Page 46 of Crowned In Venom

46

VARKOS

A nya lays against me, her breath slow, even. The firelight casts soft golden shadows over her bare skin, the bruises and wounds she’s suffered in this hell carved into her like battle scars. And yet, even in the ruin of everything, she is beautiful.

I memorize her.

The curve of her cheek beneath my fingers. The way her lips part slightly as she sleeps. The faint crease in her brow, as if even in slumber, she cannot let go of the weight pressing on her soul.

I trace my knuckles over her arm, committing every inch of her to memory.

I love her.

It is a truth that no longer terrifies me.

It should have, once. I should have fought against it, clawed my way back to the cold, empty void where I was safest.

But she changed me.

She has unraveled every layer of ice I wrapped around myself, ripped open my chest, and left me exposed. Vulnerable. Alive.

I want to be better for her.

I want forever with her.

But we have only borrowed time.

And I intend to savor every second of it.

I kiss her forehead, inhaling her scent, letting it ground me.

Everything presses against my skull like a hammer. The truth of what has been lost, of what has been revealed.

My father.

The dark elf I spent my life believing had abandoned me.

Twisted, destroyed, left to rot beneath the Matriarch’s feet.

A rage so deep it burns inside me coils in my gut, but I push it down.

Because right now, I have her.

And right now, that is enough.

Until—

A presence.

Cold.

Unseen.

It slithers through the air, an unnatural disturbance.

My body goes rigid.

I do not hesitate.

I snatch the dagger beside me, flipping onto my feet, stance wide, weapon ready.

Did she find us?

Did the Matriarch catch up to us?

I brace myself, scanning the shadows.

My heart pounds, my blood still weak from my wounds, but I will not fall here.

I will not let her touch Anya.

A whisper of movement?—

Then, the Ghost appears.

I exhale sharply, shoulders still tense, but my grip on the dagger loosens slightly.

I know this presence.

It is the only thing more elusive than death itself.

The Ghost steps forward, its hooded form barely visible against the dim firelight. Silent. Unreadable.

"You know now, don’t you?"

The words slither into my skull, cutting into my already unsteady foundation.

My jaw tightens.

"What do you mean?"

A beat of silence.

Then—

"His name."

My fingers tighten around the hilt of my blade.

"What name?"

"The one in the ledger. Erix Tathorin."

A sharp, violent pull in my core.

A name I had barely glanced at. A name I had ignored.

It means nothing to Anya.

But to me?—

It is everything.

"That’s my father’s name," I murmur, my voice hoarse.

The Ghost inclines its head, as if already knowing my reaction, already waiting for this moment.

"Of course it is."

Something cold spreads through me.

A truth I was never meant to know.

A truth that the Matriarch had kept from me all these years.

"You were his subordinate." My voice is sharper now, accusing.

The Ghost does not deny it.

"Before the Matriarch took control of me, yes. I was his most loyal soldier. His blade in the dark."

The room tilts.

A sickness churns in my gut.

"So this is why you've helped me?" My voice is raw. "Why you've been working with me?"

"Because you are your father's son," the Ghost murmurs.

I sway slightly.

A lifetime of doubt, of wondering why I was different, of questioning why the Matriarch treated me not as a son, but as an obsession.

And now the puzzle pieces begin to fit.

But before I can speak?—

Before I can demand more?—

The Ghost tilts its head slightly, voice cool, emotionless.

"The time has come."

A deep sense of unease coils in my gut.

"Time for what?"

Another beat of silence.

Then—

"To tell you that I was the one who tipped the Matriarch off about your poison."

My blood turns to ice.

The world stops.

"What?"

The Ghost does not move.

Does not flinch.

"I told her you were poisoning her."

The dagger nearly slips from my fingers.

The rage does not come immediately.

First, it is shock.

Disbelief.

Then—

It erupts.

"YOU BETRAYED ME?!"

My voice cracks against the temple walls, an explosion of fury so raw it shakes my bones.

The firelight flickers.

My chest heaves, rage blinding, crushing.

"WHY?" I demand, stepping forward, blade trembling in my grip. "You served my father—YOU SAID YOU WERE LOYAL?—"

The Ghost does not move.

Does not blink.

Its next words slice through me like a dagger.

"You were never meant to die, Varkos."

I stagger back.

I cannot breathe.

Why?