Page 107 of Crowned In Venom

I try to stand.

She presses a hand to my shoulder—soft, deceptively gentle.

The pain in my side flares, burning through my ribs like fire.

"Tell me, my son," she murmurs, voice like silk over steel. "How did this happen?"

I swallow the rage, the nausea, the questions clawing at my throat.

I bow my head.

"I don't know."

A beat of silence.

The moment stretches, suffocates.

Then, she nods.

"Very well," she says. "Clean this up."

And then—she is gone.

I do not move.

I do not breathe.

My body trembles with something I do not want to name.

Not fear.

Not confusion.

Something worse.

I should feel relief.

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know it was Anya.

But I cannot shake the prisoner’s final words.

Tell him who he really is.

The blade wound aches, but it is nothing compared to the doubt gnawing through my bones.

Something is wrong.

Something has always been wrong.

And for the first time in my life, I am afraid to know the truth.

33

VARKOS

Blood drips from my blade in slow, rhythmic drops, forming a dark trail across the cracked stone. The smell of it thickens the air—copper and rot, mingling with the acrid burn of torches that flicker weakly in their iron sconces.

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