Page 51 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

The cage rattled, the metal groaning beneath the shifting weight. Every footstep sent vibrations through the bars, the clanking of iron against cobblestone ringing through the streets like a death knell.

They grunted beneath the weight, their breaths puffing in the thick and heavy chill as they labored to carry their demise.

They did not know it yet.

But I did.

With each jolt of the wagon as they loaded me into its darkened belly, my body swayed with the motion, but within—my heartbeat was constant.

A drum of impending retribution.

They thought I was being delivered to my execution.

But I was being delivered to theirs.

I let out a low, guttural moan, feigning pain, my voice weaving through the wooden slats of the wagon, threading weakness into the night. Each sound was a deliberate note in the symphony of deception, a carefully crafted illusion meant for any watchful ear lurking in the shadows.

The ride was brutal, each jolt and lurch rattling my cage, throwing my body against the iron bars. I let it. Every shudder, every groan was a calculated performance.

But beneath the veil of frailty, strength pulsed through my veins.

I was no longer the hunted.

I had become the hunter, lying in wait.

As the wagon rumbled to a halt, the deafening roar of a bloodthirsty crowd greeted me. Their cheers surged through the night, an orchestra of cruelty, a prelude to the final act of this masquerade.

Kew Palace loomed before me, bathed in golden light—ornate, gleaming, decadent. It was a palace built on power and corruption, its grand halls now serving as the stage for my supposed downfall.

Rough hands clawed at me, dragging me from my confines, their fingers digging into my arms as they paraded me before the sea of masked faces. Laughter swelled, a hideous revelry, each jeer a celebration of my suffering.

And then I saw her.

Elizabeth.

Radiant, poised—a blade wrapped in silk.

But my breath caught, my heart constricting at the sight of Winston’s gnarled fingers curled around her wrist.

The sight of his hand upon her was a slow, agonizing poison.

Her gown cascaded around her, a waterfall of silk and lace—a portrait of innocence, yet her eyes told another tale. Steel cloaked in velvet, fire smothered beneath constraint.

And in that instant, my determination hardened into something unbreakable.

Lord Winston did not yet know it.

But after tonight, his hands would never touch her again.

A slow, burning fury coiled in my gut, its heat spreading through my limbs, but I did not move. Not yet.

Instead, I exhaled, soft, patient.

“Stay strong,” I whispered, the words barely leaving my lips, a silent vow carried on the wind.

For now, I would play the part of the puppet in chains.

But soon—very soon?—

The strings would be cut.

And vengeance would be mine.

Lord Alexander’s voice thundered over the revelry, each syllable honed like a blade.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaimed, his tone slicing through the noise, demanding absolute attention. “Thank you for gathering here tonight for this momentous engagement—a union of two powerful families that will solidify our strength and secure our future.

“The wedding will occur next week, and you are all invited to witness this historic alliance. But tonight?—”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the room—cold, calculating. He let the tension coil tighter, feeding off the anticipation.

“Tonight, we celebrate!”

The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers laced with the excitement that only power and cruelty could inspire.

Then, Lord Alexander raised a single hand, silencing the room. His voice dropped, weighty and intentional.

“As you all know, our society has been ruthlessly hunted, our ranks ravaged by a shadow in the night—by the infamous Black Wraith.”

A murmur rippled through the gathering, uncertainty slithering beneath their gilded masks.

“But tonight—” he continued, his voice rising with triumphant certainty, “the reign of terror ends. Thanks to the unwavering efforts of Mathias Allistar, Lord Winston, and myself, we have captured the Black Wraith!”

He extended a hand toward me, a grand gesture to mark my fall.

“Tonight, you no longer need to fear this ghost.”

The crowd erupted into a tempest of sound—gasps, cheers, wild applause. Their hunger for spectacle twisted their faces into grotesque masks of glee and contempt as they pressed closer, the pulse of their collective malice swelling.

A few emboldened souls spat in my direction, their disdain flung through the air like venom.

Most missed.

One did not.

A wad of spit slapped against my cheek, wet and thick, sliding down my skin like an insult made flesh.

The roar of approval was deafening, their perverse pleasure swelling at the sight of my supposed humiliation.

But I did not move.

I remained as still as stone, my expression unreadable.

I let their hatred wash over me like rain against a mountain—irrelevant, passing, incapable of erosion.

This was not the time for anger.

This was the time to endure. To outlast.

A single word from Lord Alexander split through the cacophony.

