The clank of chains.The scuffle of struggle.The ragged breath of men who knew they would not leave this room alive.
My eyes snapped open.
They stood before me—bound, shackled, terror apparent in every line of their faces.Their eyes darted wildly, searching for salvation in a place where none existed.
“You must feast, Amir,” Lazarus’ voice echoed through the suffocating tension, each syllable a decree that left no room for defiance.“Kill these men and restore yourself.Breathe in their essence.Let their souls be recycled into your body.”
“Can’t,” I rasped, my throat raw, my body nothing more than a husk clinging to the last threads of life.“Too weak.”
Lazarus did not hesitate.
Steel flashed, quick and merciless.A blade dragged across the throat of the first prisoner.
The scream that followed was raw and full of terror, vibrating through my bones.Blood erupted in a violent arc, splattering against the dark stones in a monstrous bloom of crimson.
Lazarus leaned in, gripping the dying man’s head, angling it toward me as the body convulsed, the final remnants of life spilling out.
And then, I saw it?—
A wisp of ethereal energy unraveled from the man’s fontanelle, writhing as if seeking release.It shimmered, translucent and spectral, a soul severed from its mortal vessel.
Instinct took over.
I inhaled quickly.
The essence rushed into me, a searing, electric force filling my hollowed veins like life’s first breath.
More followed.More souls, shackled and trembling, dragged before me; their life forces offered up to mend what had been broken.
With each one, strength seeped back into my limbs.Sinew knitted.Bone realigned.Flesh and spirit wove themselves whole once more.Slowly, my body remembered its former might, the fog of pain and poison thinning from my mind.
The ritual was macabre—a dance with death teetering on the edge of the abyss.Yet, it anchored me to life.
By the time the last essence seeped into my being, I was no longer at death’s door.Not fully restored, but far from the fragile husk I had been—power thrummed beneath my skin, a continual hum like embers waiting to catch flame.
With the last of my newfound strength, I pushed myself upright.My legs held firm, no longer betraying me with their weakness.
The black-robed men who had borne witness to my gruesome revival moved with practiced efficiency, dressing me in fresh garments before guiding me from the chamber of horrors.Through arched doorways, we stepped into another world.
A private dining chamber, intimate yet regal.
The walls, whittled from warm stone, cradled the flickering glow of iron sconces.At the room’s center, a heavy wooden table gleamed beneath candlelight, its polished surface reflecting the golden hues of the flames.Two chairs with high backs stood at either end, waiting.
Tapestries adorned the walls, their weavings rich with the echoes of ancient hunts and long-forgotten battles.Above, the ceiling curved gently, painted with a night sky so deep and exquisitely detailed that the stars within it seemed to flicker with real, celestial light.
A plate of food awaited me—roasted meats, their aroma rich and inviting, fresh bread, still steaming from the oven, an assortment of cheeses, and figs dripping with honey.A feast fit for a king.Or perhaps, for a man who had clawed his way back from the brink of death.
I sat, my body still frail but my hunger ravenous.With each bite, I anchored myself further to this realm as if it could cement my place among the living.Across from me, Lazarus watched in silence, his ageless gaze betraying nothing.He was patient—an eternal observer, a man who had seen the rise and fall of empires and understood the fragile balance between power and ruin.
I was no mortal but something beyond—imbued with the same dark power that coursed through him, bound to an existence that defied time.We were not truly immortal, only cursed with a lifespan that stretched across centuries, aging so slowly that the world seemed to wither around us.And yet, beings like us were not immune to the slow decay of existence, forever teetering on the brink of destruction.
I had proven that not long ago.
Course after course was placed before me, and I devoured each one with a fervor that surprised myself.Every mouthful was a silent victory, a reclamation of strength that now pulsed through my veins once more.
When I could eat no more, when my stomach begged for respite, I leaned back in my chair and nodded.The silent figures lingering at the room’s edges moved like shadows, clearing the remnants of the meal with swift, skillful efficacy.The quiet clink of metal against porcelain was the only sound as they vanished into the periphery, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of wine and spice.
Silence settled over the chamber, starkly contrasting the violence that had led me here.
