Page 42 of Crowned In Venom

42

VARKOS

T he Matriarch leads me through the winding halls of the palace, her steps light, leisurely, as if she has already won.

As if I am already hers.

Her fingers trail along the stone walls, her lips curved in amusement as she hums a haunting tune under her breath.

"You are quiet, my son."

I say nothing.

She laughs softly. "Ah, anticipation. How sweet it is."

She thinks she has broken me.

Perhaps she has.

But before she binds my soul, before she chains me to her forever, I will see Anya one last time.

She allows it, of course—she wants to witness my suffering.

She wants to watch Anya’s eyes when she learns what I have done, what I have become.

I force my breath to stay steady as we near the dungeon.

The guards follow us, their weapons gleaming under the dim torchlight, the magic in the air thick and suffocating.

And then?—

The ground shakes.

A low, rumbling tremor, deep and guttural, like the earth itself is groaning in agony.

The flames in the torches flicker, then sputter out.

A pulse of raw, ancient power thrums through the stone.

Something is wrong.

The Matriarch stops whistling.

Her silver eyes narrow.

"What is this?" she murmurs.

Panic surges in my veins.

I don’t think.

I run.

The guards shout after me, but I don’t care.

I race toward the dungeon, my boots pounding against the stone floor, the walls shuddering around me.

The magic barrier protecting the cells flickers—then vanishes.

"No—"

I reach the iron doors, shoving past two guards who are already drawing their weapons.

And then?—

I see it.

Chaos.

Guards are screaming, bodies flung across the room, some broken, some crushed under something massive.

Something monstrous.

I freeze.

The thing stands in the center of the room, its hulking form blocking the torchlight, casting long, twisted shadows against the walls.

It is towering, grotesque—its flesh is warped, its limbs too long, its chest heaving with rage.

And it is winning.

Magic does not touch it.

Blades do not cut it.

It is fury incarnate.

I inhale sharply, my stomach twisting violently.

"Where is she?"

I do not see Anya.

There is no body.

No blood.

The thought shreds through me.

This thing—this nightmare?—

It must have killed her.

I do not hesitate.

I grab the nearest sword, ignoring my injuries, ignoring the pain, ignoring everything except the single, primal instinct that surges through me.

Kill it.

My feet barely touch the ground as I lunge forward, rage flooding my veins.

The Matriarch shouts my name, but I don’t hear her.

All I see is the beast before me, the thing that stole her from me.

I raise my sword.

And I strike.

The blade plunges deep, piercing thick, unnatural flesh.

The monster does not move.

It does not fight back.

I rip the sword free, ready to swing again?—

"Varkos, STOP!"

The voice cuts through my fury.

I spin, my heart lurching.

Anya.

She is alive.

She stands behind the creature, her face pale, her wrists raw from shackles.

But she is not running.

She is not afraid.

She is not fighting.

She is protecting it.

The world tilts.

I turn back to the beast?—

And its monstrous, bulging eyes stare at me.

They do not hold anger.

They do not hold violence.

They hold recognition.

Something ancient, something familiar.

A memory slams into me.

A child, no older than five, laughing as he swings a wooden sword.

A noble dark elf stands before him, smiling, patient, strong.

"Again, little warrior."

The sword clangs against a metal gauntlet.

"You must always be ready."

A woman’s voice, warm and teasing.

"You’re going to turn him into a menace."

The dark elf female laughs, kneeling to braid the child’s hair.

"He is already a menace."

The child grins, bright-eyed, so loved, so protected.

A love that was real.

A love that was stolen from me.

The memory rips from my mind like a blade through flesh.

I stagger back, the room spinning.

"No."

My chest heaves.

"No—"

The creature does not move.

It only watches me.

And I see it now.

Not the twisted body.

Not the ruined flesh.

Not the monster.

The parent beneath it.

"Father."

The word falls from my lips, hoarse and broken.

A sharp, vicious pain rips through my chest, like a sword splitting me open from the inside.

Memories I buried, memories I thought were dreams, memories I thought were lies?—

They were real.

My father was real.

And so was my mother. She was beautiful.

And the Matriarch took them from me.

A choked, shattered cry tears through my throat.

"NO!"

I collapse to my knees.

The Matriarch’s laughter rings through the chaos.

And the dungeon falls into ruin.