Chapter 8
Lazarus
The morning broke through my dreams like shattered glass—sharp, blinding, and too bright to trust.
Light spilled over the sand in molten ribbons, glinting off the still sea. The air smelled of salt, cedar smoke, and last night’s embers, and for a moment I almost believed the gods had forgiven us.
Amara slept beside me, half wrapped in her cloak, her hair tangled with sand. I brushed a few grains from her cheek. She stirred, smiled, and sank back into the warmth.
Salvatore lay sprawled near the dying fire, limbs thrown wide, brow creased in the struggle of some dream. Even in sleep, the war refused to release him.
I pushed to my feet, my muscles aching from the cold ground. The remains of the fire were nothing but blackened ash and the hazy scent of char. I scattered it with my sandaled foot and watched the smoke rise in thin, gray coils that vanished into the light.
Amara gathered the remnants of our meal—flatbread, figs, and wrapped them in linen. Her movements were calm, practiced. She had learned long ago how to keep her hands steady when the world shook.
A gasp broke the quiet. Salvatore jerked awake, chest heaving, eyes wild as if he expected to see the enemy cresting the dunes. His gaze darted until it found me, and slowly, the terror faded.
He groaned, rubbing his temple. “By the gods, that wine was poison.”
Amara gave a small laugh. “I’ll brew something for you when we’re home.” Her voice was soft, but it carried the tone of someone who had said those words too many times.
She tore the bread and handed us each a piece. We ate as we walked, the sand cool beneath our feet, the sea whispering behind us.
For the first time in years, the silence between us wasn’t heavy. It was peace—fragile, but real. Not the kind that came with feasts or gold, but the kind that grew from surviving what should have killed you. Amara’s hand brushed mine, grounding me, reminding me that we had made it through.
The path home wound through fields of ripened barley, their golden heads whispering in the wind.
The promise of harvest scented the air with earth and grain.
Mist still clung to the low hills, softening the world into something almost gentle.
For a fleeting heartbeat, everything felt reborn—cleansed, as though the blood of war had finally washed away.
Then I thought of my mother.
Yesterday’s words came back like stones in my chest—the anger, the shouting, the way I had flung her past in her face.
I’d demanded the truth of who my father was, and when she refused, I’d turned cruel.
I said things I could never take back—about her choices, her work, the life she’d endured alone.
I wanted honesty, but I gave her only shame.
I should have waited. I should have listened.
When I saw her again, I’d beg her forgiveness. I’d tell her I was wrong—that I’d wait as long as it took for her to speak his name. She deserved my patience, not my rage.
The thought steadied me, small and certain, as the cottage came into view through the haze. I almost smiled. I’d make it right.
Then the warning screamed through me.
Something inside twisted. The air shifted.
The door hung open. Splintered.
Cracked down the center, as if an axe had struck through it.
The peace was shattered.
I froze at the edge of the yard, heart hammering, breath caught somewhere between my ribs and throat. The sea still murmured behind me, steady and eternal, as if mocking the silence that had fallen ahead.
And then I whispered the only word that would come.
“Mother.”
My pulse detonated. The world collapsed into a tunnel of sound and breath as I ran, sandals slipping on the packed earth. The salt wind burned my throat, the air itself thick and heavy. My heart thundered so violently I thought it might split open before I reached the door.
I crossed the threshold—and the world ended.
My mother, lay collapsed on the clay floor, blood pooling dark beneath her, thick and gleaming as it soaked through the reed mats.
The air stank of iron and salt. Her arm was stretched toward the door, fingers curled, as though she’d been reaching for me.
Her head was turned slightly, eyes half-open, lips parted—caught in the moment before breath became silence.
Everything inside me went still.
Then it broke.
I dropped to my knees. I didn’t feel the pain. The sound that came from me wasn’t a word, not even human. It was raw and jagged, ripped out from somewhere deep where language didn’t live.
I crawled to her. The clay bit into my palms, her blood slick beneath my fingers. When I gathered her into my arms, she folded like water spilling from a cracked jar.
“Mother…” The word barely left my lips. “No. No, please.”
Her hair still smelled of jasmine oil, of smoke from the hearth, of home. I pressed my face into it, desperate to breathe her in, to hold what life remained. But her skin was already cold. Her silence was absolute.
And in that silence, guilt tore me open.
I hadn’t said I was sorry.
Not for the anger. Not for the words I’d hurled yesterday. Not for the way I let pride replace patience. I thought I’d have time to make it right. I thought the gods would grant me one more day.
