I exhaled, the tension in my chest loosening just enough to let the words out.
“Have you heard the whispers?” I asked quietly. “About the Shadow Lord Trials?”
“Of course I’ve heard them,” he said. “It’s all anyone talks about. But it’s bullshit, Lazarus. A tale for dying men.”
“What if it’s not?”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “You really believe that? That there’s some secret trial where you fight your way to freedom and walk out untouchable? It’s a lie. Something men tell themselves, so they don’t go mad.”
I frowned, but the small, stubborn flame in me wouldn’t go out. “What if it’s real? What if it’s our way out?”
“Our way out?” His voice rose, rough with disbelief. “Look around you. This place doesn’t give second chances. It gives death or nothing. Let it go.”
I stared at him—the chains, the filth, the walls closing around us like a tomb.
But the fire inside my chest burned hotter.
“I can’t let it go,” I said. “We survived war. We survived beatings, betrayals, and gods-damned branding. This isn’t just escape—it’s truth. Someone put us here, and I need to know who.”
Salvatore’s shoulders slumped. His eyes went hollow again, that light retreating into the dark.
“Forget the trials, Lazarus,” he whispered. “We’re not getting out. The Dreadhold doesn’t release its dead.”
“You can’t think like that,” I snapped, the chains between us rattling. “What’s the alternative? Rot here until the stone swallows us? No. I’d rather die fighting than fade into nothing.”
I leaned forward, close enough to see the hollow in his eyes, the ghost of the man I used to know. My pulse hammered in my throat, my voice low but steady.
“Tell me the truth, Salvatore.”
The air between us trembled.
“Are you going to sit here and let this place eat you alive—or are you going to fight beside me?”
Chapter11
Salvatore
For two days after Lazarus and I spoke of the Shadow Lord Trials, they kept us locked inside our cell.
There was no word from the guards, no orders in the corridor—just the breath of the Dreadhold closing in—damp stone, air that stank of sweat, blood, and rot. The kind of air that felt chewed and spat back into your lungs.
At first, there were sounds—the usual chorus of misery—screams from the deeper tunnels, the clatter of chains, the barking of guards.
Then even that stopped.
Now there was only silence.
The kind that didn’t comfort. The kind that ate.
I’d thought the noise was the worst of it—the whips, the pleading, the sound of flesh meeting bronze.
But I was wrong.
The silence was worse.
It crawled through the cracks, soaked into the walls, filled the spaces inside my ribs until every heartbeat felt like a hammer. It made me aware of everything I wanted to forget—my breath, my thoughts, the things I’d done.
It made guilt loud.
