Page 7 of Crowned In Venom

7

ANYA

I have never been one to beg for favors.

Survival is not found in groveling, in cowering. It is found in the spaces between words, in the pauses between glances. In learning how to bend without breaking.

And in this place, the true power does not lie with Varkos.

It lies in the hands of those who watch, whisper, and serve.

The servants.

They are the unseen force that moves through these walls, slipping into places no noble, no warrior, no master would ever think to look.

And so, I weave my web.

It begins with the smallest things.

A shared glance. A soft word. An offering of silence when they expect screams.

They watch me—at first with pity, then curiosity, then something else entirely.

Respect.

The kitchen girls notice how I move, how I do not cry when the guards leer, how I walk with my back straight even when my captivity should bend me to the ground.

The older servants, the ones who have spent years navigating the dangers of this household, study me with careful eyes. They are waiting to see what I will become.

A whore? A fool? A corpse?

I give them none of the above.

Instead, I listen.

Servants see everything.

They move through the palace unnoticed, tending to the small needs of the powerful, absorbing knowledge like sponges in a pool of filth.

They know which nobleman drinks himself into a stupor each night.

They know which guard hates his master but stays for the gold.

They know which doors stay unlocked after midnight.

And they know when something is wrong.

It happens subtly at first, a shift in the way they speak.

A twitch of the eyes when a certain guard passes.

A hesitation before answering a question too quickly.

I am patient.

I wait.

And then, one of them makes a mistake.

The girl—Mira, a quiet thing with clever hands and a sharp tongue when no one is listening—is setting a tray before me in the dim light of the servants’ hall when I see it.

Her hands shake.

Barely.

But enough.

Enough that when she places the cup of tea before me, a single drop spills over the rim.

I watch her. I say nothing.

She does not meet my eyes.

“Mira.” My voice is soft, but she flinches anyway.

She turns, keeping her gaze low. “Yes, my lady?”

My lady.

Not slave.

Not the way they address the others.

I pick up the cup, swirling the dark liquid. “Who is watching me?”

Mira stiffens.

For a long moment, she says nothing. The flickering candlelight between us casts shadows on her face—shadows that hide fear, hesitation, and something deeper.

Loyalty.

Not to Varkos. Not to any of the men who wield whips and chains.

To me.

I set the cup down without drinking. “Tell me.”

She exhales, a shaky thing. Then, she whispers, so softly I barely catch it.

“There is someone in the palace who should not be.”

My pulse steadies. “A spy.”

Mira nods once. “No one sees them. No one hears them. But we know. They leave no trace, but we feel them.”

A ghost in the walls.

A chill slides down my spine, slow and cold, but I do not let it show.

“Why?” I ask. “Who are they watching?”

Mira licks her lips, eyes darting toward the darkened corridor. “You.” A pause. Then—“And Lord Varkos.”

That surprises me.

I expected to be watched. I did not expect him to be a target, too.

Mira leans in, her voice even lower. “They do not work for him.”

That stops me cold.

Not his men? Not his spies?

That means—someone else.

Someone more powerful.

A force that moves above even him.

I have suspected it for days now. The way the guards speak of him with fear, not just loyalty. The way Varkos himself glances at the shadows sometimes, as if expecting something unseen to strike.

Varkos is powerful, but he is not the true master of this palace.

There is another.

And they are watching.

I do not go to Varkos immediately.

Not yet.

Because he does not trust easily. And because I need more than whispers.

I need proof.

So I play my role.

I let Varkos call me to his chambers again. I let him test me, push against the edges of my defiance. I move through the halls with careful steps, noting every flicker of movement, every place where the air feels too still.

And then, I set my own trap.

That night, I leave a candle burning low in my chamber. The flame flickers, steady and slow.

A test.

A watcher would leave no trace.

But shadows always move when disturbed.

I lie down. Close my eyes.

And I wait.

For the spy to make their first mistake.

For the unseen master of this palace to reveal themselves.

For the web to catch something worth killing.