“This war has drained us,” he said. “It’s bled the land dry and bled the men who tread it even drier. But you—” he leaned in, his voice thick with solemn truth, “—you reminded us what discipline can do. You brought us victory, even when the gods turned their backs.”
He reached behind the war table into a carved cedar chest and drew out a small pouch—its drawstrings frayed, its fabric stained from years of handling. Yet the weight of it was unmistakable.
He placed it in my hands.
“Your promised gold,” he said. “It’s a pittance for what you’ve done. But take it, Commander James—and remember this day. You’ve earned your name in the songs.”
I bowed my head, murmuring thanks, though my mind had already left the blood-soaked tent.
It drifted to Amara, the love of my life.
To my mother’s quiet strength.
To the fields of home, where my hands might one day sow life again instead of war.
“Thank you, Turtanu. My father was a war hero himself,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. “He gave his life for Ugarit—fell in battle. My mother told me he died with honor, and I’ve fought to carry that honor forward. Now that we’ve won, his name can finally be remembered.”
Turtanu watched me for a long moment, the brazier’s glow cutting across the scar above his brow. His eyes burned like dying coals.
“Your father—a war hero?” he said, the words slow and cutting. “Lazarus, I’ve marched beside kings and buried soldiers by the thousands. I remember every man who bled for this city. I would have known your father.”
My chest tightened. The words sat like a stone in my throat.
But Turtanu wasn’t finished. His gaze cut deeper, a knife twisting.
“Your father was no war hero. He never died for Ugarit. He never stood in my ranks. Looking at you, I know it in my bones. Whoever sired you, it was not the man your mother named. Your mother lied. Perhaps your mother… lay with some nameless wanderer. Perhaps she birthed you from another’s bed. But a hero?” His lip curled. “No. I would have remembered.”
The words broke through me in a way no weapon ever had.
The tent spun. The brazier’s smoke choked my lungs. My heart pounded so loud it drowned the world.
It wasn’t just the insult—it was the truth beneath it, the one I had buried in silence. My mother’s past. The truth I had ignored.
The foundation of my life—my father’s honor, my mother’s story, my own blood—split open and collapsed in a single breath.
I stood frozen, the pouch of gold slick in my palm, the severed head leering from the war table.
For the first time, I did not know whose son I was.
And worse—for the first time, I did not know who I was.
Chapter6
Salvatore
Iwaited outside Turtanu’s tent, the weight of the dead pressing on me like stone. My men—gone because of my pride. I’d driven them into the fire, convinced it would make me worthy. Instead, I buried them for it. Thousands gone because I wanted to prove I was more than the boy my father spat on.
I thought of him now, my father. His voice cut through the noise, the same voice that used to break bones and skin.Pathetic little bastard. You’ll never carry my name with pride. You’ll crawl through the dirt and die choking on it before you ever make me proud.
My fists clenched until my nails tore skin. I forced my shoulders straight, my chin high, but my eyes betrayed me. I was waiting for judgment, and worse—I was waiting for my father’s voice to come out of Turtanu’s mouth.
“Bring in the other one.”
The command struck like a lash.
I pushed past the guards and into the tent—and the first thing I saw was Lazarus.
He should’ve worn victory on his face. He’d won this war, delivered us triumph, yet something in him had shifted. The light meant for his features was gone, replaced by a look pulled tight and unsettled, as if a truth had reached him that struck harder than any blade.
