Page 42 of Craving Their Venom
Zahir moves at my side, a crimson beast of contained violence. The easy hatred between us is gone, burned away by the fires of betrayal and a shared, terrifying purpose. We do not speak. There are no words for the abyss that has opened before us. There is only the grim, silent understanding of two predatorswho have realized the true serpent was not in the swamp, but in their own nest.
We do not use the Serpent’s Gut. We march through the main gates of the Capital, a grim, blood-spattered procession that parts the crowds like a blade through water. My Vipers carry the two Tikzorcu prisoners, bound and gagged, their mottled green scales a stark, ugly contrast to the polished black stone of the city. We are not hiding. We are making a statement.
I do not take Amara back to my chambers. I take her to Kaelen’s Orrery, the one place in this palace that feels like a sanctuary. I leave her in the mystic’s care, with Zahir’s two most loyal warriors standing guard outside the door. She is no longer a pet or a prisoner. She is the sacred ground we are about to fight and die for.
“What is your plan, Prince?” Zahir’s voice is a low, guttural rumble in the echoing corridor.
“I am going to tear down a kingdom,” I reply, my voice a cold, flat thing. “And build a new one from the ashes.”
My strategy is not one of stealth. It is one of overwhelming, undeniable force. I call an emergency session of the High Council, a summons that cannot be ignored. The pretense is the attack on the palace, the capture of the Tikzorcu assassins. Every noble of consequence, every minister, every sycophant and viper, will be there. And so will my father. I will give him no choice but to face me.
The throne room is a sea of glittering scales and simmering tension. The air is vibrating with whispers, with the scent of fear and ambition. I stand in the middle of the floor, flanked by Zahir and Kaelen. We are an island of grim resolve in a tide of uncertainty. The three serpents of the prophecy, united at last.
My father enters, and the room falls silent. He moves with the slow, deliberate grace of an ancient predator, his rust-colored scales seeming to drink the light. He settles onto hisobsidian throne, his cruel, clouded eyes fixing on me. He sees the three of us standing together, and a slow, mocking smile spreads across his face. He thinks this is another of our petty squabbles. He does not yet know that he is looking at his own executioners.
“My son,” he hisses, his voice a dry, rattling thing. “You have called this council. I trust the reason is not as trivial as the loss of your new pet.”
“The human was not lost, Father,” I say, my voice ringing with a cold, clear authority that makes the nobles shift uneasily. “She was stolen. Abducted from within these very walls by enemies of the state.”
“Indeed,” the King says, his tone bored. “And I see you have found her. And made some new, unlikely… friends.” He gestures a dismissive claw at Zahir and Kaelen. “I trust the traitors have been dealt with?”
“They have,” I say. “And they have confessed.” I raise my hand, a silent command. The great doors to the throne room swing open, and my Vipers drag the two Tikzorcu prisoners forward, dumping them in a heap on the polished stone floor.
A gasp ripples through the court.
“These assassins,” I continue, my voice a cold, relentless blade, “have admitted to the attempt on my life. They have admitted to the abduction of the human. And they have named their benefactor.”
My father’s smile does not falter, but I see a flicker of something in his ancient eyes. Annoyance. He is beginning to realize this is not the game he thought he was playing.
“And who is this great traitor?” he asks, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. “Some disgruntled merchant? A rival house with delusions of grandeur?”
I let the silence stretch, the tension in the room becoming a palpable, suffocating thing. I look at him, at the creature whosired me, who condemned the woman I… the woman I love… to death for the sake of his own rotting pride. And I feel nothing. No grief. No anger. Only a vast, cold emptiness.
“They named you, Father,” I say, the words falling like stones into a deep, silent well.
The court erupts. A chaotic explosion of hisses, shouts, and accusations. The nobles are on their feet, their faces masks of shock and disbelief. My father’s smile finally vanishes, replaced by a look of pure, reptilian fury.
“Treason!” he roars, his voice a thunderclap that momentarily silences the uproar. He points a trembling claw at me. “My own son, bewitched by a human whore, dares to accuse his King? He conspires with a brutish General and a mad mystic to usurp the throne! Guards! Seize them!”
The Royal Guard, who line the walls of the throne room, hesitate. Their loyalty has always been to the throne, to the King. But now, the heir to that throne stands before them, backed by the General of their armies and the keeper of their faith. They are caught between the past and the future.
“The Prince lies!” my father screams, his voice cracking with rage. “He has no proof! Only the words of traitors and his own ambition!”
This is the moment. The pivot upon which the world will turn.
Zahir steps forward. The General of Nagaland’s armies, the King’s most brutal and loyal weapon, takes his place at my side, his hand resting on the hilt of his axe. He does not look at the King. He looks at the assembled nobles, at the wavering guards.
“I have served the throne of Nagaland for my entire life,” he growls, his voice a low rumble that commands absolute attention. “My loyalty is to this kingdom, not to the whims of a tyrant who would sell its security for the sake of his own pride. Ihave seen the truth with my own eyes. I have fought the enemies the King hired. I stand with the Prince.”
A shockwave of disbelief washes over the court. The General, siding against the King? It is unthinkable. It is a seismic shift in the landscape of power.
My father’s face is a presentation of pure, apoplectic fury. “You dare, beast? You, who I raised from the dirt of the barracks?”
Before he can continue his tirade, Kaelen steps forward on my other side. He raises his hands, and a profound, holy silence falls over the throne room.
“The gods have spoken,” he says, his voice sounding like a deep, melodious hum that resonates in the very stone of the hall. “The prophecy, which King Ishada has long sought to suppress and deny, is upon us. He has committed a sacrilege. He has conspired with the enemies of this kingdom to destroy the heart of the prophecy, to spill innocent blood to preserve his own corrupt reign. He has defied the will of the cosmos. And he has forfeited his right to rule.”
He lowers his hands, and his twilight eyes, filled with a sorrowful, righteous fire, fix on the King. “Your reign is over, Ishada Vhasma. The gods themselves have decreed it.”
