Chapter 18
Salvatore
It had been days since the last trial.
Days since Severen’s laughter had rattled the chains and sent the shadows writhing through that cursed throne room.
Lazarus hadn’t spoken to me since.
Not a word. Not even a glance that wasn’t filled with hate.
Whatever fragile thread had once bound us had been cut clean. Severen’s poison had seen to that, and my betrayal had finished the job. We walked the same halls, ate the same mold-crusted bread, slept against the same damp walls, but between us now, yawned a canyon wide enough to bury us both.
He had said I was dead to him.
That he would rise, become a Shadow Lord, and I would die here.
Those words still echoed in my skull, as steady as a heartbeat.
But it wasn’t Lazarus’ hatred that haunted me most.
It was my mother.
Her voice still lingered from that chamber, seeping into my thoughts like smoke through cracks in stone. Words I had never known. Whispers I hadn’t realized I’d been starving for. She had called herself the Mistress of Shadows. The mother I had never known.
When I threw those words in Severen’s face, when I defied him, it hadn’t been me speaking.
It had been her, moving through me. Guiding me.
And now I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop wondering.
Was she truly what she claimed?
Did Severen fear her?
Did she still exist somewhere in the dark, trapped, waiting for me to find her?
Every whisper dug deeper, twisting through my chest until breathing itself became pain. I needed answers, even if those answers destroyed me.
For the first time in my life, there was a sliver of something else—hope.
A chance to know who she really was.
A chance to free her.
A chance for something beyond chains and blood and lies.
I had grown up under a monster’s hand. I’d believed my father was the man who beat me bloody and starved me of love. But he had never been my father. My blood was hers. Theirs. The shadows tied me to something larger, darker, infinite.
And I would claim it.
Not just to survive.
Not just to crawl out of Severen’s trials alive.
But to rise as a Shadow Lord myself. To break these chains. To find her. To drag the truth from the abyss and make Severen choke on it.
Still, my mother’s whispers weren’t the only ghosts that haunted me.
There was another.
Lazarus’ mother.
I’d known what work she did since we were children. Everyone in the city whispered about her. I wasn’t blind. I wasn’t stupid. I knew how she made her living, what kind of men came and went from that house. And I never cared because Lazarus was more than that.
He was kind in a world that had none left.
He was brave where others were cruel. He didn’t see me as the son of wealth or privilege.
He saw me for who I was. We fought off the bullies together, bled together, swore we’d always have each other’s backs.
When my father locked me out of the house for disobedience, it was Lazarus who brought me scraps, who shared what little he had.
He was my brother long before the Dreadhold made us prisoners.
He never judged me for who I was.
And I never judged him for what his mother was.
And yet, I killed his mother.
Not because I hated her.
Not because I wanted to hurt him.
But because she was old, tired, and already dying. Every breath looked like pain. Every word scraped out of her like a wound refusing to close.
I thought I was ending her suffering.
I thought I was doing her a kindness.
Yes, it was brutal. Yes, it was fucking wrong. But at the time, I thought I was doing what no one else would, giving her peace.
And also?
I was afraid of walking into the Dreadhold without Lazarus beside me.
I didn’t want to face it alone.
So, I told myself it was kindness. Told myself that one day he would understand. That one day, when the blood stopped burning and the hatred quieted, he’d see it for what it was—mercy wrapped in madness.
Yes, it was fucking selfish.
But I still believe, somewhere deep down, that one day he’ll forgive me. That he’ll see past the horror of it all and understand why I did it.
Because despite everything—despite the hatred in his eyes, the distance between us—I still see the boy who stood beside me in every fight, the one who never cared that I was rich or privileged.
For the first time in my life, I can almost see it—
A future where we rise together, forged in shadow and sin.
Two sons of ruin bound by blood and betrayal.
Ascending as brothers.
Not just him.
Not just me.
But both of us.
The days of silence ended with the scrape of iron.
The cell door groaned open, hinges screaming like they hated being disturbed. The first thing that came through wasn’t light—it was the smell of sweat and rust.
The guards entered.
They didn’t bother with words. Just the sound of chains. The drag of steel across stone.
One seized Lazarus by the collar, hauling him upright without care for the bruises blooming down his arms. He staggered but didn’t fight.
His eyes cut toward me once, burning with the same hatred he’d thrown at me days before.
