Chapter 6
Salvatore
I waited outside Turtānu’s tent, the weight of the dead pressing on me like stone. My men—gone because of my pride. I’d driven them into the fire, convinced it would make me worthy. Instead, I buried them for it. Thousands gone because I wanted to prove I was more than the boy my father spat on.
I thought of him now, my father. His voice cut through the noise, the same voice that used to break bones and skin. Pathetic little bastard. You’ll never carry my name with pride. You’ll crawl through the dirt and die choking on it before you ever make me proud.
My fists clenched until my nails tore skin. I forced my shoulders straight, my chin high, but my eyes betrayed me. I was waiting for judgment, and worse—I was waiting for my father’s voice to come out of Turtānu’s mouth.
“Bring in the other one.”
The command struck like a lash.
I pushed past the guards and into the tent—and the first thing I saw was Lazarus.
He should’ve worn victory on his face. He’d won this war, delivered us triumph, yet something in him had shifted. The light meant for his features was gone, replaced by a look pulled tight and unsettled, as if a truth had reached him that struck harder than any blade.
Heat swelled from the braziers, thick with smoke and the stench of oil, blood, and sweat. My chest lifted, jaw locking. I needed him to see a soldier—not the wreck clawing at my ribs.
Turtānu turned to face me, as slow as an executioner savoring the moment before the blade fell. Firelight flashed along his bronze cuirass, shadows climbing over his features in jagged bands.
“Is this how you greet your warlord, boy?” His voice rolled like thunder in the hollow of the tent. “On your fucking knees!”
I met his gaze. The air thickened between us, heavy with heat and command. Every muscle in me screamed to resist. For a breath, I thought I could.
His hand fell to the hilt of his blade, to remind me who held the power to end me.
I dropped. Hard. My knees struck the packed earth with a dull crack. Pain flared through my bones, but I didn’t bow. I wouldn’t.
His face darkened. The brazier’s glow caught the sneer cutting across his mouth, the old scar at his brow deepening as he stepped closer.
“You cost us thousands,” he said, each word a blow. “Men followed you into the grave because of your arrogance. Because of your pride. And for what? So you could play at being a lion while they died screaming?”
I swallowed hard, the words slicing deeper than steel.
He leaned in, his voice plummeting to a low growl that sounded too much like my father.
“You’ll carry their faces with you. You’ll see them before your own. You’ll hear their screams in your sleep. You’ll rot with them. And you know why?”
His lip curled, mocking.
“Because you’ll always be this. A boy. A failure. No matter how many men you throw into the fire, you will never be enough. Not for them. Not for me. Not for the father who knew what you really were the first time he looked at you.”
The words struck me like open hands, sharp and stinging, leaving heat where no blow had landed. My body locked tight, every muscle braced against the shame driving in deeper than steel. I flinched—just barely—but it was enough.
It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t regret.
It was pain—the kind that didn’t fade, the kind that sunk into the marrow and carved itself into bone, a wound that would never heal.
Turtānu’s eyes bored into me, jagged and final. In them, I didn’t just see judgment; I saw my father’s shadow—smiling, mocking, waiting for me to fall.
“You think this war was your fucking stage?” he snarled, closing the distance. “You think it was your time to shine? You arrogant little shit. You led ten thousand men to slaughter just to stroke your goddamn ego.”
“I didn’t mean—” I began.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Turtānu snapped, loud enough to rattle the tent poles. “You didn’t mean to kill thousands? You didn’t mean to disobey orders? Then what the fuck were you doing out there—charging like a mad dog, fire in your eyes, shit in your head?”
My fists clenched. My jaw locked tight.
“You’ve got your father’s name,” he hissed, stepping closer, “and none of his strength. Not a fucking ounce.”
He loomed over me, eyes gleaming with fury.
“You’re not a general. You’re a boy in a man’s armor—playing dress-up while real warriors bled for your mistakes.”
He leaned in, close enough that I had to lift my chin to meet his gaze.
“Julian would’ve spat on you. And your father?” His voice dropped to a cruel whisper. “He’s right to be ashamed. You’re the kind of son a man drinks to forget.”
The words hit harder than fists. My stomach hollowed out. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But my silence screamed.
Turtānu sneered.
“You’re stripped of your rank. You are no longer ?ābūm. You are no longer anything. You want glory?” He laughed once, cold and ruthless. “Here’s your legacy—failure. Now get the fuck out of my tent before I lose what little mercy I have left and string you up beside that rotting bastard’s head.”
