Even in his restraint.
Even in that self-righteous calm, I despised.
Even in his damned compassion that I could never understand.
And now he had come back to me.
Not to forgive. Not to reconcile. But to bargain.
To make something greater than either of us—to rip open the skin of time itself and craft a weapon the world had never seen.
It would remake us both.
He thought it would save Ugarit.
But I knew better; this was my second chance.
Not at mercy. Not at redemption. At creation.
Tome had truly given us a door.
Through it, I would tear Severen’s curse from my flesh.
Through it, I would unmake what was done to me.
Through it, I would create life at last—something that breathed, something that called me father with a voice instead of a whisper.
And if the price was the world, then so be it.
Lazarus stood before the open tome, his hand resting on the parchment, his face lit by its infernal glow. The light illuminated the hard lines of his features, painting him in fire and shadow—and for a fleeting heartbeat, I almost saw the boy I had once called brother, before the world and its darkness turned us both into monsters.
“What does it say?” I asked, though I could already feel the answer creeping through my veins.
He didn’t answer.
The voices came instead.
The shadows poured from the tome in coils of smoke and ink, the sound of a hundred whispering throats speaking as one. Their words filled the room, sinking into the marrow.
“To create a traveler of time, the sun and moon must align,”they said.“Their fire and shadow must become one. Only then will the river open.”
The torches trembled; their flames flattened into thin black tongues.
“When the heavens darken, when day dies into night, that is when the traveler will draw its first breath. But the world must wait. One year. One full cycle of stars. The sun and moon must collide, and the constellations must bear witness.”
Lazarus’ jaw locked.
“A year?” His voice cracked. “Ugarit will not last that long.”
The shadows hissed, their laughter soft and merciless.
“The heavens cannot be hurried. You must wait. And you must feed us.”
The pages rippled; ink bled into new lines before our eyes, glowing as though carved by unseen hands.
“One year of feeding,”they said.“One year of pain and memory. We must drink what the gods once tasted and lost. Without it, the heavens will remain closed.”
Lazarus’ hand curled into a fist.
