Page 57 of Crowned In Venom

57

VARKOS

T he throne room is bathed in blood-red light. The great obsidian pillars stretch toward the vaulted ceiling, casting monstrous shadows, twisting like the arms of something reaching, grasping.

And there, at the center of it all—the Matriarch.

She stands before her throne, tall and unshaken, her presence as suffocating as ever. Death clings to her. Magic hums through the air, vibrating in my skull. The shadows around her pulse and breathe.

She is waiting for me.

"My son," she coos, voice dripping with false affection. Mocking.

I don’t speak. I can’t.

The weight of everything crashes into me at once—my father’s face, my mother’s laughter, my own stolen past.

My fingers tighten around my sword.

She tilts her head, a soft, knowing smile curling at her lips. “Did you really think you could win?”

She raises a hand—and the air around me explodes.

A force slams into my chest, sending me hurtling backwards. My body crashes against the cold marble floor, ribs snapping under the pressure. Pain sears through my body, sharp and suffocating.

"Pathetic," she purrs. "Look at you. You could have had everything. You could have been a god under my rule."

I cough blood onto the polished floor, gripping my sword tighter.

She watches me with amusement, her form a dark silhouette against the throne’s infernal glow.

"You were never meant to be free."

I push myself up, shaking. The pain doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except ending her.

"You are not my mother," I snarl.

For the first time, her face twists.

And then—she laughs.

A sharp, chilling sound, like blades scraping over bone.

"Of course not, little one," she whispers, stepping closer.

The shadows curl around her feet, slithering like hungry creatures.

"Did you think I loved you?" she taunts. "Did you think you were special?"

Her eyes glint with cruelty.

"You were a stolen thing. A tool."

The room spins. My breath locks in my throat.

"Your mother?" she continues, her lips curling into something twisted. "I killed her."

I freeze.

"Your father?" Her voice drips with satisfaction. "I let him live long enough to watch me erase you. I carved you out of his memory, just like I carved him into nothing."

The air rips from my lungs.

No.

"He let me," she breathes, stepping even closer. "Because he thought it would keep you safe. But you were never safe, were you? Not from me."

The rage inside me burns hot enough to melt bone.

I lunge.

Magic slams into me like a tidal wave.

I hit the ground again, hard. My vision flickers. My body refuses to move.

I have never felt this weak.

The poison inside her should have been working. It should have been enough.

But she has taken more power.

She tilts her head, mocking me.

"You are mine."

She raises her hand—and I know this is it.

Then—the door slams open.

A pulse of magic ripples through the room.

My heart stutters.

"Anya—"

She stands in the doorway, breathing hard, eyes burning.

She looks untamed. Beautiful. Magic swirls around her like a storm.

Their bond—it thrums. That ancient ritual and poison is brutal.

I can even feel it.

The Matriarch turns, amusement flickering in her gaze.

"Ah. The little fox."

Anya doesn’t hesitate.

She strikes.

A shockwave of magic erupts from her hands, slamming into the Matriarch. The shadows around the throne shatter, the walls crack, the torches flicker and die.

The Matriarch staggers.

For the first time, she falters.

I see it.

Fear.

Anya moves toward me, reaching.

"Stay back!" I choke out. I don’t want her near this monster.

The Matriarch snarls, recovering, her gaze snapping toward Anya.

"You—"

The air warps.

The Matriarch lunges.

I don’t have time to think.

I throw myself in front of her.

The pain is instant.

Something sharp sinks into my side.

Anya screams.

Blood fills my throat.

The Matriarch’s hand is buried in my flesh, her claws hooked deep.

She smiles.

"Did you think she could save you?"

I spit blood into her face.

She shrieks.

Anya moves.

Her magic explodes.

The Matriarch is hurled backwards, crashing into the throne.

But she is still not weak enough.

She rises, her hands dripping with my blood, her eyes shining with madness.

"You will die knowing I still win."

Anya steps in front of me.

"Like hell you will."

The final battle has begun.