Chapter 16 #3
We locked together—snarls, breath, the grind of iron. Each movement was grit and sinew. Each inhale burned with dust and blood. The world shrank to the weight in my hands and the man straining against them.
The sword slipped between us—my grip over his, then his over mine. I forced it down, the edge biting the hollow of his throat. His eyes met mine—rage, betrayal, murder.
And behind them, I saw Severen’s smile.
The blade drew closer, close enough to taste his breath—
And then my mind split open.
A voice exploded through me.
Not from the Dreadhold. Not from the air.
From within.
“Salvatore… my son… stop.”
It was a woman’s voice—warm and breaking, familiar in a way that made my stomach twist. I had never heard it before, yet it reached through me like memory born of blood.
“Your eyes and heart are blind,” she said. “Severen is twisting you, feeding you lies. It is not Lazarus you must kill. It is Severen you must destroy. He is the poison rotting your soul. You must stand with Lazarus—or you will both die, my sweet boy.”
The words didn’t echo—they sank, as heavy as stones, pulling me under. My grip faltered. My breath fractured.
I had never heard my mother’s voice. She had died the moment I drew my first breath.
And yet, somehow, I knew it was her.
It was impossible, but the certainty was undeniable.
Every part of me—the rage, the hate, the hunger—split open under it.
The sword wavered, grazing Lazarus’ skin. Blood beaded along the edge, bright and trembling. My hands shook. My vision dimmed. The chamber warped around the sound in my skull.
It was her—my mother—speaking from somewhere beyond the living, and her words stripped me bare.
That single heartbeat of hesitation doomed me.
Lazarus twisted, roaring. He ripped the sword from my grip. Pain streaked up my arms. His shove followed—violent, unrelenting. I slammed into the wall, stone driving into bone, the impact blooming white behind my eyes.
The breath left me in a ragged gasp. Blood filled my mouth, hot and metallic. I tasted it, swallowed it, felt it burn down.
He was on me in the next instant, the sword reversed, the point pressed to my chest. His eyes burned with fury, grief, and fire. But through all of it, her voice lingered—soft, patient, unrelenting.
“His soul is bound to yours, my son…”
The words coiled through me like smoke from a funeral pyre, curling into every fracture she had left behind.
For the first time, I could not tell which hand reached for me in the dark—my mother’s, or Severen’s.
The blade pressed deeper. The iron kissed flesh. Warm blood spilled, tracing slow paths down my chest. Each drop gleamed in the dim light, as bright as garnet before it vanished into the sand.
And I did not resist.
I let the sword bite. I let it speak for us both.
Then I tilted my head back and smiled. My lips cracked; the taste of salt and iron slicked my teeth.
“Do it,” I hissed, laughter breaking from me in a jagged breath. “Kill me, Lazarus. End me. Prove Severen right—that our bond was never real, that I was never your brother, never your friend. Go on.”
The sound that left me didn’t feel like laughter. It felt like a wound trying to sing.
Lazarus’ hands shook. His knuckles blanched white against the hilt. His breath came in shallow bursts, his chest heaving, torn between fury and grief. The torchlight carved shadows across his face, cutting the boy I knew into a stranger.
“You want to,” I said, quieter now, the words dragging like broken glass. “I can see it in your eyes. So do it.”
Silence swallowed the chamber.
The insects on the walls stilled; even the air seemed to hold its breath. Around us lay ruin—the bodies of beasts, the blood, the echoes of men long dead. Dust hung thick, turning every breath to grit.
Only we remained—two figures carved from violence, bound by something fouler than hate.
Then the voice returned.
“…you must stand strong together, my son. Together, you will rise to greatness.”
It struck deeper than steel. My vision swam; the words folded the air in half. My chest locked, and my breath caught for a heartbeat.
Lazarus’ face twisted—not with rage this time, but pity.
And pity burned worse than any blade.
With a roar that tore from his throat, he wrenched the sword free and hurled the weapon across the chamber.
It spun once in the air, then crashed into the far wall with a shriek of metal, scattering sparks across the floor.
He didn’t kill me.
He let the blade fall.
Then he turned—stumbling, panting, slick with sweat—he ran to Amara.
He rushed to her as though nothing else in the world still breathed.
His steps faltered, his body shaking from exhaustion and blood loss, yet he crossed the space between them as if drawn by something sacred.
His trembling hands found her shoulders, then her face, his thumbs tracing the bruises along her jaw.
Lazarus bowed his head and pressed his lips to her temple with a tenderness that cut deeper than any blade. Her knees gave way, and he caught her against his chest, holding her as she broke apart in his arms.
Her sobs came soft at first, then shattering, her whole frame shaking beneath his hands.
Something inside me ruptured. The world bled red. My pulse thundered in my ears.
Then came the clatter of iron and the slap of sandals on stone. Torches flared at the edges of the pit.
The guards swarmed in.
One drove his shoulder into me, knocking me sideways. Another seized Lazarus, wrenching him from her arms. Amara screamed his name—hoarse, breaking—until the sound splintered.
“Lazarus!”
A guard seized her by the hair, dragging her backward toward the tunnel. She kicked and clawed, bare feet streaked with blood, her cry echoing against the curved stone walls.
“No!” Lazarus roared, struggling as three men pinned him down.
“Bind them!” someone shouted.
Chains clattered like struck bells.
Cold iron bit into my wrists as the manacles snapped shut. The skin split beneath the metal, and blood welled between my fingers. Across the pit, another pair of shackles locked around Lazarus’ arms. The sound of it—iron on bone—echoed through the chamber.
“On your feet,” a voice barked.
They dragged us upright. The sand underfoot was dark with blood, wet enough to cling to our soles.
“Move,” one of them hissed. “Severen wants to see you both.”
They hauled us forward. The chains pulled tight between us, forcing our steps to match the slow rhythm of the condemned. The torches guttered behind us, leaving only the glow of dying flame.
Amara’s screams faded, swallowed by the darkness as the iron gate groaned shut.
Lazarus strained against his chains, muscles shaking, voice shredding as he called her name again and again until it was nothing but breath.
I didn’t fight.
I let them drag me through the filth, my body stiff, my mouth tasting of blood.
We hadn’t killed each other.
We hadn’t given Severen what he wanted.
But as they pulled us deeper into the dark, the voice still whispered through the hollow of my skull.
Severen had something far worse waiting for us.
Something that would make death feel merciful.