No one moved. Every prisoner froze mid-motion, as if the sound alone could drag their souls from their bodies. Fifty-five of us remained in the Shadow Lord Trials.
Lazarus stood a few paces away, wrists bound, his face half-lost in the glow of a torch. I hadn’t spoken to him since this morning.
Now, when I looked at him, all I saw was distance—like I was losing him piece by piece to this cursed place.
“Form the line!” a guard barked.
Chains clinked as men staggered into formation. The corridor reeked of pitch and rust; smoke curled as thick as fog. The torches hissed, painting the damp walls with trembling light.
Another guard slammed the butt of his spear against the stone. “Kneel.”
We obeyed. The sound of metal on stone rippled down the line. The air hung heavy, pressed between heartbeat and silence.
And then came a voice.
Not a whisper this time, but something deeper—low, deliberate, unholy. It didn’t echo; itvibratedthrough the walls, through every man kneeling there.
“This night,” the voice said, as calm as still water, “marks the Trial of Reflection.”
The guards stiffened, heads bowing like reeds in the wind. I knew that voice. Everyone did.
Severen.
“Each of you,” he continued, “will stand before me, and I will see what festers beneath your flesh. Your sins. Your cravings. Your fears. The truths you hide even from yourselves.”
The bronze door at the end of the corridor groaned open. Cold air spilled out—dense with incense and the stink of flowers left too long on a grave. Symbols carved into the door glowed, pulsing like veins beneath skin.
“Your bodies have endured,” Severen said. “Now your minds will kneel.”
A guard lifted his torch. “Salvatore Lorian,” he called.
Oh, fuck me.
Of course, they’d pick me first.
The chain on my wrists jerked tight. I didn’t look at Lazarus. Couldn’t.
If I did, I’d remember what it felt like to still have a brother in this hell.
The bronze door groaned open. The air that bled from within shimmered—thick with shadow and gold, the scent of incense rotted sweet. As they dragged me forward, Severen’s laughter followed—soft, knowing, merciless.
“Salvatore Lorian,” he drawled, his voice slithering from the dark. “I must say, I have waited a long time to have you to myself. To… converse.”
“Get on with your fucking trial, Severen,” I spat.
A chuckle echoed—low, indulgent, like a serpent exhaling smoke. “So eager for me to crawl inside your head. I see you and Lazarus have drifted apart today. Your so-called brother.”
“It’s all because of you.”
“Me?” The voice circled me, encompassing and lethal. “How so?”
“I don’t trust you,” I hissed. “I feel it in my bones—you want to destroy us. Our brotherhood. Our bond with Amara. You’re poisoning our minds, turning us against each other. My soul knows we’ve crossed paths before. But hear me, Severen—Lazarus and I will win these trials, and when we do, we’ll destroy you.”
“Such bold words, Salvatore.”
The chamber flickered—torches bending as if the air itself bowed to him. Then he stepped from the smoke, robed in black and bronze, eyes gleaming like molten coin. His smile was patient, ancient, cruel.
Severen circled me slowly, each step a scratch of sandal against stone, each breath a cut across my spine.
