Lazarus’ eyes narrowed, his attention snapping to mine.
“We have to go there,” I pressed, urgency rising in my chest like a storm.“If she found it there once, there could be more—or worse, Salvatore may already suspect it.We need to reach it before he does.”
“Indeed,” Lazarus murmured, a rare flicker of agreement passing over his features.
“Zara can hold the stronghold in our absence,” I continued.“If there’s an opening to Solaris anywhere, it will be there.”
“We’ll find something,” Lazarus interrupted, gathering a few ancient scrolls and tucking them into his satchel.His eyes caught mine, reflecting a glint of something I couldn’t quite name.Hope.Fear.Or maybe it was just grim determination.“Whether it’s salvation… or destruction—that remains to be seen.”
“Then let’s not waste time.”There was no room for hesitation—not with so much at stake.Not with Elizabeth carrying a future I had yet to understand.
With a nod that sealed our shared purpose, we stepped out of the palace’s shadowed confines.Our path lay ahead, leading toward the Carpathian Mountains and the unknown secrets they guarded like sentinels of fate.
We moved silently, our strides devouring the miles as the mountains rose on the horizon, jagged silhouettes against a darkening sky.The weight of my thoughts was a constant companion, heavy and unrelenting.Elizabeth’s image followed me with every step, woven into my mind like a thread I couldn’t sever.
Lazarus moved beside me, a figure of ancient power cloaked in mystery.He walked with ease that came not from youth, but from mastery, from centuries of carrying burdens no mortal should bear.
At last, I broke the silence, the words falling from me carefully as we climbed a steep incline, loose rocks grinding beneath our boots.“Lazarus,” I said, breath ragged in the thinning air, “I’ve known you a long time.I’ve seen what you can do—what you know.You are… extraordinary.If I may ask—how does one become a sorcerer like you?Were you born with this power… or did you learn it?”
The air shifted.Cold.Sudden.As if my question had summoned a frost storm from within him.
Lazarus stopped abruptly, whirling on me with a force that stole the breath from my lungs.His eyes blazed with an ethereal fire—raw, otherworldly, ancient.The air around us seemed to sizzle, the temperature plummeting as the mountain recoiled.
He was no longer just Lazarus for a heartbeat—he was something else.Something vast.Something ancient.
And I knew, in that moment, I had touched a scar that had never fully healed.
“Never call me a sorcerer again,” he erupted, his voice cracking like thunder across the barren pass.“I am a Shadow Lord.”
The title echoed in the mountain air, heavy and unforgiving.It wasn’t just a name.It was a legacy, a curse, a mark seared into the soul.
I felt it then—the bitter sting of curiosity laced with unease.“How does one become a Shadow Lord?”
His fury ebbed, replaced by a cold stillness that seemed to freeze the wind around us.We resumed our march, but now, every step felt like a descent—deeper into shadow, deeper into the truth.
“During my time in prison,” Lazarus began, his voice hollow, “thousands of us clung to one dream—freedom.But freedom came at a cost—the Shadow Lord Trials.They promised liberation… but they delivered torment.”
His tone was stripped bare of emotion, as though detachment was the only way to survive the memories.
“The trials were created by Morgrath Severen—ancient, merciless.Designed not to test strength but to shatter it.To tear us down to bone and blood and rebuild us into something else.”His eyes darkened.“Most failed.Broken.Unmade.The dungeons ran red with the blood of those who begged for death.”
A chill swept through me at the cold finality of his words, as though I could hear the echoes of screams carried on the mountain wind.
“And you...survived.”
“Only Salvatore and I,” Lazarus said quietly.“We endured.We were reforged in pain, remade in darkness.Not by choice—but by necessity.And when it was over, we emerged not as men...but as Shadow Lords.The price of survival was losing everything that made us human.”
A silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.
“How did you end up in prison, Lazarus?”I asked, the words careful and cautious.A part of me already regretted the question.
Lazarus’ gaze drifted, distant and veiled, as though staring into a chasm no light could reach.“That,” he said, voice low and resolute, “is a secret I shall never speak of.”
The air around us felt heavier, charged with unsaid truths.I didn’t press him.Some wounds were too deep, too old to reopen.
We continued, the mountains looming like ancient gods, silently witnessing our passage.The wind howled through the peaks, whispering fragments of forgotten stories, indifferent to the burdens we carried.
But I couldn’t shake the thought of the trials—the blood-soaked path that led to power.The darkness clung to Lazarus like a second skin woven into his very being.Whatever he had endured or become was not simply a title.It was a transformation etched into every breath he took.
