Crowned in Venom

Chapter 1

Anya

The iron chains around my wrists are cold, biting into my skin like a living thing, as if they know where I have been—what I have endured. The dark elves believe shackles make us weak, that they break something essential within us. 

They are wrong. Chains do not shatter me. They temper me, make me sharper, more dangerous.

I keep my head bowed as the guards march me through the towering obsidian gates of House Vortalis, but I see everything. The way the torches flicker blue instead of orange, burning with strange alchemical fuel. 

The way the courtyard is lined with dark elven soldiers in formation—silent, deadly, watching me with hunger, contempt, and something worse.

Varkos is here. 

I feel it before I see him.

His presence coils around the space like something tangible, a storm gathering in the air, thick with unshed violence. He does not speak as I am led forward, my bare feet skimming across polished stone, the temperature dropping with every step. A predator assessing his prey.

I will not be prey.

The guards shove me forward. I stumble but do not fall. My chains rattle, the sound loud in the quiet chamber. I lift my chin.

And I see him.

Varkos stands at the top of a short dais, a throne of carved onyx behind him, though he does not sit. He is tall—lean muscle and silent command wrapped in intricate black robes, silver embroidery glinting like dying stars. 

His amethyst eyes are sharp as cut gems, assessing me with the cool detachment of a dark elf examining a particularly fascinating piece of prey.

I let him look.

Let him take in the long, unbound auburn waves that fall over my shoulders, the defiant set of my mouth, the way my tattered dress clings to my body in ways that are meant to appeal to him. 

My beauty is both a curse and a weapon. I have learned to wield it well.

His lips curve into a mocking half-smile.

“A rare prize,” he murmurs, voice rich as velvet, dark as poisoned wine. He descends the dais, slow and deliberate. The room does not exist anymore. It is just him and me.

He stops too close.

I refuse to flinch.

His hand—long, elegant fingers adorned with silver rings—lifts toward my face, a test, a provocation. I hold still as he traces the edge of my jaw, a ghost of a touch, something more intimate than a slap.

“I expected someone more… broken.” His voice is almost amused.

My pulse spikes, but I tilt my head—a challenge disguised as submission. “Would you prefer me on my knees, my lord?”

A flicker of something in his eyes. Interest. Amusement. Something hungrier.

Varkos chuckles, low and dark. “Bold. Dangerous.” He steps behind me, his presence sliding over my skin like a blade pressed just close enough to tease. “A woman who speaks like that should know the weight of her words. Do you?”

I do. I have spent years learning exactly how much I can say before I am punished.

The chains rattle as he moves, circling me, dragging his fingers down the length of my arm, making the shackles feel heavier. He leans in, close enough that I catch the scent of him—cold steel and something darker, spiced like the bite of midnight air.

“You are quiet now,” he muses, his breath brushing the shell of my ear. “What happened to that sharp tongue?”

I clench my fists, nails pressing into my palms. My heartbeat hammers too loudly. This is dangerous. This is not the way I am supposed to feel.

“I use it when it serves me,” I say, careful, slow.

He chuckles again—a sound that slithers beneath my skin, both warning and invitation.

Then, suddenly, he is in front of me again, his fingers lifting my chin. This time, his touch is not light. It is demanding.

“Then tell me this, human.” The title drips from his lips like something sharp. “Do you know what you are now?”

I should say a slave. A possession. A prize.

But I don’t.

I hold his gaze, emerald clashing against amethyst. “A player.”

Varkos goes very still.

For a breath, just a breath, something flickers in his expression. Surprise. Hunger. Wariness.

Then he smirks. It is slow, deliberate. And it is the most dangerous thing I have seen tonight.

“Very well, little fox,” he murmurs, voice a sinful promise. “Let us play.”

He steps back, and the guards move forward. My chains are unlocked, but I do not rub my wrists, do not show weakness.

The head guard kneels. “What are your orders, my lord?”

Varkos does not answer immediately. Instead, he watches me. A predator who knows his prey is dangerous but relishes the hunt.

Then, with a flick of his hand—bored, cruel, final—he says:

“Take her to my chambers.”

The game has begun.