The pit hissed—a long, dragging sound like chains across bone. My knees buckled. The weight of it leeching out the last of my strength.
The whispers closed in, their words like claws flaying my mind.
“You were never meant to rise, Lazarus James. You were meant to burn. To be consumed. To become the meal your father promised himself.”
The sound reverberated through me, rattling my bones until it felt like something inside might shatter.
“Do you understand now?”they hissed.“Here, no one leaves alive. Every soul is swallowed. Every name forgotten. That is the law of the pit. Your father knew this. He has been fattening you for slaughter since the moment you screamed your first breath. You are his feast, Lazarus. His heir. His son—crafted only to be devoured.”
My vision swam. My stomach twisted, a molten sickness climbing up my throat. I dropped to my knees, the shadows breathing with me, feeding on the tremor of each breath.
“The only way not to die,”they whispered, tightening like chains around my mind, “is to earnyour place in ascension. Earn it, and the shadows will crown you. But know this—once crowned, you are no longer a man. You are remade in your father’s image. Hollow. Cold. A vessel emptied of love, pain, and mercy. You will no longer be Lazarus. No longer human. But a Lord of Shadows.”
“I’d rather be myself,” I rasped, voice torn and shaking. “I’d rather die here asmethan become him. I’d rather rot in this pit forever than carry his shadow in my veins.”
Their laughter erupted—cold, merciless—rattling the walls until the sound felt part of the stone itself.
“You speak bravely, but you lie. You cling to pride because you fear what you must become. But listen, Lazarus—your bloodline is powerful. Your legacy is greater than you can imagine. And if you do not rise, others will.”
The air thickened, cloying, filling my lungs like smoke. Their voices coiled tighter, striking like serpents, their venom dripping with truth.
“If you refuse, Amara will be devoured by Severen. She will be consumed as your mother was. And Salvatore—your brother in blood and betrayal—will rise in your place. He will take the crown. He will take her.He will take everything. You will be left here to die, useless, your bones chained to regret.”
The pit pulsed, its breath foul and alive, its malice beating in time with my own heart. Every word pierced deeper, drawing blood I could not see.
“You couldn’t save your mother, Lazarus James. Refuse us, and you will not save Amara either. You will watch her vanish into your father’s maw as your mother did. You will see Salvatore crowned in your stead. And you will die with the taste of failure on your tongue.”
My chest heaved, my breath jagged. The whispers crawled through me like barbed wire, stripping every nerve raw. I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw their voices out of my skull. But all that left my mouth was a broken whisper.
“How? Tell me how I earn it. If I am to ascend—if I am to escape this pit—how do I become a Shadow Lord?”
The laughter that followed was colder than death. It rippled through the ground, along my spine, vibrating in my teeth. The shadows closed in, brushing my skin like knives tracing veins.
“All men suffer. All men bleed. That alone does not crown a Shadow Lord. You must give more, Lazarus James. You must prove you are not merely broken—but that you can wield your brokenness as a weapon. Ascension is not given. It is earned.”
The pit seemed to breathe, drawing in the darkness around me until the air itself throbbed.
“Every soul that enters this place must destroy the one thing that still makes them human. That is the law of the pit. That is the price of the crown. You, Lazarus—you must kill the boy you once were. The boy of shame. The boy of hunger. The boy who still clings to innocence while the world spits in his face. Destroy him, and you may rise. Fail—and you will rot here forever.”
The pit convulsed.
The ground split like a wound. Smoke poured from the cracks, thick and choking, bleeding from the walls until it gathered shape.
And there—standing in the dark—was I.
I was no older than eight, as thin as bone, ribs pressing through skin, eyes too wide for my face. My hair hung in filthy knots, my lips cracked, my body racked with the kind of hunger that outlives the body. And yet, beneath the emptiness, there it was—hope.
My breath hitched. I shook my head violently, voice breaking.
“The boy… he’s me. He’s—he’s all I have left of who I was.”
The voices struck like lashes.
“That is why you must kill him. Crush him beneath your hands. To rise, you must destroy your innocence. Kill your shame. Kill the part of you that still dares to love.”
The pit rippled, and the black walls dissolved into something worse.
Memories.