“Silence!”

And just like that, they obeyed.

Every eye snapped back to him, every breath hitched in waiting. He held them in the palm of his hand.

“Now that he is caught,” he continued, “you will all partake in his torture and death.”

A new kind of stillness filled the crowd—one thick with anticipation.

Lord Alexander turned, his gaze flickering briefly to his daughter. Elizabeth.

His voice darkened, dripping with sick pleasure.

“My daughter, our next alchemist, has created something powerful.”

A murmur of intrigue swept through the gathering.

“We will watch as his skin melts away. And then?—”

He smiled.

“We will cut him apart. Piece by piece.”

The horror of his words settled deep into my bones, an echo of the depravity that had ruled this place for far too long. Yet outwardly, I gave them nothing.

These people—these monsters in silks and masks—knew nothing of justice.

They mistook cruelty for strength and savagery for power.

They relished in mutilation, not understanding that their thirst for blood would soon remain unquenched.

Lord Alexander’s voice boomed with unrestrained glee.

“We will begin this grand event with a toast!”

A raucous cheer erupted from the crowd, their lust for my suffering thickening the air like smoke. Faces blurred together, distorted by their revelry, the heat of their excitement pressing in on me.

My gaze cut through them, seeking her.

Elizabeth.

The one thread of light in this tapestry of shadows.

“Let’s drink!”

The roar swelled, clinking crystal, and bubbling anticipation as servers scurried like ants at a feast, pouring champagne into eager glasses.

“To the death of the Black Wraith!” Lord Winston bellowed, his voice slicing through the merriment like the fall of a guillotine.

As one, they lifted their glasses.

A crystal sea caught the flickering candlelight, glimmering like a thousand knives poised above my throat.

And amongst them—Elizabeth stood still.

Her chalice untouched.

Her complexion pale beneath the golden glow, her lips frozen just above the rim of her glass.

Then, her eyes met mine.

I held her gaze, unwavering—a fortress of silent strength.

Her own wavered for just a breath, a flicker of vulnerability masked beneath steely resolve.

She had done her part.

Now, it was time for me to do mine.

The moment stretched, taut and trembling, teetering on the precipice of fate.

And then—Lord Alexander turned.

Laced with authority, his voice snapped the tension like a blade slicing through the cloth.

“Mathias, I give you the honors to start first.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

Mathias moved forward—a shadow harboring death.

He approached with the confidence of a man who believed he held fate’s strings.

His dagger glinted—a sliver of moonlight against the abyss of his dark attire.

He raised the dagger, its steel catching the glow of the chandeliers, the cruel smirk of a man certain of his power.

And yet—he had no idea his demise was already at hand.

“Balthazar and I have a history,” he snarled, my mentor’s name dripping from his tongue like venom. “But you… you took my school of darkness. You carry memories from Solaris. That’s a problem. You need to be eliminated.”

His words were meant to unnerve.

Instead, they only fed the fire smoldering within me.

He turned, snapping his fingers toward the guards lurking in the shadows.

“Get him out of this cage so I can begin the torture!”

Six men advanced, their movements mechanical, without hesitation as they wrenched me from my gilded prison. I did not resist.

I let my body slacken, a portrait of a man truly broken, my limbs yielding to their grasp as though spiritless—a ruse woven of necessity.

But beneath the surface—every muscle coiled.

Every fiber of my being braced for the storm.

Mathias’ grip tightened, the dagger trembling ever so slightly in his grasp, its poised edge a viper ready to strike.

But the fangs would never reach me.

Because before steel could taste my flesh—pandemonium erupted.

A collective shudder rippled through the crowd, the gaiety of moments before twisting into something else—something raw and unnatural.

Confusion. Horror. Convulsion.

A murmur of unease became a cry of agony.

Bodies jerked, hands clutching at throats, backs arching grotesquely as realization struck too late.

The venom of betrayal flowed—not from Mathias’ blade?—

But within the very veins of the assembly.

Elizabeth’s masterstroke.

The champagne.

Her silent ally in this masquerade of death.

Mathias’ eyes widened as the first lord collapsed, his noble facade twisting in agony, his lips frothing.

Then another.

And another.

Lords and ladies crumpled where they stood, their limbs contorting in unnatural shapes.

Their wretched symphony rose, screams, gurgles, and bodies collapsing like marionettes with their strings severed.

Mathias turned, his voice tight with panic, fury, and disbelief.