I swallowed hard, but the taste of ash lingered.
“Can you believe it?” I pressed, a bitter laugh scraping its way out. “Three trials down. Three more to go. We’re halfway through.”
Still nothing.
Not even a glance.
It was like speaking to the corpse of my friend rather than the man himself.
I clenched my jaw and looked away, blood buzzing in my ears. Fine. If he wanted to drown in silence, let him.
I had no time for ghosts.
I wasn’t going to let Lazarus—or his broken silence—stand in the way of what I wanted. Of what I would take.
I would become a Shadow Lord.
And when I did, this pit, these guards, even Lazarus’ hollow stare—none of it would matter.
They dragged us back to the cannibal’s pit—the same place where we had fed.
The stench hit harder than before, rancid decay mingling with iron and smoke so thick it choked the air. My knees buckled. I gagged, throat convulsing, but nothing came up.
Corpses lay everywhere—more than I remembered. Bloated, green, split open by heat and gas. Bellies swelled like drums, ready to burst. Tongues jutted from split lips. Clouds of flies hung so heavy they dimmed the air, a shifting black veil that crawled over skin and hair.
My feet stuck with every step, sucking free from the blood-soaked earth with a wet pull. I stumbled as the guards shoved me forward.
“What are we supposed to do today?” I rasped, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
A guard sneered, his teeth yellow, his eyes glittering with cruelty. He jerked his chin toward the mound of the dead.
“Clean up the mess, unless you’d rather join them. Dig a pit. Burn what’s left.”
The words sank like stones in my chest. I looked at the corpses—the twisted faces, the gnawed ribs, the remains of men I’d eaten—and all I could think was how close I’d come to lying beside them.
That was when I heard it.
A whisper.
Faint at first, sliding through the corners of my mind.
You’ve already buried your fear, Salvatore.
I froze.
You did what the weak could not. You lived. You fed. You became.
Severen.
The sound wasn’t real, but it didn’t need to be. It breathed inside my skull, slick and certain.
He’ll hold you back,the voice whispered.Lazarus—the boy clutching pity and shame. He’ll die with ghosts in his hands. You… you were meant for more.
Something cold threaded through my veins. My breath caught.
In the corner lay the tools—rusted blades of iron, bent spades with split handles, crude picks whose metal had been hammered thin. Not weapons, only scraps made useful by hunger.
Lazarus and I grabbed what we could. Shadows moved like specters behind us, other men fumbled at the ruined tools, silent in the hum of flies.
