“How?” I breathed.
“You must bleed,”the shadows said.“Draw the blood of shadow and man—his blood and yours, joined with ours. The queen will be the offering—the vessel of life. She will not die, but she will feed the circle. Her pain, her screams, her agony, her child, her blood—all must be within when the chant begins. When you begin the ritual again with Lazarus… hold his bloodied hands in yours, and the shadows will emerge together from you both. When your tattoos ignite and the darkness joins as one—embrace him as the brother he once was, whole and broken. When it completes, the shadows will be your children in the flesh. The darkness will walk the world beside the time travelers.”
The queen clutched her belly, each breath a battle. Her cries weren’t those of weakness but of defiance—the sound of a woman who refused to die before her child had lived.
Her husband knelt beside her, his hands steady even as blood spread through her gown. His voice was low, a murmur against the chaos outside, his strength anchoring her while the world burned.
It was that love—unyielding, fierce, blind to ruin—that kept her alive. Love that made mortals fearless before gods.
I watched them, that devotion burning between them like a torch in the dark, and envy rose in me.
That was what I’d wanted once—to be that strength for someone, to have that purpose. To create life, not destroy it.
Lazarus looked up, wild-eyed, sweat streaking his face. “We must finish what we started—before it’s too late!”
I nodded, careful, calm. “Yes,” I said. “But we’ll need the queen and the child inside the circle. They will be protected there.”
He didn’t hesitate. He helped King Cyrus lift her into the chalk ring. The white lines glowed beneath her feet, brightening wherever her blood touched the stone. The shadows shivered, hissing their approval, the sound like knives dragged across silk.
I turned to Lazarus. “There’s one thing we forgot.”
He blinked, distracted. “What?”
“The blood,” I said evenly. “We never gave it. Without it, the bond won’t hold.”
He cursed under his breath. “You’re right.”
He drew his dagger and cut his palm, the blade gleaming in the half-light. “Together, then.”
I did the same, though my wound was deeper. Our blood dripped into the circle—black and red swirling together before sinking into the chalk. We dropped our daggers inside the ring.
For a moment, the world stood still, as if the heavens themselves leaned in to listen.
The air grew heavy, trembling with light and shadow. The tomes began to whisper again, their pages breathing smoke. The markings on our arms flared to life—silver, gold, and black—winding up our skin in burning spirals that pulsed with the same heartbeat as the earth.
Without speaking, Lazarus reached out.
I met him halfway.
Our bloodied hands joined, fingers locking tight. Blood mixed—mine, his, the shadows’. The contact burned, but we didn’t let go. We both knew this was the price. The circle’s light crawled up around us, and our shadows twisted together beneath our feet until we could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
We began to chant.
“Oh Sun, judge of fire,
“Oh Moon, keeper of silence,
“Witness this offering.
“Let the light break, let the shadow drink,
“Let the past bleed, and the future scream.
“Let the heavens tremble, let the earth unmake,
“For we are the wound where time will wake.
“By our blood the circle turns,
