And I could not forget that.
A foot soldier appeared; his face streaked with filth and blood.
“Turtanu summons you both,” he said. “Bring the head.”
I turned toward the stake. The skull leered at me from its pike, jaw slack, eyes hollow. I gripped it and tore it free with a wet snap. Blood clung to my fingers, tacky and thick. Flies swarmed instantly, their wings buzzing like a whispered curse.
I trailed behind Salvatore and the soldier, clutching the head like a grim badge of honor.
When we reached the war pavilion, a guard stepped forward, arm outstretched, and barred Salvatore with a firm gesture.
“Only you,” he said, nodding toward me.
Salvatore’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
I glanced at him once, then stepped past the canvas flaps into Turtanu’s tent.
The air inside was heavy—thick with burning cedar and sweat. A brazier burned in the center, its smoke curling against the crimson-dyed walls. Shadows writhed across the fabric like ghosts, restless and waiting.
Two guards stood at the entrance, as silent as statues.
The war table before me was littered with tablets, scrolls, and maps marked in blood. Behind it stood Turtanu.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the way a predator moved when it didn’t need to prove itself.
“Kneel,” he said.
I dropped to my knees, the severed head still warm in my hands.
“Hand me the skull.”
I extended the offering.
Turtanu took it with a reverence that bordered on ritual, turning it in his scarred hands as though presenting it to gods who had long since gone silent.
“He doesn’t look so fearsome now, does he, Commander James?”
“No, my lord of war,” I said, my voice steady though bile threatened my throat. I could not look away from the hollow gaze of the dead chief—glass-eyed, frozen, vacant. I blinked, forcing the sickness down, banishing the ghost that seemed to linger behind that expression.
Turtanu nodded slowly, contemplative. His calloused fingers curled into the blood-matted hair.
“No, indeed,” he said. “Reduced to meat and bone. Nothing more than a whisper in the wind.”
He set the head down atop a worn, leather-bound tablet—its presence a grim punctuation on the story we had written in blood.
Then his gaze returned to me. His eyes burned like the coals in the brazier—quiet, smoldering, unforgiving.
“You led the army of Ugarit with honor, Lazarus. With clarity. With courage—when others… faltered.”
A swell of pride rose in my chest.
But it didn’t last.
From outside the tent came a sound—low, guttural, clipped. The sound a man made when trying not to cry out like a breath caught in the throat. A pride swallowed.
Salvatore.
I inhaled slowly, keeping my expression composed as Turtanu stepped closer.
