The feeling swelled again, as tight as a fist, a sound stifled against bone. Breath came thin—not from dread but from the pull of what we were becoming—two fractured boys crossing into the unknown, carrying little but stubborn will and the shelter of one another’s shadow.
He nodded slowly, then pulled me into a brief, brutal embrace. It was not a farewell. It was a vow, a wordless contract sealed in bone and breath.
Around us, the hall murmured on—cups clinked, voices whispered, the ritual machinery of the house kept grinding. But the world had slipped for us. Eyes had already begun to count who would ride and who would remain.
We were no longer boys, but warriors.
* * *
The cottage crouched against the wind; its mudbrick walls patched with clay like scars upon old skin. Smoke from the fire pit curled toward the rafters, thick with the bite of sage and myrrh that Amara ground to paste beneath her pestle. Clay bowls surrounded her knees like small altars, filled with ointments dark and glistening.
She looked up the instant I stepped inside. Her eyes found mine, steady and soft, and for a heartbeat, the silence carried more than words could. The pestle stilled, her lips curved in a smile—one that belonged only to me. Even here, amid ash and hunger, Amara’s presence was warmth.
In the corner, my mother lay upon a reed mat, her thin wool cloak drawn tight against her shoulders. Her hair spilled silver against the rough weave. She shifted, bones creaking, and turned her face toward me. The shaft of light through the narrow window slit fell across her, softening her years, though not the burden of them.
“Lazarus,” she said, her voice worn but tender. “How was the funeral?”
The question was simple, but it struck like a stone. I felt Amara watching me, her love pressing close, her silence waiting.
“It went well,” I said quietly. “Julian was honored as he should be. The army chief spoke… of the war. Of needing more men.”
The fire hissed and the air thickened. Amara’s hand brushed the rim of a bowl, but her eyes never left mine. I wanted to reach for her, to take her hand, to cling to the small sanctuary of us before the words I carried shattered it.
My mother’s breath rasped steadily but was fragile. Amara’s gaze was constant but searching. Both of them waited.
And I—my ribs ached with what I could not yet say, that I had agreed to go. The promise of gold had lured me into a choice I could not undo, that I would leave the woman I loved and the mother who had nothing but me.
Once I spoke, nothing in this house would remain the same. Not the air. Not their eyes. Not us.
The words left me before I could drag them back.
“I’m going to join the war,” I said, my voice low. “The army chief promised five thousand gold coins to those who return victorious.”
The air thickened, as heavy as the smoke clinging to our mudbrick walls. The fire hissed, shadows stretched long across the dirt floor, and for a heartbeat, even the night beyond our door seemed to still.
My mother stirred on her mat. Her arms trembled as she pushed herself upright, the wool cloak slipping from her shoulders. Her tunic hung loose on her frame, worn thin by years of labor and want. Her eyes, hollowed but keen, fixed on me with a strength that defied her body.
“No,” she rasped, her voice like reeds scraping in the wind. “Not you, Lazarus. I lost your father to war. Salvatore has already buried his brother. Must this one claim you, too?”
Her voice cracked, but the fire in her gaze did not dim. “This is not a war for our survival. It is a war of kings. The Sea Peoples strike our coasts, burning villages, and the Hittites falter in the north. Egypt pulls back its hand, and now men fight to seize Ugarit’s harbor, its bronze, its cedar. They want our city for themselves, and they will bury you in their struggle. I cannot lose you to their greed.”
Before I could speak, Amara came to me. Her long tunic brushed the dirt floor as she crossed the room, the rough linen whispering with each hurried step. She seized my arm, her hands clutching like a prisoner’s grip on the bars. Her eyes glistened in the torchlight, wide, unyielding, wet with terror.
“Don’t, Lazarus,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Don’t leave us. Not for gold, not for struggle. You are all your mother and I have.”
Her plea dug deeper than my mother’s sorrow. She pressed against me, her fingers digging into the worn fabric of my tunic as though by sheer force she could tether me to the hearth.
“I must,” I said, though the words burned my throat. “For the gold—for us. The harbor lies quiet; ships no longer come as they once did. The merchants grow thin, the bronze trade falters, and the scribes write only debts. What else is left for us? This war may be born of greed, but it is the only coin they offer. Without it, we have nothing.”
“No.” Amara shook her head, tears streaking her cheeks. Her voice was soft, cracked, but fierce. “I don’t need riches. I need you. Just your voice at dawn, your arms at night. If you go, you carry the last of me with you.”
My mother’s eyes brimmed with sorrow yet burned with truth. “Your father swore the same, that he would return. But the war killed him. This war devours all. Ugarit breaks apart, caught between empires and raiders. The harbor rots, the caravans do not come, and still the kings call this ruin glory. It is an endless hunger, my son, and it always eats the ones we love first.”
I bent to her, kissed her brow, and whispered, “Mother, I promise you I will come back. I swear it.”
But even to my own ears, the promise rang thin.
Amara’s sobs shook against me, her face pressed to my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her as if I could shield her from the truth of what I had chosen.
