Page 31 of Crowned In Venom
31
VARKOS
T he first scream is swallowed by the night.
The second is not.
It rips through the halls, jagged and raw, the sound of metal meeting flesh, of chains breaking, of blood hitting stone.
Then—chaos.
By the time I step into the lower corridors, the air is thick with iron and fire, the stench of burning torches mingling with the copper tang of fresh death.
The prison has erupted.
A guard is pulled down by two ragged, desperate men, their teeth bared, their limbs wild with starvation and fury. His screams do not last long.
Another is dragged against the bars of a cell, his skull shattering against the iron. Blood sprays in a red arc across the stone, a grotesque painting of violence and vengeance.
The doors to the outer halls have been forced open.
Bodies flood the space, some running for freedom, others tearing through my men like wolves who have finally tasted blood.
The rebellion has begun.
And I know who did this.
A single word scratched into the wall near the open cell.
Checkmate.
My teeth clench. Anya.
The fire in my heart burns hotter than the torches lining the walls.
She thinks she has won.
She has only started a war.
And I intend to end it.
I draw my blade and step into the fray.
A prisoner lunges, swinging a jagged piece of metal. His arm is too thin, his movements too slow. I sidestep, catch his wrist, and twist.
A sickening crack.
His scream barely leaves his lips before I slam my dagger into his throat.
Hot blood spills over my hands as I rip the blade free, shoving him aside as his body crumples.
A second attacker comes at me from behind—a woman with wild, unkempt hair and a rusted length of chain wrapped around her fists.
She swings for my head.
I duck.
The chain slams into the stone wall, sparks flying on impact.
Before she can recover, I drive my boot into her knee.
Bone shatters.
She collapses with a strangled cry, and I finish it with a swift, merciless slash of my sword.
No time to breathe.
A third, a brute of a man, roars as he barrels toward me, swinging a warhammer that must have been stolen from the armory.
He swings—too powerful, but too slow.
I let him commit to the movement, then step inside his reach.
My dagger buries itself under his ribs.
He gasps, staggering.
I yank the blade up.
The light leaves his eyes before he hits the ground.
I do not stop.
I cannot stop.
There is no mercy here.
This is not a battlefield.
This is culling.
The corridors reek of blood and burning flesh.
My men are trying to hold the exits, trying to stop the flood, but it is too much, too fast.
The rebellion is spreading like fire over dry wood.
And then I see him.
The being Anya freed.
The real threat.
He stands at the far end of the hall, near the still-burning torches, watching the carnage unfold like a king surveying his battlefield.
He is not like the others.
Not like the starving prisoners who clawed their way to freedom.
No, he is something else.
Something that should have been left in the dark.
His stance is too sure, too practiced.
Even after what must have been weeks—maybe months—of captivity, he moves with the confidence of someone who knows his chains were always temporary.
His blade gleams in the firelight, already stained with fresh blood.
And when he sees me—he smiles.
He leans against the far wall, gripping his stolen sword lazily, as if this is just another game to him.
I take a slow step forward, my grip on my blade tightening.
"Well, well," he muses, his voice deep, laced with amusement. "The great Varkos himself."
I do not let my expression shift.
"Do you know what you’ve done?" My voice is quiet. Dangerous.
He exhales, tilting his head.
"I know exactly what I’ve done."
His eyes gleam.
And I realize something, something worse than the carnage around me.
Anya did not just release a prisoner.
She released a leader.
Not a dark elf broken by my rule. Or the Matriarch.
A being who will burn everything down to build his own.
And now, he is looking at me.
Not with fear.
Not with desperation.
But with recognition.
And I know—this is only the beginning.