Page 33 of Crowned In Venom

33

VARKOS

B lood drips from my blade in slow, rhythmic drops, forming a dark trail across the cracked stone. The smell of it thickens the air—copper and rot, mingling with the acrid burn of torches that flicker weakly in their iron sconces.

The prison is quieter now. The worst of the rebels are dead. The rest kneel in chains, their wrists raw from bindings, their gazes hollow. The stench of suffering lingers, clinging to my skin as if it seeks to seep beneath it.

I should feel satisfaction.

But I don’t.

I drive my sword into the last prisoner’s throat. The body stiffens, jerks once, then goes still. Another corpse among many.

I exhale sharply, my muscles aching, my ribs burning where my wound remains unattended, bleeding sluggishly beneath my armor.

The dark elf Anya freed had cut deep. Too deep.

The Matriarch should not have been able to kill him so easily.

And yet she had.

With one touch.

With one flick of her fingers.

My hands tighten into fists as I wipe my blade clean, but the prisoner’s last words won’t leave me.

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

"Tell him who he really is."

The words gnaw at my skull, an itch I cannot scratch, an irritation that refuses to fade. I should not care. I should not dwell on a dead man’s riddles.

And yet?—

I cannot stop thinking about them.

I cannot stop thinking about her.

I shove the thought away and turn toward the corridor. I am finished here.

The worst of the traitors are dead. The rest will be dealt with in time.

I need rest.

I need time to think.

But the moment I step into the main hall, a voice cuts through the silence like an arrow to the spine.

"My son."

I freeze.

The air grows thick, weighted.

Slowly, I turn.

The Matriarch stands in the archway, her presence a cold hand against my throat. She looks unbothered, as if she were not drenched in another man’s blood mere moments ago.

Her silver eyes gleam beneath the dim light.

"Come."

It is not a request.

My fingers flex at my sides before I follow.

The walk to her chambers is silent. The halls stretch long and too empty, the night pressing in around us like a shackle.

She is leading me deeper into her wing.

It feels like a trap.

And yet I walk into it.

Inside, the air is warm, scented with incense. A contrast to the blood drying on my skin, to the scent of steel and sweat that clings to me.

She stands before a long table draped in black cloth. Dinner is already waiting.

"Sit."

I do.

The chair is cushioned, too soft. My body aches from battle, and I sink into it unwillingly.

The Matriarch moves with practiced grace, pouring dark wine into a silver goblet.

She watches me over the rim of her own glass as she sips.

"Tell me again, my son," she murmurs. "What happened tonight?"

My pulse thuds once, hard.

She is testing me.

My fingers tighten around the goblet, though I do not drink.

"The prisoners revolted," I say evenly. "A well-planned attack. It suggests they had help from the inside."

Her expression does not change.

"And yet, you found no one?"

I shake my head. "Not yet."

Her nails tap lightly against the goblet, the faintest whisper of sound against metal.

"I see."

She does not believe me.

Or does she?

I cannot tell.

And that is what unsettles me most.

She is quiet for a long moment, letting the silence stretch like a noose between us.

Then—she smiles.

"Then we must be more careful, mustn’t we?" she says lightly, lifting a small silver fork and spearing a piece of meat.

She takes a delicate bite, as if we are not sitting in the aftermath of a massacre.

As if she did not tear a dark elf apart with her bare hands hours ago.

I do not touch my food.

My stomach coils, my ribs throb, and beneath it all, something festers.

I should not still be thinking of the prisoner’s words.

I should not still be questioning.

But I am.

I feel her watching me.

Waiting.

"Eat, my son."

Her voice is silk and steel, soft and sharp all at once.

I pick up my fork.

And I do not move.

The air stagnates between us.

My grip tightens.

My ribs ache.

The weight of something unseen, something unknown, presses down on my spine.

I do not know what is coming next.

And for the first time in a long, long time?—

I do not feel in control.