Page 55 of Crowned In Venom
55
ANYA
T he air inside the palace is thick with incense and deception. The hallways stretch long and winding, silver veins pulsing faintly in the dark stone walls, as if the entire place is a living thing, a monster breathing beneath the Matriarch’s skin.
The Ghost moves through its corridors, unseen.
He is a shadow in motion, his steps soundless over polished marble. The Matriarch’s presence presses in on him from all sides, though she is far above, nestled in her chambers. Even still, her magic lingers in the air—a force that could snap his bones with a thought.
And she does not yet know.
But she will.
The Ghost does not hesitate as he approaches the blood chamber.
It is a small, locked alcove deep beneath the throne room—guarded, of course. Two dark elves in black armor stand on either side of the arched doorway, spears crossed. Their expressions are blank, their gazes sharp.
The Ghost moves fast.
A flick of his wrist. A whisper of steel.
One guard drops before he can even make a sound. The other opens his mouth to shout—too slow. The Ghost’s blade sinks into his throat, silencing him with a wet, gurgling gasp. The bodies slump against the wall, lifeless.
The Ghost kneels, retrieving the key from the fallen guard’s belt. Blood pools at his feet. He doesn’t acknowledge it.
The door unlocks with a soft click.
He slips inside.
The chamber is cold. Dim lanterns flicker against the walls, casting pale light over rows of glass vials filled with crimson liquid. Human blood.
The Matriarch’s lifeline.
The Ghost pulls out the replacement vials and begins his work, switching them out one by one.
Minutes stretch into eternity.
Then—the air shifts.
A whisper. A presence.
She is near.
A jolt of ice burns through his spine.
The Matriarch is moving.
He moves faster. His hands remain steady, but his pulse thrums like a war drum.
Almost done. Almost?—
The floor above him creaks. A presence beyond the door.
She’s too close.
The Ghost doesn’t breathe.
There is no time. He seals the last vial, tucks the real ones into his robes, and turns toward the exit.
The moment he steps out, a figure looms in the hall.
A noblewoman. A high-ranking dark elf loyal to the Matriarch.
She freezes, staring at him. Her eyes flick to the guards’ lifeless bodies.
The Ghost tilts his head.
She knows.
"Guards!" she shrieks.
The Ghost moves.
A blade flashes. Blood sprays. The noblewoman falls.
But her voice has already echoed through the palace.
The Ghost runs.
Footsteps thunder behind him. Voices rise. He is already calculating—which corridors lead to the tunnels? Which exits are still safe?
A sharp turn. A side passage. The throne room is ahead.
Then, a voice slithers through the walls.
"What is the rush, my dear?"
The Matriarch’s voice is everywhere.
Cold. Sweet. Poison wrapped in silk.
A wave of magic presses down on him.
The Ghost grits his teeth, forcing himself forward. His body feels heavy, his limbs weighed down. He reaches for his own magic, shoving against her control. If he stops, he dies.
"What a naughty little thing you are," the Matriarch purrs. "You have been keeping secrets from me."
The Ghost lunges forward just as the magic lashes out.
He barely makes it into the tunnels.
The air shifts violently behind him. A pulse of power shatters the stones where he just stood.
He stumbles forward, breathing hard.
The Matriarch knows.
Far away, Anya gasps.
Pain lances through her skull—not hers, but the Matriarch’s.
The poison has begun to work. Faster. More potent. Unstoppable.
The Matriarch has taken her heartblood. Consumed it.
She feels it twisting in the Matriarch’s veins, a slow, insidious rot. The Matriarch is angry. Suspicious.
Anya clutches the table for support.
"Varkos," she whispers. "It’s happening."
His head snaps toward her.
She meets his gaze. "She knows."
Varkos curses.
The war has to begin now.