The smoke dispersed, leaving the room heavy and still.
We stood there—two men bound by a curse, surrounded by empty jars waiting to be filled.
Lazarus stared down at the page, the torchlight trembling in his grasp.
“One year,” he said under his breath. “Perhaps less.”
I smiled.
“Then we have no time to waste.”
* * *
The sea beat against the cliffs outside Lazarus’ house, the sound rising through the stone like a pulse.
It was a strange place—clean, austere, too quiet for a man who had lived in war. The air smelled of salt and ash, and the hiss of the wind seeped through every crack in the shutters.
I had forgotten what freedom felt like, and this didn’t feel like it.
The table stood at the center of the room, covered with empty jars. Lazarus stood beside them, motionless. The torchlight danced along his cheekbones, painting him in gold and shadow.
The tome sat open before him, but the pages were still. It had said all it needed to say.
But the shadows’ words had not left us.
Gather laughter. Gather grief. Rebuild what was broken.
Our first task—capture joy.
It sounded simple enough, but joy was rare in Ugarit now. The markets were empty, the fields barren. The people laughed in whispers, like they feared the sound itself.
Lazarus had found a village beyond the southern cliffs—a place where children still played in the dust, where music sometimes rose to chase away the hunger. That was where we went.
I followed him through the alleys, our cloaks drawn tight, the jars clinking softly in the satchel on his back. The wind carried the scent of barley.
When we reached the square, the sound of laughter found us first.
It struck like light through fog.
Children chased one another around a broken fountain, their feet kicking up clouds of dust. Their laughter was wild, pure—the kind of sound that once filled me with warmth.
Now, it filled me with ache.
I watched them from the shadows of a crumbling archway.
Every shriek of delight twisted through me like a blade.
Loveless. Childless. Empty.
Severen’s curse still clung to my bones like a brand.
I once wanted to be a father—more than a king, more than a god. I wanted to build something that would outlive me.
But every woman I touched had turned cold beneath my hands, every chance for life swallowed before it began.
Now, watching those children, I felt the enormity of every failure.
Lazarus crouched in the shadows at the edge of the village and simplywatched. The jar rested in his hands, and I saw his shoulders tense as though he were holding his breath. The air around him began to change—thicker, charged, alive.
