Page 103 of Crowned In Venom

A third, a brute of a man, roars as he barrels toward me, swinging a warhammer that must have been stolen from the armory.

He swings—too powerful, but too slow.

I let him commit to the movement, then step inside his reach.

My dagger buries itself under his ribs.

He gasps, staggering.

I yank the blade up.

The light leaves his eyes before he hits the ground.

I do not stop.

I cannot stop.

There is no mercy here.

This is not a battlefield.

This is culling.

The corridors reek of blood and burning flesh.

My men are trying to hold the exits, trying to stop the flood, but it is too much, too fast.

The rebellion is spreading like fire over dry wood.

And then I see him.

The being Anya freed.

The real threat.

He stands at the far end of the hall, near the still-burning torches, watching the carnage unfold like a king surveying his battlefield.

He is not like the others.

Not like the starving prisoners who clawed their way to freedom.

No, he is something else.

Something that should have been left in the dark.

His stance is too sure, too practiced.

Even after what must have been weeks—maybe months—of captivity, he moves with the confidence of someone who knows his chains were always temporary.

His blade gleams in the firelight, already stained with fresh blood.

And when he sees me—he smiles.

He leans against the far wall, gripping his stolen sword lazily, as if this is just another game to him.

I take a slow step forward, my grip on my blade tightening.

"Well, well," he muses, his voice deep, laced with amusement. "The great Varkos himself."

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