“How?”
The answer came as a sigh that shook the walls.
“You will gather emotion as tribute,”the voices replied.“Not flesh. Not blood. Memory. You will harvest the feelings that make mortals tremble—the laughter of children, the tears of mothers, the anger of fathers, the sorrow of loss, the ache of love. You will gather them all.”
The words sank into the page like a spell searing flesh.
“Each emotion you capture must be sealed in glass. Each joy, each agony, each moment of innocence and ruin—preserve them. Bind them with salt and shadow. When the eclipse comes, you will lay these jars before us for judgment. If the memories are pure, if the bond between you is whole, we will accept the offering.”
The smoke twisted, the whispers growing sharper.
“But if your bond is fractured—if the trust that once joined you remains broken—we will reject the offering. The river will turn upon you, and the year of feeding will be nothing but ash.”
Lazarus took a step back, his breath sharp in the still air.
“No. This isn’t what I asked for.”
The shadows writhed, laughter slithering through the chamber like serpents.
“You cannot choose the shape of sacrifice,”they whispered.“Only its price.”
They swirled tighter, their forms blurring into the rising smoke.
“Your bond must be reforged,”they said.“As it was when you were young—before betrayal, before blood. You must remember what it was to be one soul divided in two. Only through the echo of your childhood can the shadows drink. Laughter. Joy. Pain. Suffering. Recreate them. Live them. Feed them to us.”
Lazarus’ breath caught.
“Never again,” he said.
“Then you will fail,”the shadows hissed.“The river will stay closed, and time will remain unbroken.”
The tome’s light flickered, spilling across the walls as the shadows spoke again—voices layered and patient, as eternal as stone.
“You will watch the heavens,”they said.“When the sun and moon begin their slow dance, when the constellations shift and the stars form patterns not seen in a thousand years, you will know the time is near.”
The words carved themselves into the parchment, each line glowing and fading like embers.
“The eclipse will not come suddenly. It will whisper first. You will see the signs—the stars twisting into unfamiliar places, the moon drawing closer to the sun. You will know it a day before it begins, when the sky hums and the light turns strange.”
Lazarus lifted his head, eyes keen. “How long until that happens?”
“It can come sooner than the full year,”the shadows replied.“Nine moons, perhaps less. The heavens do not move by mortal measure. But it will not be longer than a year. You must watch. You must be ready.”
Their laughter rippled through the chamber like the wind passing over graves.
“When the signs appear, you will have one night to prepare. Gather all that you have fed us—the jars of emotion, sealed with salt and shadow, filled with laughter, with pain, with the breath of your childhood. Bring them to the place where the eclipse will fall. There, beneath the blackened sun, the judgment will begin.”
I felt my mouth curve into a slow smile. “So, we are to drown in nostalgia.”
Lazarus turned toward me, his face tight, his eyes aflame. “This isn’t a game, Salvatore.”
“Oh, but it is,” I said softly. “A year of feeding the darkness with the sweetest things we once had? Tell me, brother, isn’t that what we’ve been doing all our lives?”
He said nothing.
The tome’s light flared, its pages alive with movement, the ink shifting like blood beneath skin.
“Begin feeding us,”the shadows commanded.“Gather laughter. Gather grief. Rebuild what was broken. When the heavens align, we will see if your bond is worthy. When the feeding is complete and the sun devours the moon,”they intoned,“you will stand together beneath its darkness. Only then will the next words be given.”
