I smiled, blood on my teeth.
If I could not be the one she loved, I would be the one who made her watch love die.
The sword lay in the sand, its edge rust-kissed. Lazarus bent to seize it. I was already moving.
Iron met my palm. His hand closed on the hilt at the same breath. For a heartbeat, our knuckles ground together, breath harsh, eyes locked—his full of a defiance that was never meant for me.
I twisted, and the blade tore free.
He drove his fists into my ribs. I staggered, slashed wide; the edge screamed against stone, throwing sparks.
He crashed into me, shoulder to shoulder. His strikes were quick and punishing. The blade made me merciless. I cut shallow first—testing—then deeper, a red line opening along his forearm.
He didn’t falter. A knee slammed my belly, forcing me down as his hands clawed for the hilt. I smashed my brow into his face—bone on bone. His head snapped back, blood sprayed from his nose.
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 isSeveren 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.
