Page 32 of Crowned In Venom

32

VARKOS

T he clang of steel against steel reverberates through the ruined halls, a wicked symphony of death and fury. My muscles burn, but I do not falter.

He fights like a dark elf who was born for war. Sharp. Ruthless. Calculated.

Each strike forces me back, each step pushing me closer to the edge of something I do not understand yet.

"You're better than I expected," the man smirks, parrying my blade with ease. "But then again, you were bred for this, weren't you? A warrior."

I narrow my eyes, slamming my weight into him. He barely budges.

Bred for this.

The words sink into my bones, but there is no time to dissect them.

I drive forward, my blade a blur as I feint left, then slash across his ribs.

He twists at the last second, avoiding a fatal wound, but my steel bites into his side.

His grin never falters, even as blood stains his torn shirt.

"Touchy, aren't we?" he taunts, stepping back. "Does it bother you, Varkos? That you don’t even know who you really are?"

Something cold settles in my gut.

I move on instinct, striking hard, our swords locking in a brutal clash that sends sparks flying into the darkened hall.

He leans in, voice lowering to a whisper only I can hear.

"You're not who you think you are."

A surge of rage floods my veins.

I break the lock, shoving him back. My blade sings through the air—a killing stroke.

Too late.

Pain explodes through my side.

A deep, searing gash.

My legs buckle.

I taste copper in my mouth, my vision swimming as I hit my knees.

The world tilts.

The hall is filled with the sounds of dying dark elves, of chaos and ruin, but all I hear is my own ragged breathing.

Footsteps approach.

The prisoner stands over me, wiping his blade clean against his sleeve. His expression is not triumphant.

It is knowing.

"You don’t even realize it yet, do you?" he murmurs.

Something cracks inside me.

I try to push myself up, but my limbs are sluggish, my strength bleeding out with every breath.

I don’t understand.

What is he talking about?

The shadows shift.

A ripple of power crawls through the air.

And then?—

She arrives.

The Matriarch steps into the carnage, brimming with magic, her presence a force that presses against my ribs like an iron weight.

She should not be this strong.

I have been poisoning her for years.

She should be weakened. Dying.

Yet she stands before me, her silver eyes glowing like dying stars, her presence suffocating.

"What a mess," she murmurs, taking in the scene with cold amusement.

The prisoner tenses, his hand tightening on his sword. Even he feels it.

The wrongness.

The unnaturalness of her power.

"What have you been feeding yourself?" I rasp, my own voice foreign to me.

She tilts her head, smiling in that way that always made my stomach turn.

"I eat what I must, my darling," she whispers.

Her gaze flickers to the dark elf who wounded me.

The smile vanishes.

"Ah. You."

For the first time since we crossed blades, I see a flicker of uncertainty in the prisoner’s stance.

The Matriarch lifts her hand.

A snap of power.

The air distorts.

His body lifts off the ground, thrashing, twisting in unnatural angles as the magic wraps around him like an unseen fist.

A sharp, broken sound escapes his throat.

A warning?

Or a final curse?

"Tell him," he chokes.

The Matriarch tightens her grip.

His spine bows, his limbs jerking as veins blacken beneath his skin.

"Tell him," he snarls. "Tell him who he really is."

A cold wave of dread sweeps over me.

She only smiles.

Then—she breaks him.

Bone snaps.

His body crumples.

Discarded.

Like nothing.

Like something that never mattered at all.

She exhales, flicking her fingers as if wiping away dust.

"How boring," she sighs, then turns to me.

I try to stand.

She presses a hand to my shoulder—soft, deceptively gentle.

The pain in my side flares, burning through my ribs like fire.

"Tell me, my son," she murmurs, voice like silk over steel. "How did this happen?"

I swallow the rage, the nausea, the questions clawing at my throat.

I bow my head.

"I don't know."

A beat of silence.

The moment stretches, suffocates.

Then, she nods.

"Very well," she says. "Clean this up."

And then—she is gone.

I do not move.

I do not breathe.

My body trembles with something I do not want to name.

Not fear.

Not confusion.

Something worse.

I should feel relief.

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know it was Anya.

But I cannot shake the prisoner’s final words.

Tell him who he really is.

The blade wound aches, but it is nothing compared to the doubt gnawing through my bones.

Something is wrong.

Something has always been wrong.

And for the first time in my life, I am afraid to know the truth.