Page 56 of Crowned In Venom

56

ANYA

T he moment the signal ignites, a surge of power races through my veins. I never imagined that I’ll be able to use magic one day.

The stones flare—bright and searing, pulsing like fire in the darkness of the tunnels. Every rebel in the palace sees the light. Every warrior knows what it means.

The war has begun.

Kareth leads the charge.

The palace walls quake as the gates are forced open, magic crashing against steel. Secret passageways—tunnels that have long remained hidden—erupt with rebels, dark elves and humans alike spilling into the halls like a tide of vengeance.

Screams ring through the corridors.

The clash of blades.

The snarl of magic unraveling in the air.

Varkos and I move through the tunnels, breathing in the chaos. This is it.

He halts, turning to me—his eyes burning with something raw, something desperate.

"Stay safe."

Then his lips crash against mine.

It is not gentle. It is fire and war. His fingers dig into my waist, his other hand cupping the back of my head, pulling me closer. I taste urgency. I taste goodbye.

I cling to him just as hard.

"You too." My whisper is lost between us.

Then he is gone.

Varkos disappears into the tunnels, heading for the throne room.

And I—I close my eyes and reach.

The Matriarch’s rage is a storm through my skull.

She knows.

She is weakened, but not broken.

I feel the poison eating at her insides, slowing her down, corrupting her power bit by bit. But it is not enough.

Because she is feeding.

I stumble, my breath choking in my throat as I feel it—the sudden, violent pull of magic, of life.

She is draining them.

Her own followers.

The moment I sense it, the air around me thickens with the scendt of death.

Screams rip through the palace halls.

I dart through the shadows, my heart pounding as I emerge into one of the upper corridors—and I see it.

Bodies—writhing, twisting, spasming—as the Matriarch’s elite warriors collapse where they stand.

Their blood is not spilling onto the floor.

It is rising.

A crimson mist, a twisted, sickening pull of life-force draining from their flesh, curling through the air toward the throne room.

"No—"

I clutch the wall for balance, the bond between me and the Matriarch burning as her power devours her own people.

She is desperate. She is out of time.

The Matriarch’s warriors scream as they turn to dust, their skin cracking apart before their bones snap like dry twigs. Their souls—**their very essence—**are funneled into her.

And suddenly, I feel her pulse of renewed strength.

Varkos.

She is waiting for him.

I shove off the wall, sprinting, dodging bodies, slipping through blood-slicked floors and half-collapsed archways as the battle rages.

Kareth and his forces clash with the Matriarch’s remaining warriors—a storm of blades and magic.

A rebel lets out a wet gurgle as a spear punches through his stomach.

A dark elf soldier screams as Kareth’s blade cleaves through his shoulder.

Magic shatters stone, sending debris raining from the ceiling.

The palace is crumbling.

But I don’t stop.

Because I can feel Varkos.

I can feel him walking into the lion’s den.

And I cannot let her win.

I close my eyes as I run, summoning everything I have left.

I reach into the bond—**into the poison inside me—**and I pull.

Slow her down. Make her weaker. Disrupt her magic.

I feel her snarl of fury in my skull.

She knows what I’m doing.

She fights back.

A force slams into me like a physical blow, knocking me to my knees.

Pain erupts through my skull, through my veins, like fire cracking my bones apart.

I bite back a scream, my fingers digging into the bloodstained floor.

The Matriarch is trying to cut me out.

She is trying to rip me from the bond.

"NO!"

I fight back.

I dig in my nails, hold the connection steady, and pour everything I have into her poison.

The throne room is ahead.

I will not stop.

Not now.