My mouth tasted of blood and shame.
“Both of you,” he barked, his voice cracking through the smoke. “Dismissed.”
Lazarus and I turned and left.
We stepped out from the stifling heat of the tent into the night.
The air was cold and heavy with smoke, the battlefield still smoldering beyond the camp.
The stars looked dim through the haze—small, dying things.
The firepits cast long shadows across the sand, stretching like the ghosts of the fallen.
I could still hear Turtānu’s words echoing inside me—You’re the kind of son a man drinks to forget.
I thought of my father. The rage in his eyes. The hand that had struck me when I was a boy. The promise that if I ever shamed his name, he’d erase me from his bloodline.
My throat closed. The weight in my chest ached.
Outside, beneath the black sky, I grabbed Lazarus’ arm and pulled him into the shadows—away from the guards, away from eyes.
“Lazarus… my father’s going to kill me,” I whispered. My throat burned as the words tore out. “He’ll disown me. You don’t understand, Lazarus—he doesn’t forgive. He’ll strip everything from me, piece by piece, until I’m nothing. He’ll destroy me just to prove he can.”
Lazarus caught my shoulders, firm and grounding. His grip was solid, his gaze cutting through the dark like something real in all the ruin.
“You haven’t lost me,” Lazarus said, gripping my shoulder harder. “You’ll never lose me. We’ve bled together—crawled through blood and ash together. Whatever your father does, whatever comes next—we face it together. You hear me? You’re not alone. Not while I’m still breathing.”
The words sank in, quiet and fierce.
“Thank you,” I murmured beside him, voice barely audible. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
At first light, we left the camp.
The battlefield shrank behind us—miles of scorched plains and broken bodies left to the vultures. We rode side by side on weary warhorses, their hides streaked with dust and dried blood from the long road home. The air was cold, the sky pale with the coming dawn.
For days, we had passed through villages burned to the ground, past toppled altars and caravans reduced to cinders. The trade road to Ugarit was worn thin by war and sorrow.
Lazarus tried to speak—to fill the silence that hung between us like fog. He talked about the men who had survived, the few who laughed even when the world burned, the moments that still felt human. He tried to remember them as more than ghosts, to pull light out of the ruin.
I listened, but I didn’t answer.
His words drifted over me like distant waves. My thoughts were louder, heavier. Each step of my horse thudded through me like a heartbeat I couldn’t quiet.
Turtānu’s voice still rang in my head—You’re the kind of son a man drinks to forget.
I didn’t know if I was riding home—or riding to my execution.
As we crested the final ridge, the city appeared—Ugarit rising from the horizon in the pale wash of morning.
Its sandstone walls caught the first touch of sunlight, glowing gold against the lingering smoke of distant fires. The twin towers of the temple shimmered in the new light, and beyond them, the harbor gleamed like beaten bronze, ships anchored in the calm waters, their sails catching the dawn.
Closer still, down a narrow dirt path that branched from the main road, his home waited.
We slowed at the fork. Our horses pawed the cold ground, their breath steaming in the chill morning air.
“This is where I turn,” Lazarus said, his voice rough from silence.
I gave a small nod.
He hesitated, his gaze searching mine, then forced a thin smile. “We’ll be all right,” he said softly. “You’ll be all right.”
I wanted to believe him.
But as he turned his horse down the path and disappeared into the waking light, the weight in my chest only grew heavier.
I rode on alone through the outskirts of Ugarit, the sun climbing slowly behind me. Every hoofbeat echoed like a drum inside my skull. The dead marched with me—my ten thousand, stripped of flesh and pride, whispering in the wind. Their eyes hollow. Accusing.
A child darted across the street, his laughter slicing through the stillness like a blade. Dirt smudged his cheeks, his curls wild—but his smile was unbroken. Untouched by blood. Untouched by ghosts.
I must’ve looked like that once. A long time ago. Before the world carved me hollow.
Turtānu’s voice echoed again—You will never be enough.
I clenched my fists until the leather reins bit into my palms. I drew my cloak tighter—not against the chill, but against the truth pressing in.
I was freezing from the inside out.
But I would not shiver.
Not for him.
Not for anyone.
I’d burn before I broke.
I passed the temple square. Families embraced. Merchants shouted. Soldiers were handed laurel and shouted at like kings. But not me. No one called my name—no one scattered petals. Lazarus took the gold, the praise, the girl.