“He heard the whispers first,”the shadows continued, winding their way through my thoughts like a parasite.“Severen fed to him slowly. A word here. A doubt there. Night after night. He was never meant to survive them.”
The noise in my head intensified, echoing, overlapping screams layered over screams.
“Julian fought it,”the shadows admitted.“He tried to be stronger than what Severen placed inside him. But minds fracture before bodies do. By the time he fell on the battlefield, he was already hollowed out. His death was merely the final act.”
I sucked in a ragged breath, bile burning my throat.
“You think this prison exists by accident?”the voices whispered.“The Dreadhold is a grave long before it becomes a cell. Some of the men rotting here carry ancient blood—Shadow Lord blood.”
The truth landed with sickening clarity.
“Your father. Your brother. Severen killed them. The others here in this prison that you’ve watched break, scream, disappear. Severen brought them here, to erase them all.”
My vision blurred.
“Bloodlines to him are a threat. Legacies are a mistake. Severen destroys them before they can rise—before they can challenge him.”
The world tilted. My hands trembled violently as the pieces locked together.
This place wasn’t a prison.
It was an execution ground.
The laughter returned, colder now, curling like smoke inside my skull.
“Every lash. Every blow. Every night you bled.It was not your father alone.
“It was Severen whispering in his ear—twisting him, driving him, drinking your screams through him. He made your father your executioner so that, piece by piece, you would become what he needed most—rage made flesh, a weapon forged in his own shadow.”
I staggered, clutching my chest as if I could tear the words out of it. Breath came in broken gasps; fury and despair wound together in my veins until they were the same thing.
“You were never free, Salvatore.You were never your own.You were Severen’s design from the beginning.He trapped your mother. He slaughtered your father. And he forged you from their screams and ashes.”
For the first time, I understood?—
I hadn’t been broken. I had been made.
All this time—every wound, every scar, every scream—he was the master pulling the strings.
The shadows along the walls swelled with a pulse that seemed to come from beneath my feet. The floor vibrated—a slow, hungry rhythm.
“Did you think these trials were meant to crown you as a Shadow Lord?”
The voices overlapped, rising until they were one continuous vibration, thousands of throats speaking as a single storm.
“You and Lazarus are fools. These trials were not meant to elevate you. They were meant to destroy you. To bleed you. To burn you. Every cut, every lash, every scream was never yours alone—it was his feast.”
I clutched my stomach. The truth sat in me like swallowed poison, heavy and alive.
“That is what Shadow Lords are. They must feed on agony, on ecstasy, on despair. Your bloodlines were perfect—you, Salvatore, son of Marianna, heir to her power. Together, you were the perfect harvest. And you have been feeding him all along.”
The pit shuddered. The walls trembled like living flesh. Shadows quivered across the stone, alive with hunger. My skin burned as their words seared into me like brands.
“Every trial. Every fear. Every broken bone. Every betrayal. Every moment you thought you might die, every time you wished to kill each other, it was never for your ascension. It was for Severen.You were his feast.And he has been drinking from you since the day you arrived.”
And in that instant, the last ember of hope guttered out inside me.
“Did you think this pit was meant for your last trial to ascend as Shadow Lords?”
