Severen’s head snapped toward him, as sharp as a vulture scenting blood. The invisible pressure in my chest lifted; I sucked in air like a drowning man breaching the surface.
“You are so impatient to meet your death, my boy,” Severen said, smiling with paternal mockery. “You will learn that death is a luxury denied to those chosen by shadows.”
Lazarus held his gaze, jaw tight, defiance blazing even through the fear.
Then Severen’s eyes slid back to me. His grin widened, cruel and knowing. “Are you ready, Salvatore,” he hissed, “to die the way your precious mother did?”
The question struck like a lash. The whispers in the book surged, and the chamber seemed to lean closer, waiting for my answer.
The rage burned hot in my throat, a taste like iron and smoke. My jaw locked, but I kept my gaze fixed on him—steady, unflinching.
“I’ve been born ready, you fucking monster.”
Severen’s smile twisted wider. He lowered his eyes to the book, turning pages with slow, deliberate care. His lips moved without sound, shaping words too ancient, too foul for the human tongue. The air thickened until breathing hurt. The oil lamps guttered and bent; the shadows at his feet writhed like dogs scenting blood.
Then his voice lashed through the chamber.
“You may now enter the Pit of Shadows. The mirror will not open again… until all the shadows are dead.”
Behind him, the mirror began to stir. Its surface rippled like liquid tar, the darkness underneath shifting with the frantic push of a thousand claws. The room vibrated with hunger. My skin crawled as though unseen hands were already dragging at me, pulling me toward that moving black.
We were about to step into hell itself.
Severen snapped the book shut. The sound cracked like a coffin lid slamming home. His grin curved, sharp and pleased, as he gestured to the guards. They came forward carrying two long bundles wrapped in filthy cloth. With a flourish, Severen tore the coverings away.
Two swords hit the floor. The clang echoed through the chamber, flat and ugly.
“Take them,” he said, voice rich with mockery. “For the fun of it. To make this… easier.”
I bent and lifted one. The weapon was heavy, unbalanced, its edge warped and dull. Rust flaked off under my thumb. I laughed once, a sound without humor—this blade couldn’t cut rope, let alone shadow.
Lazarus picked up the other, turning it over in his hands. Fury twisted across his face while Severen lounged back in his throne, watching us like a man savoring the next act of a tragedy he’d written himself.
“Fight your little war with broken toys,” Severen hissed. “It won’t matter. The pit will devour you all the same.”
Behind him, the mirror pulsed once, then again—rippling like a storm locked inside glass. The things within pressed closer, their shapes smearing against the surface, desperate to be free.
And then it opened.
A wind came out of nowhere, cold and damp, carrying the smell of decay and brine. The chamber shuddered as if it, too, feared what waited beyond.
Lazarus looked at me. His eyes were set, his jaw carved from rage and resolve. Without a word, he stepped forward, the useless sword hanging at his side like an afterthought.
I followed him. The darkness reached for us, and the world fell away.
The instant we crossed the threshold, the mirror sealed behind us with a sound like bone snapping shut. The light vanished, and darkness devoured everything.
I couldn’t breathe.
The air turned heavy the moment we entered—thick with something that had never been meant for lungs. Every inhale burned, searing my throat as if I were swallowing molten ash. My ribs creaked under the weight of it. The walls themselves seemed to bleed, black fire crawling through veins of shadow that pulsed in time with a heartbeat not our own.
The Pit of Shadows was alive.
And it hated us.
Whispers began to stir, slick and thin, sliding through the dark. They wormed into my ears until blood trickled warm down my neck. At first, it was only noise—the sound of bone splitting, marrow hissing, the slow, viscous sigh of something dying and grateful for it. Then the noise learned to speak.
A thousand voices rose together, crowding the dark. Men. Women. Children. Some howled. Some wept. Some laughed in tones that scraped like knives over glass.
