They surged like a black tide, shrieking in triumph, voices a thousand knives scraping like bone.
“You killed the boy. You destroyed your innocence. You stripped away your last chain. You are ours now.”
Pain split me open. My ribs cracked like glass beneath the weight of their joy.
Black fire ignited in my chest, spilling through my veins until they glowed beneath my skin, a map of ruin and rebirth. I convulsed as it burned me from within.
I clawed at my throat, at the air that refused me. Blood filled my mouth, thick and metallic. My screams tore through the pit and came back to me warped, hollow, no longer human.
The shadows poured into me, flooding my lungs, crawling into my spine. I felt them feast—on memory, on mercy, on the fragile soul that once belonged to a boy who wanted to be good.
My heart burst.
My lungs collapsed.
My body crumbled into ash.
The pit took it all—soul and flesh, shattered, consumed.
There was no light. No warmth.
No boy left to mourn.
No goodness to hold.
Only silence.
And in that silence, I made my choice.
I rose.
Slowly, I dragged myself upright. My legs shook, ribs grinding together, blood dripping down my skin like ink. My veins burned black, the fire crawling higher, etching sigils across my arms and spine—marks that shimmered like metal pulled from the forge. My lungs filled with something that was not air but shadowfire.
Behind me, my shadow tore itself free. It rose immense and snarling, its edges alive, its chains thrashing like serpents. The creature bowed before me, teeth bared in worship. Then, like smoke drawn into flame, it slid back into me—melding, binding, becoming part of my marrow.
The pit shuddered. The walls cracked. The ground split beneath my feet.
And the voices changed—no longer taunting, but reverent.
“Most men suffer. Most men bleed. Most men die. But you, Lazarus James—you gave us yourself. You killed what you were. You chose the crown over your soul. You earned your place, not as a man, but as a monster. You are a Shadow Lord.”
Their voices coiled inward, whispering into the hollow of my chest.
“You clung to goodness. You begged to stay yourself. But in the end, you chose power. You chose purpose. You chose to destroy Severen, to save Amara, to free the forsaken. That was your last act of mercy. And mercy always dies last.”
A low tremor crawled through the pit, as though the earth itself bowed.
I stood in the dark, my body lit with veins of black fire, steam rising from my lips with every breath.
My eyes burned, rings of shadow eclipsing what color once remained.
I was hollow. Empty.
The boy was gone.
The goodness was gone.
But I had risen.