Another guard drove the butt of his spear into my ribs before yanking me to my feet.
“On your feet, filth,” one spat. His breath reeked of old wine and decay. “Severen’s waiting.”
The shackles tore at my wrists, reopening the scabs that had only just hardened. Each pull sent a pulse of hot pain up my arms. Beside me, Lazarus’ chains rattled, iron grinding against skin.
The silence between us was thicker than shadow—louder than the guards’ snarled orders, heavier than the weight of the chains dragging us toward whatever fresh hell waited ahead.
Two of the guards marched behind us, their fists finding our spines whenever our steps slowed. The corridor stretched long and narrow, its torches coughing black smoke. The air grew hotter with each step, heavier.
The moment they threw us inside, the air turned foul.
It pressed down on me—thick, wet, and heavy—each breath a struggle against the smell of stone, blood, and something reptilian hiding in the dark.
I knew that scent.
Snakes.
A sickly-green glow seeped from cracks in the limestone, spreading like veins of poison across the walls.
It painted everything in that light—Lazarus’ face, pale and gaunt, the wet glimmer of the chains at his wrists.
Shadows moved within the glow, thin and sinuous, writhing across the ceiling like living threads of ink.
They whispered as they passed—scales brushing scales, voices too low and cold to be human.
Across the chamber, an archway yawned open, a mouth of solid dark. I couldn’t see where it led. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
My stomach clenched. The old fear rose fast and ugly. I’d always hated snakes—the way they moved, the sound of them. They were patience and hunger woven into flesh.
I stepped back before I realized it, my back striking something solid—a guard’s chest.
He grinned down at me, teeth yellow and split like old bone. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, gripping my shoulders and shoving me to the floor. My back hit the stone hard enough to knock the air out of me.
“You wait here,” he said, the words thick with mockery. “The Lord of Shadows will come.”
I didn’t answer. The taste of fear flooded my mouth, sharp and metallic.
The guards stepped out, their voices low and cruel as they muttered beyond the doorway. The sound of iron faded down the corridor until only the sick hiss of torches filled the chamber.
Lazarus and I were left alone in that sickly light—the green glow crawling over the walls, painting his face into something half-human, half-demon.
“Lazarus, please…” My voice cracked. “Talk to me. Let me explain.”
His head lifted at last. His eyes burned like coals.
“What could you possibly say to me? That you’re sorry? That you did it for us?” The edge in his voice could flay skin. “You put me in this hell. I’ll bet you killed your father, too.”
He scooped a handful of rust-colored dirt and hurled it at my face. It stung my eyes; grit filled my mouth.
“And you framed me by killing my own mother!” he roared. “We were supposed to live free. We had a future—you destroyed it!”
“It wasn’t supposed to be that way,” I muttered, wiping grime and spit from my cheek.
“Yeah?” His expression twisted into something I didn’t recognize. The boy I’d known was gone. What crouched before me was feral, a creature forged from pain. “How was it supposed to be, Salvatore? Tell me—how did you think I’d feel when you stabbed my mother?”
He lunged. The sound he made wasn’t human. His hands clamped around my throat, as strong as iron.
“You framed me because you’re a coward,” he snarled, breath hot against my face. “You ripped my life apart because you couldn’t stand being alone!”
Air fled my lungs. My vision swam. His fingers dug deeper, choking the world to a blur. I clawed at his wrists, panic clawing back harder. With a burst of desperate strength, I tore his hands free and rolled him beneath me, pinning him to the stones.
My breath tore out in ragged gasps. Blood streaked my lips. “You’re right,” I spat. “You want the truth? Fine. Yes, I killed your mother. Yes, I couldn’t bear being alone. So what?”
I jabbed a finger at his face, trembling. “I lost everything while you—” my voice cracked into a growl “—you always came out on top. You always had something left. Everything I didn’t.”
A laugh broke from me, hollow and jagged, the sound of something fractured. “And now we know why. You’re the son of that jackal bastard, Severen.”
“You—” Lazarus snarled. He surged up, and we collided again. Fists, elbows, teeth—the fight was a blur of movement and breath and blood. We rolled across the floor like wild beasts, chains clattering, the green glow pulsing with each strike.
The snakes hissed from the dark, unseen but near. Their whispers filled the air, a rasping chorus that sounded too much like laughter.