OLIVIA
My gaze wandered across the family portraits that festooned the walls of Pasha Hassan’s study. An unmistakable air of love seemed to emanate from them; the tender way Roman’s mother was depicted, her smile serene and knowing—it was the same smile that now graced Roman’s face as he stood beside me. Then my eyes fell upon the likenesses of Pasha Hassan’s sons, Roman and Marcellious, their youthful exuberance frozen in time. It warmed something inside me, seeing how deeply rooted their bonds were.
“Olivia?” Pasha Hassan’s rich, resonant voice pulled me from my reverie. “You seem contemplative.”
I turned to him, the question gnawing at me finally spilling out. “Why are the blades so important? How are they so powerful? Why does everyone want them?”
Pasha Hassan leaned back in his ornately carved chair, his imposing frame dominating the space as he steepled his fingers thoughtfully. His deep-brown eyes glimmered with an ageless wisdom, as though he held the secrets of entire lifetimes within them.
“Why doyouthink they are so coveted?” he asked, his tone inviting yet enigmatic.
I hesitated, feeling the steady presence of Roman behind me. The sun and moon daggers had been a constant source of fear and wonder, their mysteries as vast as the cosmos.
“We don’t know much,” I admitted, my voice steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at me. “But we’ve heard they can destroy the darkness forever. They can cure even the most insatiable hunger for killing. And if they fall into the wrong hands...”
“Partly,” Pasha Hassan interjected, his expression inscrutable. Rising from his chair, he moved toward the stone fireplace, picking up an iron poker against the hearth. The flames danced, their flickering light casting shadows across his features.
Roman and I exchanged a glance.
“Could it be... for immortality?” Roman ventured, his tone tinged with both skepticism and curiosity.
“Or is it the promise of ultimate power?” I added, thinking of the legends surrounding such artifacts.
“You are both close but not quite,” Pasha Hassan said, his gaze sharpening as if challenging us to dig deeper into the well of our understanding. He stirred the fire to life with the poker, the embers glowing brighter, before placing it back where he found it and returning to his seat.
Frustration mounted within me like a wildfire, its heat and intensity growing with each passing moment. The puzzle pieces were tantalizingly close, yet they refused to connect. My curiosity burned just as fiercely, propelling me forward despite the uncertainty clouding my mind.
Taking a deep breath, I let my thoughts spill out, raw and unfiltered.
“Pasha Hassan,” I began, my voice trembling slightly, “ever since I first time-traveled to Ancient Rome, I’ve been caught in this relentless chase. Secrets, lies, and betrayal seem to weave through everything like an unbroken thread. With Balthazar and other darknesses hunting me at every turn, trying to kill me, I can’t help but wonder... What is the truth about these blades? How did they come to be? And who exactly are Salvatore and Lazarus, these mysterious fathers of darkness and Timebornes? I need to understand. No more half-truths. I want the whole story.”
Pasha Hassan’s gaze narrowed, his dark eyes glittering like obsidian in the flickering firelight. A beat of silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken truths. I sensed we were teetering on the edge of revelation, about to peel back a layer of this mystery that had remained shrouded for too long. Whatever he said next could illuminate the path ahead—or plunge us deeper into shadow.
Pasha Hassan leaned forward, his tall frame casting long, distorted shadows across the room. The firelight painted his features in a dance of light and shadow, accentuating the moment’s gravity. He beckoned us closer with the crook of a finger, his voice low and deliberate. I scooted to the edge of my seat, my heart pounding with anticipation. Beside me, Roman took my hand in his, the warmth of his touch grounding me amidst the turmoil swirling within. The room fell utterly silent, save for the soft crackle of the fire, as we braced ourselves for the truths that would shape everything ahead.
“Let me tell you a story,” Pasha Hassan began, his voice resonating like the toll of a distant bell. “Once, there was an ancient city called Ugarit. It was a jewel of its time, now lost to the sands of history—a place where chaos reigned. War, famine, and the despair of its harsh rulers gripped the land. Yet, it was also a major trading hub and cultural center during the late Bronze Age, famed for its early alphabetic script. The city thrived between 1450 and 1200 BCE, only to meet its ruin during the upheaval of the Late Bronze Age collapse. Invasions by the sea peoples, internal struggles, natural disasters, and the collapse of trade networks converged to seal Ugarit’s fate. Ultimately, it was abandoned, its glory days reduced to whispers of memory.”
Pasha’s voice softened, yet it carried the weight of time itself as he continued. “King Cyrus and Queen Seraphina ruled Ugarit with compassion and wisdom, but their crowns were heavy burdens. The suffering of their people ate away at them, and desperation led them to seek an answer beyond mortal means.”
He paused, his gaze seeming to pierce through the very walls of the study as if he could see the city of Ugarit in its prime. “In their despair, they turned to Lazarus—a powerful sorcerer whose command over time and magic was unmatched. His knowledge was vast, his power dark and enigmatic, a double-edged sword for those who dared to wield it.”
The air grew heavy with his words, the fire in the hearth crackling softly as if the flames were listening. Dust motes danced in a beam of moonlight streaming through a crack in the ceiling, suspended in the weighty silence that followed.
“Cyrus and Seraphina asked Lazarus if they could travel back in time and alter the course of history to save Ugarit before it was too late,” Pasha Hassan began, his voice steady but steeped in gravity. “Lazarus told them it was possible and agreed to help.”
I gasped, unable to contain the incredulity bubbling up within me. The story Pasha Hassan wove seemed more than a myth; it carried a strange resonance as if some part of it echoed through the very fabric of our existence.
Pasha Hassan’s voice grew taut with anger as he pressed on. “But Lazarus warned them that such a monumental and dangerous task required another—a sorcerer whose power rivaled his own. Salvatore, a name that even then struck fear into the hearts of many, was the only one who could match him. However, Salvatore had been imprisoned, his magic stripped away, and his tools destroyed. He was left to rot in a dark dungeon, yet even in his weakened state, his hunger for power burned with an intensity that could not be extinguished.”
The notion of two such forces joining sent a ripple of fear down my spine.
“Lazarus understood the tumultuous history between Salvatore and the king and queen. He knew their fear of him and hesitation would make convincing them a challenge. But they had no choice. Their desperation outweighed their caution. The monarchs approached Salvatore with their offer—freedom in exchange for his assistance in making the time travel possible.”
Pasha’s hands moved as he spoke, weaving the story before us with the grace of a master storyteller. “Salvatore, with the cunning of a predator who knows the scent of weakness, demanded more than just freedom. ‘I will help you,’ he said, ‘but only if I am guaranteed my freedom forever. I shall never be imprisoned again.’
“Faced with no other options, the rulers reluctantly agreed, releasing the sorcerer from his chains. Lazarus and Salvatore began their preparations, their combined power a force that even the gods might fear. Each step brought them closer to their goal, a feat that would alter the course of history itself.”
Roman and I sat transfixed, spellbound by the unfolding saga. The warmth of the study contrasted sharply with the cold inevitability that Pasha Hassan’s words seemed to carry. The weight of the tale pressed upon us, growing heavier with every detail.
