Page 27 of Dark as the Cursed Abyss

“You drink as if you are already dead,” he said softly after she finished a cup, his tone almost intimate, leaning close enough for her to feel the warmth of his presence. “Do you fear death, Farah?”

“Not death,” she replied, resolved to her answer, “but the shame of failure. The weakness that comes before it.” Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the next cup.

“Ah,” he murmured, leaning back. “So the fire in you is not extinguished. Excellent.” He watched her with a predator’s patience, eyes tracking every subtle movement. “And desire, Farah? Does it frighten you?”

“I don’t answer riddles,” she said, forcing a laugh, but it felt brittle even to her own ears.

He grinned. “I do enjoy riddles.” The firelight glinted along the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the dangerous curve of his smile. “And I enjoy watching you wrestle with them, struggling between your instinct and reason.”

A shiver ran down her spine. She hated the way he studied her, as though he could see her fears before she even recognized them herself. And yet—a small, guilty part of her was captivated.

The game narrowed. Cup after cup, their banter sharpened, tinged with flirtation. She caught herself imagining scenarios she would normally have shunned, imagining him testing her in ways that had nothing to do with poison but everything to do with mind and will. Every glance, every teasing remark, pulled at her resolve, made the stakes feel higher than the possible death in the cups.

Finally, only two cups remained. Acacius’s gaze lingered on her, a slow burn that made her pulse spike. “Fate, it seems, has given you the final choice.”

Her hand hovered over the last cup. The heat from the hearth did nothing to chase the cold that snaked along her spine. “Lucky me,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone.

“Do not make it so casual,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You should savor this moment.”

Her fingers shook, brushing against the cool crystal. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat. The firelight seemed to warp, the shadows of the study twisting in ways that made her stomach churn. She lifted the cup to her lips.

The liquid burned. Her limbs went heavy. Her vision tilted. The world narrowed to the pressure behind her eyes and the creeping heat in her stomach. She knew immediately—this was not liquor.

Acacius leaned closer, eyes glinting with interest, not fear. “Now,” he said softly, “you must speak. Your darkest desire, Farah. It is not merely survival, is it?”

The warmth of the poison burned through her, demanding truth, stripping away pretense. Her chest tightened as her secret clawed its way out. It was worse than the pain she felt in the first trial.

“I…I do not desire to kill my father,” she whispered, voice raw. Her hand clapped over her mouth “Not in the heroic sense. I want to see him suffer. Slowly. To strip him of his power, of his life-force, to watch him wither beneath his own pride and ambition. To see him pay for everything he has done. Death is a mercy for him.”

Acacius leaned back, studying her with keen fascination. A slow smile curved his lips. “Fascinating. Truly. We would have burned worlds together.”

Her pulse quickened, a mixture of fear, shame, and a grudging thrill. She could feel the poison tightening its grip, the room spinning, yet the revelation gave her power she had not expected. And that—it caused her to speak first and think later.

“If you were my type,” she added carefully, trying to reclaim some control, “I might have considered it. To see him suffer. But I have never felt that sort of passion for a man.”

His gaze softened just enough to make her chest ache. “And yet you speak of it with such clarity. Such delicious cruelty.”

The firelight flickered, casting shadows over the sharp lines of his face, over the gleam in his eyes. Her limbs trembled under the poison, but she forced herself to rise, gripping the edge of the table. The room tilted, the books and shelves swaying, yet she stood, the weight of her confession anchoring her.

“Good,” Acacius said finally, straightening, voice calm but firm. “Let it settle. When the second trial begins, remember this moment. Remember the truth of what you fear, what you desire, what you would never admit aloud.”

Farah’s pulse raced as she forced herself upright, each breath shallow. The poison’s heat burned through her veins, yet the revelation had been a shield as well as a key. Acacius’s interest was no idle curiosity; he would test her, probe her limits, watch her darkness as carefully as she had watched him.

And yet, amid the sickness, the tension, and the near-constant danger, a small, dangerous thrill threaded through her chest. She had survived. She had spoken her truth. And she had glimpsed the edge of the power she could wield—once she was ready.

Chapter Twenty

Chloe

Chloe’s fingers hovered over the first vial, icy glass pressing against her fingertips. Eight identical vials lay before her, lined like soldiers. The weight of each one hung heavy not only in her hand, but in the very air around her. Herbs and distilled liquids filled her nostrils, mingling with the lingering scent of wax from the fireplace. She was glad they were training separately, because she was an utter embarrassment.

Markos watched silently, the only movement was his calm breathing and the slight tap of a boot against the floor. His presence was steady, almost predatory in its patience, like a hawk waiting for the first falter. And, gods—Chloe was faltering. Her senses should have detected the faint hum of poison, the subtle film it left in the glass. Except nothing about this task made sense. There was no tingle, no strange scent, nothing.

Her mind raced. Was she overthinking it? Was there even poison in one of these, or was it all for show? Every failed attempt gnawed at her patience. She picked up the first vial, sniffed delicately, and tried to parse the faint odors. Nothing. The second. Nothing. Her pulse picked up, a drumming echo against the quiet stone walls lined with towering bookshelves and glass cabinets filled with arcane instruments. The study smelled of parchment, iron, and candle smoke, and somewhere beneath it all, the faint, almost imperceptible trace of poison yet none of it seemed to sit before her on this table.

Chloe slammed the third vial down, barely suppressing a growl. Her claws began to protrude, threatening to rake the table clean. The wolf inside her stirred restlessly, pacing along her spine, impatient and hungry.

Markos’s voice cut through her spiral. “Focus, Chloe. Sense it. Let it speak to you. Let it guide you.”