“You broke his nose.”
“And you dragged me away before I could finish.”
He laughed—a low, rasping sound that felt almost human. “I hated you for that,” he said. “Until I realized you were saving me.”
“You didn’t look very grateful.”
“I was ten. Gratitude wasn’t something I’d learned yet.”
For the first time in decades, I heard something that wasn’t cruelty in his voice. It was fragile, like a ghost remembering breath.
For a heartbeat, the house felt alive again. Then the moment passed.
The memory of our laughter didn’t last. Outside, the world had begun to decay.
Ugarit was starving. The barley fields had turned to dust, the fig trees shriveled black. The priests burned cedar in the temples until the smoke blotted the stars, begging the gods for rain that never came. The air smelled of salt and ash. Merchants abandoned their stalls, and soldiers dragged the dead to the cliffs when there was no more space in the crypts. Even the sea had changed—its waves too heavy, its color the dull red of blood mixed with oil.
We walked those streets without speaking. People knelt when we passed, not in reverence but in fear. They saw the shadows that clung to our heels and believed the famine itself had taken our shape. The cries of the hungry followed us to the harbor; the wind carried them up the cliffs until the sound never left our ears.
At night, we studied the sky from the terrace, charting the moon’s slow drift toward the sun. The constellations bent, lines shifting where they had held for centuries, and we recorded every movement on a clay star map, the stylus scratching over its hardened surface. The lamps smoked in the wind coming off the sea; the smell of cedar oil and brine clung to our hands. Each night, the moon moved a little nearer, and the city below sank deeper into ruin.
“A week,” Salvatore said one evening, his voice low and fevered. “Maybe less. The heavens are aligning.”
Before I could answer, a knock rattled the door. I opened it to find King Cyrus, his crown dulled by soot, and beside him Queen Seraphina wrapped in a shawl that could not hide the weight of her pregnancy. Behind them stood Captain Lior, armor scorched, eyes hollow from sleepless nights. They entered without ceremony. Even the air seemed to bend beneath their urgency.
“Lazarus,” the king said, his voice frayed. “You promised us salvation. You swore that if we allowed you to free him—” his gaze flicked toward Salvatore in the corner—“you would bring deliverance before the year’s end. It has been almost that long. Nothing has changed. Everything is worse.”
Queen Seraphina’s hand pressed against her stomach. “The famine spreads every day. The wells are empty, the fields are ash, and the people whisper that the eclipse will destroy us. I am to give birth within two weeks—tell me, will there even be a city left for my child to live in?”
Before I could speak, Salvatore stepped from the shadows, his smile thin and poisonous. “Your Majesty,” he said smoothly, bowing just enough to mock. “You haven’t changed at all. Still regal. Still terrified. And expecting a child in these times? That is almost… brave.”
Captain Lior’s spear flashed toward him. “One more word, and I’ll silence you myself.”
“Enough,” I snapped. “Both of you.”
The queen turned back to me, desperation glinting beneath her composure. “Please, Lazarus. The healers say the baby will come within a fortnight. The people say the eclipse will end us all, that the sun and moon will devour the city. I need to know—will it destroy us or save us? The people need hope.”
I looked at the tome on the table. Its leather cover trembled, as if aware of her voice. “When the sun and moon meet, the shadows will reveal the final words,” I said. “We cannot force them before their time.”
“You told us that months ago,” the king growled. “And still, they are silent.”
The anger that had been simmering for weeks finally broke. I struck the table, the jars rattling against the wood. “Do you think I enjoy waiting? Do you think I have not begged them for answers while the world decays?”
Seraphina flinched at the sound. I exhaled and forced my voice steady. “I have asked for the final instructions, and the shadows give me nothing. You must be patient with me. I am doing everything in my power—with Salvatore—to make it happen.”
The queen’s tone softened, the desperation in her eyes dimming to weary faith. “We believe you. Both of you. The people still whisper your names as a prayer, not a curse. For that, I thank you.”
I inclined my head. “Go home, Majesty. Rest. Your child will come soon, and fear will not help you bear it. Let us handle what comes next. I promise you.”
King Cyrus placed a hand on her back, guiding her toward the door. Captain Lior followed, as silent as the stone he guarded. When the door closed behind them, their footsteps faded into the wind.
The room sagged into quiet. The sea beat against the cliffs below, the sound as heavy as a heartbeat.
Salvatore watched the retreating torches from the window. “Promises, promises,” he murmured. “You give them hope the way priests sell absolution. At least they can be bought.”
I ignored him and turned back to the tome. Its cover quivered under the lamplight. I placed my hand on it. “Shadows,” I said, “the sun and the moon are nearly one. Tell us what comes next.”
The book burst open, pages fluttering like wings, light flaring through the cracks. The lamps extinguished themselves; the room plunged into cold darkness. Then the voices came—smooth, layered, endless.
