The word struck us both. It hollowed my chest until the breath crawling out of me felt like wing-bones breaking. Bile rose hot and bitter in my throat.
Lazarus’ roar shattered the silence. “What? I ascended because it was the only way—because becoming like him was the only way to end Severen!”
The shadows closed in, a chorus tightening without mercy, their sound as slick as oil and colder than iron.
“You cannot kill a Shadow Lord,”they intoned.“They do not die. They endure. They feed on agony, on desire, on fear. The shadows bind them to being. Death finds no purchase on what is made of shadow.”
Lazarus stepped closer, the dark flame in his eyes flaring until the tattoos beneath his skin glowed like embers. “Then how?” he demanded, voice ragged with grief and hunger. “How do we end him?”
The whispers wound around us, slow and as precise as a noose.
“You must do the following two things,”they said.“First—strip him. The Noctyss flower, born of this pit and reviled by shadow, can peel his power away. It thins the dark until it is brittle, mortal. Use it, and his strength may be unmade.”
They paused, the hush a blade. Then the voices sank deeper, every word as heavy as a tombstone.
“Second—and listen well, for this is the only true end a Shadow Lord can know—bind him. Trap him in his own shadow; seal him as Marianna was sealed; lock him away within the pages of his own making. A Shadow Lord cannot be slain by steel or fire. He can only be imprisoned inside his tome. He bound Marianna and the others, but they were not killed. They were penned, page by page, until nothing of them moved. That is the only way.”
The pit answered with a shudder that ran through stone and bone, as if the cavern itself understood the price of such a binding.
“But know this,”the chorus warned, the sound colder than any blade,“a Shadow Lord is never truly slain and only stripped and trapped. Only when his power is bared and his name is bound will he be held. He will rot in Shadow Hell—until, perhaps, another takes his place. One must give up life, freedom, and the self to take one’s prison. The cost is infinite. The torment is unending. So, they remain—bound, forgotten, waiting.”
I tasted ash. The chamber felt smaller, the air a coffin. The promise of victory curled into something terrible—victory bought with sacrifice no living man could bear without becoming what he swore to destroy.
I forced the words through my dry throat.
“Where do we find the flower? Where is the Noctyss?”
The shadows stirred—like a thousand wings tearing through the dark, the sound of every whisper breaking in unison.
“Severen keeps it close,”they breathed.“Encased in glass. You have seen it. It sits beside him even now—protected. Precious. You must take it from him.”
My grip tightened around the tome until the leather moaned.
“And if we touch it?”
The whispers turned venomous, pressing against my skull.
“You must be careful. Even the air it breathes is poison to us. Inhaling it weakens. Touching it strips. Drinking it annihilates. The flower devours everything you have endured—every scar, every trial, every lash of power. The Noctyss is death to shadow. Reach for it, and you will lose us. You will lose everything.”
The pit fell silent.
Then the shadows coiled as one, pressing into my ears, my chest, my very marrow until their voices merged into a single tone that shook my bones.
“Remember this above all—your tome must always remain with you. If it strays too far, you lose us, and you become powerless. The bond between you and the tome cannot be severed. Protect it as you would your own flesh. You have learned all you need. This is your fate now and forever. We live in you. We breathe in you. We whisper in you. We will never leave you.”
The blackness convulsed, collapsing inward like smoke devouring itself. The walls folded and the pit imploded, pulling in light, sound, and air. My vision blurred; my veins burned. The marks writhed beneath my skin, glowing like living brands, like serpents of molten fire.
Ahead, the mirror shimmered.
A portal tore itself open—jagged and radiant, edges seething with shadowfire. The air howled as reality split.
With a rush of monstrous power, Lazarus and I stepped forward—our tomes clutched tight, our tattoos blazing. The last threads of our humanity snapped behind us like the dying echoes of a prayer.
We emerged from the Pit of Shadows changed.
Scarred. Unrecognizable.
The darkness had remade us.
