“More. Take more.”
Her lips lingered against mine one last time, tasting of salt and smoke. When she pulled away, her tears caught the torchlight, streaking her face.
She didn’t look back as she turned, Marianna’s book pressed tight to her chest.
“Go,” I whispered after her, though my throat felt like it was closing.
Her footsteps faded into the corridor, swallowed by the Dreadhold’s endless dark.
I stood there for a moment longer, her taste burning on my lips, the shadows writhing in satisfaction. Then I turned to the table. The vessel sat sealed in cloth, steam curling from its rim.
I gripped it in both hands.
“This ends tonight,” I muttered, my voice rasping against the stone.
The shadows hissed their agreement—low, eager, slavering.
I left Severen’s chamber and stepped into the darkened corridor.
The torches along the walls burned low, their flames thin, as if even the fire recoiled from what I carried. The air was heavy with smoke and the sour stench of old incense. My feet scraped against the stone, each step echoing through the passage.
The vessel pressed against my side, warm beneath the wrappings, the heat of the brew alive within.
Ahead lay the great hall, and Severen.
If Salvatore had done his part—if he had freed the prisoners—then the two of us would meet there before the night was through.
I prayed, though the words felt foreign in my mouth.
Prayed to gods that had long since turned their faces from this place.
Prayed that Salvatore had succeeded.
Because if he had not, the cries of the innocent would haunt these stones until the end of days.
Chapter24
Salvatore
Inever understood what it meant to burn until the shadows made their home inside me.
Becoming a Shadow Lord was not a gift. It was a possession.
They didn’t live beside you—they livedwithinyou.
They coiled through the bones, nested in the marrow, and whispered from the hollows of your chest. They breathed when you breathed. They hungered when you raged.
I felt them now, writhing beneath my skin, waiting to be fed.
Black coils seeped from my arms, twisting over my flesh like living ink. They drank what I offered them—not blood, not flesh, but what ran deeper—fear, anguish, despair. The ache of others filled them. The ruin of men sustained them.
And I had given them much to feast upon.
Lazarus kissed Amara in front of me. I saw her clutch him, her mouth pressed to his as if the world would end without him. He promised to protect her, as if he hadn’t already stolen everything that should have been mine.
He had always been the chosen one.
The favored one.
