Her words shattered something inside me.
I bent over my mother’s body, pressing my forehead to hers. “I’m so sorry,” I breathed. “I should’ve waited. I should’ve been patient. I just wanted to know—and now you’re gone.” My voice cracked. “Who would do this to you? Why?”
The sobs tore through me, raw and endless, stripping me hollow.
Amara’s hand touched my back. “I’m so sorry, Lazarus,” she whispered, her words as thin as reeds in the wind.
But sorry meant nothing.
Sorry, couldn’t draw breath into cold lungs.
Sorry, couldn’t stitch blood back into flesh.
Pain tore through me like a beast unchained—merciless, unending, feral.
My chest felt pried open, ribs split wide to expose everything bleeding inside. She had carried me through storms, had given me everything, and now she was nothing but a body cooling on the clay.
My vision blurred with tears and fury. The violation of our home, the death of her, ripped me to pieces.
Salvatore knelt beside me, tears streaking the dirt on his face, jaw clenched tight. “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “By the gods, Lazarus, we’ll find who did this. We’ll drag their names through the dust.”
His fist slammed into the floor, the crack echoing like thunder through the small room. The air itself seemed to tremble with his fury.
A low rumble rose outside—hooves pounding against the earth. Then came the sound of feet—dozens of them. Sandals striking hard and fast.
The door exploded inward.
Cedar splintered, shards flew like scattered embers as bronze and wood tore apart in a single violent roar. Guards poured through the opening—armor glinting, crested helms flashing in the morning light.
Before I could even lay my mother down, a hand seized my tunic and yanked me upright. The grip crushed my chest; I gasped, the smell of sweat and bronze filling my lungs.
Another guard crashed into Salvatore, twisting his arms behind him, driving him face-first into the mudbrick wall. He snarled, muffled, his strength no match for their sheer weight.
Their faces were shadows beneath their helms, their eyes cold and empty. This wasn’t a search.
This was a taking.
Amara screamed—high and sharp, a sound that seemed to tear the world open.
She tried to run to me, but a third guard caught her around the waist. His hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her cries as she kicked and thrashed, hair whipping across her face. Her muffled scream still found me through the chaos.
“Don’t you fucking touch her!” I roared, thrashing against the iron grip that pinned my arms.
The soldier didn’t hesitate. His fist crashed into my jaw, bone cracking, light bursting behind my eyes. Blood flooded my mouth, hot and metallic.
“You, Lazarus of Ugarit,” he said, his voice as cold as forged metal, “are under arrest for the murder of your mother, Anatya.”
The words tore through me. “What?” I gasped. “No—no, that’s not true! We were at the sea all night?—”
A second strike silenced me. My head snapped sideways. The world spun.
“No mistake,” the guard growled. His eyes were voids behind the bronze of his helm.
He turned to Salvatore.
“And you, Salvatore Lorian, stand accused of the murder of your father, Lord Lorian—and for the deaths of Helena Elani, Azarel Miran, and Dagonel Sulik. Your blade was found at the scene.”
Salvatore froze, his breath gone. Then his voice broke apart. “That’s a lie!”
