Shadow Lords.
Cursed. Branded. Bound forever.
And ready to exact revenge.
Chapter23
Lazarus
The world tore open.
One heartbeat, we were drowning in whispers, shadows ripping through our veins; the next, we were hurled into a chamber that smelled of smoke and sweat. The air scorched my lungs, heavy with incense that had soured into rot. Torchlight clawed at the walls, catching on velvet drapes the color of dried blood. Perfume, wine, and the metallic bite of chains mingled thick enough to choke.
I hit the floor hard, bones rattling, as Salvatore landed beside me. My tome was still clutched tight to my chest, its weight burning through my ribs like a brand. Power surged inside me—raw, violent, alive. Shadows writhed beneath my skin, coiling through my veins like serpents newly woken. They hissed, clawed, begged to be fed. I pressed them down, but they fought, eager and hungry.
“Lazarus…?”
I looked up, and Amara’s wide brown eyes caught mine, as deep as the earth after rain, filled with the kind of sorrow that only gods could envy.
She was bound to Severen’s bed. Black silks tangled beneath her, torn and damp. Iron cuffs bit into her wrists and ankles, her skin rubbed raw where she had fought them. Her dress hung in rags, exposing the bruises beneath. Her hair spilled across the pillow like a dark river, matted to her tear-streaked face. A thin line of blood marked her mouth, bright against the pale.
The room around her was a shrine to cruelty.
Mirrors ringed the walls, reflecting her from every angle. Leather straps hung loose from the bedposts, chains swayed from the ceiling. A table beside the bed gleamed with iron tools, all polished, all waiting. Every inch of it reeked of him—Severen’s indulgence, Severen’s appetite.
“Amara!”
Salvatore continued to observe our surroundings as I lunged forward, fury igniting in my veins. The shadows surged with it, flaring like black flame beneath my skin. I slammed my hands against the chains, rattling them so hard the bed shuddered.
She flinched. Her eyes met mine—wide, wild—and then drifted lower to my arms.
Her voice broke when she spoke. “Lazarus… what happened to you?”
I froze, breath catching as I looked down.
Black coils of ink pulsed beneath my skin, alive, writhing like serpents eager to strike. My scars were gone. Every lash, every burn, every wound carved into me during the trials—erased. My flesh was whole again, remade, humming with a power that didn’t belong to me.
Amara recoiled. The chains clattered as she pulled back, silks twisting around her trembling form. Her eyes filled with horror, wide and shimmering in the torchlight.
And that was when I understood.
I wasn’t the man who had loved her in the alleys, who had shared stolen bread beneath broken lanterns, who had promised her a life beyond hunger. That man had burned away in the pit.
All that power thrumming inside me meant nothing when I looked at her.
My throat tightened, words scraping raw against the back of my teeth.
“Did he… did he violate you? Did he hurt you?”
Her body shook against the chains, tears spilling fast down her cheeks. She shook her head violently, her voice barely more than a broken whisper.
“No… no, Lazarus. He didn’t. I disobeyed him. I fought him… and he punished me. He chained me here.”
Her words broke like glass inside my chest. The shadows inside me hissed in response—low, eager, hungry for blood. They wanted vengeance. They wantedhim.
“What have you become?” she whispered.
The question gutted me.
