Page 32 of Crowned In Venom

He did not speak to me.

But I noticed the tension in his movements, the way his fingers curled as if resisting the urge to crush something.

Something—or someone—had unsettled him.

I want to know what.

But that will come later.

For now, I have work to do.

The underground fight pits are no secret.

Not among the whispered conversations of the servants.

Not among the guards who return from them smelling of sweat, ale, and the copper sting of blood.

They are one of the pillars of Varkos’s empire.

A place where coin flows like water, where men are broken for sport, where nobles and criminals alike come to feast on suffering.

And they are a perfect place to strike.

Because I have learned something in the days I have spent watching, listening—waiting.

There is a flaw in their foundation.

A weakness in the empire Varkos thinks is unshakable.

And it begins with the fighters themselves.

I find him in the lower halls.

One of Varkos’s champions—a dark elf with a scar that splits his cheekbone, his knuckles wrapped in fresh bandages, his posture stiff with the ache of old wounds.

He leans against a stone column, speaking in low, hushed tones to another man.

I do not interrupt.

I listen.

"You think he cares?" the fighter spits, his voice edged with bitterness. "We’re pawns, nothing more. Meat to be thrown into the pit until there’s nothing left to break."

The second dark elf male shifts uncomfortably. "You’re lucky. At least you’re winning."

"Lucky?" A bitter laugh. "You don’t get it, do you? You think it’s about winning?"

A pause.

Then—a single, quiet sentence.

"Varkos doesn’t let his champions leave."

Something clicks into place.

A crack in the foundation.

I turn away before they can sense me, before they realize they are being watched.

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