There was no chant, no spell. Only feeling.
He reached out, not with his hands, but with something deeper. His gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes reflected the laughter.
Then I felt it—the pull.
The joy of those children rippled through the air, drawn toward him, drawn through him. The sound folded in on itself, fading until it was gone.
The village fell silent. The children froze mid-step, confusion flickering across their faces.
Lazarus closed the jar.
The glass glowed, warmth still pulsing through it like a dying heartbeat. Lazarus held the jar close, his eyes reflecting the dim light inside.
“The first one is done,” he said quietly.
I looked past him, toward the children—their laughter gone, their faces turned upward in confusion. One of them began to cry, and another called out for her mother. The ache in my chest burned enough to make me hate it.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Lazarus murmured. “Pure joy. Untouched.”
I forced a smile. “Beautiful,” I said, though the word felt like ash.
As we walked back toward the cliffs, the shadows followed us, whispering in a dozen voices that slid between our thoughts.
“Feed us. Feed us again. Joy first, sorrow next. The jars must drink all that the heart can bleed.”
The wind whipped around us, carrying their words into the night.
Lazarus clutched the jar close to his chest, the glow seeping through the folds of his cloak.
When we returned to the house, he placed it on the table beside the tome. The shadows gathered around it like moths drawn to flame. Their hum filled the room—a sound somewhere between a heartbeat and a growl.
I stood beside him, silent, staring at what we had taken.
The jar glowed, its light steady and alive. The laughter we had stolen still echoed inside my skull. I wanted to crush it. Not as joy—but as loss.
My voice broke the silence. “You know what the shadows said,” I murmured. “About our bond. It has to be rebuilt.”
He turned to me slowly. “And you think that’s possible?”
I clenched my jaw. “It has to be.”
Lazarus laughed—a hollow, broken sound. “You think you can just bring that back into being? After everything? You think I’ve forgotten what you took from me?”
The torchlight flickered between us, painting his face in amber and shadow.
“You took everything,” he said.
“Amara. My mother. My life. You chained me in the dark and took me to the Dreadhold with you. It will take more than a jar of laughter to fix what’s broken.”
I met his gaze, unflinching. “Then we’ll have to start somewhere.”
Lazarus’ voice cracked, the fury inside it barely contained. “You think it’s that simple? That I can just—forget? That I can pretend you didn’t rip my life apart?”
His shadows trembled against the wall, jagged and restless.
“You destroyed everything, Salvatore. You made me bury her. You made me buryus.”
I stepped closer, the floor groaning beneath my weight. “And yet here we are,” I said quietly. “You brought me out of my prison. You need me.”
