Fifty years had passed since the war that bound us, since Severen’s curses carved our fates into the very stones of the city. Fifty years, and still his shadow clung to me—like Ugarit itself, refusing to die.
I sat upon my stool before the narrow slit in the wall that served as a window. The sea wind hissed through it, sharp with salt and decay. The shadows curled and whispered around me ceaselessly, their murmurs blending with the distant thunder of waves.
Peace would never come.
Silence would never return.
When the strangers came, I felt them long before their sandals touched the threshold.
The air shifted, heavy and expectant, as though the sea itself held its breath.
I did not rise.
Few ever dared approach this far along the cliffs.
But when a knock sounded against the cedar door—three quick raps, hesitant but real—I froze. The shadows around me stirred like smoke caught in the wind.
Who would seek me here?
I pushed myself to my feet. The bronze latch was cold beneath my fingers, rough with salt. The door groaned against its weight of years as I pulled it open.
Captain Lior stood there, his polished armor dulled with road dust, his posture weary from the long climb to my cliffside dwelling. Behind him stood two figures cloaked in deep-green, hoods drawn low.
I knew them before they spoke.
I stepped aside.
The king and queen entered without ceremony, their cloaks whispering across my stone floor. The queen swept back her mantle first. Her once-radiant hair, a river of gold, was now streaked with silver. Her mouth was set tight, lips pale, eyes shadowed with fear. The scent of sea salt and oil clung to her robes, an echo of the dying city below.
King Cyrus followed, moving heavier than I remembered him. His shoulders sagged under invisible weight. No crown adorned his head. The lines at the corners of his eyes were carved deep, his skin sallow with exhaustion.
I closed the door with a dull thud, nodding once to the captain, who remained stationed outside. The bronze latch slid into place with a tired groan. The sound seemed to wake the house itself—the shadows along the walls stirring, like breath drawn in anticipation.
Only when the air settled did the queen speak.
“Our city is falling apart,” Queen Seraphina said.
“I know,” I answered. My voice came out low, steady, the shadows whispering around each word like breath caught between worlds.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper, as though even the walls might betray her. “My dear Shadow Lord… the pirates have breached the southern coast. Famine in Rema has gutted our granaries. The people whisper of revolt. Even the priests bar their doors and refuse us an audience.”
“I heard,” I said again, my voice like stone.
She sighed, her composure cracking. “Our enemies grow bolder by the second, and our friends… our friends have vanished.” Her usual stoic voice hesitating, just once, before she caught herself.
“And your spies?” I asked, leaning against the wall, my shadows curling at my feet like smoke.
“All dead,” said King Cyrus, his words flat, drained of life. “I sent spies and ambassadors, assassins and mercenaries. I sent them everywhere. But it was too late.”
Seraphina’s gaze fixed on me, sharp and unblinking despite the silver in her hair. “You have served us faithfully all these years, Lazarus. You have never asked for anything. But this… this is beyond us.”
I said nothing. Silence was my only shield.
“But now,” she pressed, her hands trembling though her voice sought firmness, “we must ask the impossible.” She paused, gathering the last of her dignity. “If we could go back in time… we could stop the famine before it took root. We could slit the traitors’ throats before they opened our gates. We could forge alliances before they soured. In short, we could save Ugarit.”
A shiver rippled through me, a cold whisper in my darkened heart. Somewhere behind me, the tome pulsed against its chains, a slow heartbeat of shadow, as though it, too, listened.
“What are you asking of me?”
