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.