But they hadn’t.
The house swayed around me, the walls closing in. I could hear the sea beyond the door, steady and cruel, whispering as if mocking the sound of my breath.
Amara and Salvatore burst in behind me.
Amara stopped first. “Oh gods…” she breathed. Her voice cracked. “No—not her.”
Amara fell beside me, her linen tunic brushing the blood-soaked mat. Her hands trembled as she brushed the hair from my mother’s brow—fingers gentle, reverent. Then, with a whisper that split the stillness, she closed my mother’s eyes.
“May the gods take her swiftly,” she murmured. “May her spirit rest among the stars.”
Her words shattered something inside me.
I bent over my mother’s body, pressing my forehead to hers. “I’m so sorry,” I breathed. “I should’ve waited. I should’ve been patient. I just wanted to know—and now you’re gone.” My voice cracked. “Who would do this to you? Why?”
The sobs tore through me, raw and endless, stripping me hollow.
Amara’s hand touched my back. “I’m so sorry, Lazarus,” she whispered, her words as thin as reeds in the wind.
But sorry meant nothing.
Sorry, couldn’t draw breath into cold lungs.
Sorry, couldn’t stitch blood back into flesh.
Pain tore through me like a beast unchained—merciless, unending, feral.
My chest felt pried open, ribs split wide to expose everything bleeding inside. She had carried me through storms, had given me everything, and now she was nothing but a body cooling on the clay.
My vision blurred with tears and fury. The violation of our home, the death of her, ripped me to pieces.
Salvatore knelt beside me, tears streaking the dirt on his face, jaw clenched tight. “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “By the gods, Lazarus, we’ll find who did this. We’ll drag their names through the dust.”
His fist slammed into the floor, the crack echoing like thunder through the small room. The air itself seemed to tremble with his fury.
A low rumble rose outside—hooves pounding against the earth. Then came the sound of feet—dozens of them. Sandals striking hard and fast.
The door exploded inward.
Cedar splintered, shards flew like scattered embers as bronze and wood tore apart in a single violent roar. Guards poured through the opening—armor glinting, crested helms flashing in the morning light.
Before I could even lay my mother down, a hand seized my tunic and yanked me upright. The grip crushed my chest; I gasped, the smell of sweat and bronze filling my lungs.
Another guard crashed into Salvatore, twisting his arms behind him, driving him face-first into the mudbrick wall. He snarled, muffled, his strength no match for their sheer weight.
Their faces were shadows beneath their helms, their eyes cold and empty. This wasn’t a search.
This was a taking.
Amara screamed—high and sharp, a sound that seemed to tear the world open.
She tried to run to me, but a third guard caught her around the waist. His hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her cries as she kicked and thrashed, hair whipping across her face. Her muffled scream still found me through the chaos.
“Don’t you fucking touch her!” I roared, thrashing against the iron grip that pinned my arms.
The soldier didn’t hesitate. His fist crashed into my jaw, bone cracking, light bursting behind my eyes. Blood flooded my mouth, hot and metallic.
“You, Lazarus of Ugarit,” he said, his voice as cold as forged metal, “are under arrest for the murder of your mother, Anatya.”
The words tore through me. “What?” I gasped. “No—no, that’s not true! We were at the sea all night—”
A second strike silenced me. My head snapped sideways. The world spun.
“No mistake,” the guard growled. His eyes were voids behind the bronze of his helm.
He turned to Salvatore.
“And you, Salvatore Lorian, stand accused of the murder of your father, Lord Lorian—and for the deaths of Helena Elani, Azarel Miran, and Dagonel Sulik. Your blade was found at the scene.”
Salvatore froze, his breath gone. Then his voice broke apart. “That’s a lie!”
A soldier stepped forward and lifted a dagger, its bronze edge catching the morning light—dark and stained.
“That’s not mine!” he shouted. “By the gods, someone’s framing us!”
My heart thundered. The air tasted of dust and blood. “This is madness!” I shouted. “We were together! Ask the villagers! Ask anyone!”
The captain stepped forward, his shadow swallowing us. “Save your words for the warden,” he said, each syllable measured, final. “You’ll have time enough to speak at the Dreadhold.”
The name struck me like ice plunged into my chest.
The Dreadhold.
No one returned from there. Not even the innocent.
I choked, shaking my head. “No… no, this isn’t real. Who’s doing this?!”
They didn’t answer.
A hand like iron gripped my tunic, wrenching me upward.