The air outside stung my lungs—cold and salted by the sea. My cloak snapped in the wind as I descended the steps, each strike of my sandals on stone echoing like thunder.
Nyros waited in the yard, restless as if he had felt the hour long before I did. His dark flanks quivered, hooves pawing the packed earth, his mane tossing like a storm breaking against the coast. The leather reins gleamed with fresh oil, the saddle pad already strapped tight by another’s hands. Helena’s order, no doubt. A last kindness—or another reminder that even beyond her walls, I carried her mark.
I mounted. The stallion shifted beneath me, muscles as tight as drawn bowstrings, breath steaming white into the bitter dawn. For a moment, I looked back at the house I’d left. Its pale mudbrick walls loomed silent, shuttered windows concealing her figure. She was there—I could feel it—watching through the dark with that venomous smile, pleased to see me ride off with her taste still burning in my blood.
I drove my heels into Nyros’ sides. He surged forward, hooves striking sparks from stone, carrying me into the narrow streets of Ugarit. The city was waking, bakers lifting flatbread from clay ovens, women bending over stone wells with jars balanced on their hips, children scattering gulls that screamed overhead like restless spirits. Yet silence followed wherever I passed. Faces turned. Eyes tracked me, heavy with the reality of war. They knew where men like me were bound—and how few ever came back.
The walls of Ugarit fell behind me. The road opened, dust curling under Nyros’ hooves, the horizon bleeding with dawn. And there, waiting at the edge of his house, I saw them.
Lazarus and Amara.
He stood like stone, shoulders squared beneath a rough cloak, his horse bridled and ready at his side. Amara pressed close, her hand fixed to his arm, her hair stirring in the salt wind. Her gaze never touched me. It was locked on him—eyes swollen from weeping, yet burning with something Helena had never given me. Not venom. Not deceit. But fear. Devotion. Love.
I drew Nyros to a halt, the stallion stamping hard at the earth, eager to run. My eyes lingered on the two of them—Lazarus, unbending in his quiet strength, Amara clinging to him as though the gods themselves might tear him away.
And for a moment, I hated them.
Not because they had what I didn’t.
But because they made me remember.
I had always wanted love. Real love. And it had never been mine. Not from my father, who gave me nothing but silence and rage. Not from Helena, whose kisses tasted of poison and chains. The only love I’d ever known came from friendship—from Lazarus’ loyalty, from Amara’s kindness—and even that had chosen itself without me, binding them together while I stood outside.
I wanted what they had—someone to wait for me, someone to care whether I returned, someone to look at me with devotion instead of calculation.
I led Nyros forward, the stallion restless beneath my hand.
Lazarus turned at the sound of hooves, his jaw set, his face shadowed beneath the hood of his cloak. He looked older than his years, as though the war had already laid its hand upon him.
“Salvatore,” he said quietly. “You came.”
“Of course I came,” I answered, my voice rougher than I intended, the memory of Helena’s kiss still burning in my blood.
Amara clung to Lazarus’ arm, her eyes red from weeping. “You don’t have to go,” she whispered, looking between us. “Either of you. You could stay—you could live.”
Lazarus bent and pressed his lips to her brow. “I swore I’d return,” he murmured. “This is for us. For the future.”
Her tears fell again, her whole frame trembling. Then she turned to me.
I slipped from Nyros’ back, my leather sandals striking the packed earth, and for a heartbeat, she just stared at me. Then she stepped forward and threw her arms around me, holding me with a desperate strength that knocked the air from my chest. For a moment, I didn’t move. My hands hovered, uncertain—then I folded her against me, letting myself feel what I knew would never be mine.
When she pulled back, she kissed my cheek, her lips trembling.
“I want you both to be safe,” she whispered. “No matter what happens… come back. Both of you.”
I swallowed hard, unable to answer. All I managed was a nod, swift and small, while her devotion sliced into me. Because she meant it, she loved us both. But only one of us carried her heart.
Lazarus mounted his horse, shoulders squared against the dawn. I vaulted back onto Nyros, settling against the plain pad strapped to his back, the reins tight in my grip.
Amara stood behind us, arms wrapped around herself as if to hold in the pieces we had torn from her.
I saw it all. The love in her eyes. The faith she placed in him. The way her soul clung to both of us, though in the end it belonged to Lazarus.
And I hated it.
Not her. Not him.
But the hollow place in me where that kind of love had never lived.
