“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.
