“To save Ugarit,” I said, “we need something greater than crowns and spears. Something that lies beyond the reach of men.”
I took one step closer to the bars. The air hummed—heat, fear, memory.
“I must create a traveler of time.”
For a heartbeat, he only stared. Then his mouth split wide, laughter bursting from him. It rolled through the cell, bouncing from stone to stone, until the cavern itself seemed to mock me.
“A traveler of time?” he barked at last. “Have you finally gone mad? Time bends for no one. Not kings. Not gods. Not the damned.”
“The Tome of Shadows says otherwise,” I cut in, my voice sharp enough to flay. “It can be done. But not by one of us alone. The river will not yield to a single hand. It must be bound by two.”
His laughter stopped.
The silence that followed was as thick as oil.
The air stirred around him. His shadows rose from the floor like smoke uncoiling, twisting about his shoulders, eager and restless. Hunger gleamed in his eyes—not surprise, not fear, but recognition.
“Together,” he murmured, voice slow, tasting the word as if it were wine.
“If we succeed,” I said, “the traveler could stop the famine before it began. Strike down traitors before they open our gates. Forge alliances before they sour. Ugarit could live again. The people would sing your name.”
Salvatore tilted his head, the chains clinking softly, almost tenderly.
“And the tome chose me?” he asked, his voice slick, serpent-smooth.
“Yes,” I said. “The shadows chose you.”
He smiled, slow and poisonous.
“My, my. How flattering. I feel?—”
“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t you fucking start.”
His laughter tore through the cavern, raw and harsh, echoing off the stone until it sounded like the earth itself was laughing with him.
“Still the same fire,” he said. “I must admit, it suits you, old friend. Seventy-five, and still cursing. Age has worn your face thin, but the anger remains.”
I stepped closer, the torchlight biting across his features. “And you,” I said, “have rotted behind your smirk. No amount of shadow-feeding can hide what you’ve become. Look at you—hair gone to white, skin to ash. Even your shadows are starving.”
“Careful,” he purred. “You sound like a man rehearsing mercy.”
I laughed once, short and bitter.
“Mercy died the night you did,” I said. “You murdered my mother. You killed Amara. You destroyed everything I built because you couldn’t bear to be second to anyone.”
The torch guttered in the damp air. Shadows crawled along the walls, restless and listening.
I took a slow step closer, letting the firelight cut across his face.
“Maybe I should leave you here,” I said. “Maybe I’ll find another—someone untainted, young, strong—and make him a Shadow Lord instead. Or perhaps I’ll break Severen’s tomb and let him take your place. The possibilities are endless.”
The smile slid from his mouth. The shadows around him tightened like coils.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would,” I said. “And I’d sleep better for it.”
For a heartbeat, only the rattle of iron answered. The weight of my own mistake pressed through my ribs; I should never have come here, never have asked this thing for help.
