them, a prosperous city sprawls below—a city built on suffering, on chains and whispered screams.

I will not remain in this palace forever.

Varkos thinks he has caught me.

But he does not realize…

I am already undoing my chains.