Page 3 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

The corridor ahead stretched endlessly, a tunnel bathed in the flickering glow of torches.

Their flames licked at the walls, casting elongated shadows that mimicked ghosts of the past. The black-robed men carried me with solemn strength, their footsteps a steady cadence in the hush of the underground.

The chill seeped into my skin, a welcome reprieve from the feverish torment that had racked me moments before.

At last, we reached an ancient door, its wood groaning in protest as they pushed it open.

Inside, a dimly lit chamber unfurled before me, the air thick with incense and the timeworn scent of stone.

Candlelight revealed a space of quiet opulence—silken tapestries hanging like whispers of forgotten tales, marble basins filled with scented water, and, in the center, a feather-stuffed mattress draped in fine silks that shimmered like the twilight sky over Anatolia.

They laid me down with the care of men who had carried the wounded before, the weight of war still etched into their souls. My head sank into the pillow, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I allowed myself the novelty of rest.

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the dimness, knowing the battles ahead would not allow such mercy again.

But the peace shattered.

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.

Lazarus remained across from me, unmoving. Fingers steepled, gaze intent. Expectant.

Waiting.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice rough from disuse. “For... everything.”

Gratitude did not come quickly to a man such as myself. But Lazarus had pulled me from the brink, from the clutches of something far worse than death.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, the gesture deliberate. “It is not often one gets to cheat death so brazenly, Amir. You carry a heavy burden—a warrior’s heart and a destiny unfulfilled.”

His words struck true. I felt the weight of my duty settle over me once more, as real as the pain that had racked my body. There was still much to be done—societies to dismantle, vengeance to be wrought.

I was Amir Hassan, the man who had walked through fire and shadow and emerged unbroken.

“Tell me what comes next,” I said, my commitment hardening like steel tempered in the forge. “For I am ready to face whatever darkness this path holds.”

Lazarus smiled then—a slow, knowing curve of his lips, an omen of secrets yet to unfold, of battles yet to be waged.

I leaned back into the cushioned chair, my fingers tracing the fine silks beneath me as I gathered my thoughts.

“Tell me everything. How did this happen?” Lazarus asked, his voice low—demanding answers.

The memories crashed over me like an obstinate tide, suffocating and inescapable.

“When we arrived at Le Manoir de la Rivière, it was chaos,” I began, the images still seared into my mind.

“People lay paralyzed, their bodies contorted in agony. Their faces... marred with red boils, grotesque and swollen.” I swallowed hard, bile rising in my throat.

“Their limbs were twisted beyond recognition—far worse than what I endured. I’ve never seen anything so gruesome. ”

Lazarus’ expression darkened, his gaze clouding as if he were staring into some distant horror only he could see.

“The poison is from Solaris,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The noxious flower that creates it only grows there.”

A frown creased my brow. “I know. But how is it here?”

“That,” Lazarus said, his gaze narrowing with focus, “is what we must find out.” His fingers worked absentmindedly along his jaw, tracing the tension there. “Whoever has the flower holds a weapon unlike any other. My power vanished when it was near me, so I had to use the snake to heal you.”

His eyes flickered toward the ceiling, calculating.

“If they had the full-strength flower, you would not be here now. The one who created this poison isn’t skilled enough to wield its true power.”

A thought flickered through my mind, and I voiced it aloud. “Maybe it was Mathias and Salvatore who created the poison.”

Lazarus shook his head slowly. “No. It’s someone else. Someone who despises the Timehunters. Someone cast out, perhaps. A quest for revenge?”

He leaned forward, his hands clasped together, his expression grave. “We need to find out how they got it. The flower is eternal—someone knows where it is. And whoever holds it must have found it somewhere. That place is near one of the four portals to Solaris.”

His voice dropped, weighted with certainty. “No one knows where those portals are. But if we find the flower, we find the portal.”

His words settled between us like an unsolved riddle, a puzzle with pieces scattered across realms and time itself. I nodded, the weight of our next endeavor pressing down upon me, yet within that weight, there was purpose.

The hunt for the flower was no mere quest—it was a chance to strike at the heart of those who dared wield the toxic bloom of Solaris for their perverse ends.

Silence stretched between us, thick with the gravity of Lazarus’ revelations. I shifted slightly in my chair, the newly healed muscle fibers in my thigh throbbing in protest.

“But that quest will take time,” Lazarus said at last. “I must consider our next move. For now, your strength has returned—and your mission remains unchanged. You must continue your pursuit of the Timehunter societies.”

I nodded. “Who’s next?” My voice was steadier than I felt.

Lazarus’ gaze darkened, a predator’s gleam flickering in his eyes.

“The English society,” he said, his tone thick with contempt.

“They have become monstrous in their methods. They skinned Timebornes and Timebounds alive. Tortured them. Took their vile pleasures from their suffering before granting them death.”

His voice was ice and fury, each word spat like venom.

“And now, Amir, you will be the weapon that ends them.”

A surge of revulsion twisted in my gut, my jaw tightening. “Sick fucks,” I muttered, my hands clenching into fists.

“Indeed,” Lazarus said, his tone heavy with disgust. “They were once masters of alchemy. But now? Now, they are the worst of the worst. The depraved. You must go to England.”

“England…” I echoed, the name leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. “How will I kill them?”

“Infiltration,” Lazarus replied. “You can’t simply walk in and expect to succeed. You must become one of them first.”

He hesitated for a moment before continuing, his expression dark with amusement. “They sent us a letter. They believe we are the Timehunter society of Anatolia. Thomas Alexander has asked for our aid—to help destroy the masked man decimating Timehunter societies.”

I stilled.

Lazarus’ lips curled slightly. “They fear England will be next. They want to ally with you, Amir—to kill the Black Wraith.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it—low, dark, edged with something almost feral. Across the table, Lazarus let out a chuckle of his own.

The irony was too rich.

Me. Amir Hassan. Tasked with hunting the Black Wraith.

The very legend I had created.

Lazarus’ gaze locked onto mine, cold and calculating. “Moon Lee will not be joining you this time. I have sent him back home to be with his people. You will have your other men.”

His tone left no room for protest.

He stepped closer, his voice resolute. “They believe Anatolia is a ruthless Timehunter society. They’ve asked for our help and are eager to ally.

You will go as Lord Amir Hassan. Infiltrate.

Gain their trust. Find a tactic with your men, to destroy their society.

It’s a perfect plan. Accept their invitation.

You’re the hooded figure—play the game, don’t break your cover. Destroy them and move on.”

“Understood. Destroy and move on,” I echoed the words, a mantra that had become second nature.

Lazarus’ lips curled slightly. “Remember, the English society is closely tied to Mathias and Salvatore. Mathias believes you are dead. He thinks the fire at his school killed you.” There was an edge of satisfaction in his voice.

I rose to my feet, the power from my rebirth still thrumming in my veins, a gift wrenched from agony and venom. “I won’t let you down,” I said, my voice a low growl, filled with certainty.

As I turned to leave, I remained oblivious to the unseen threads of fate tightening around me.

England would be more than just another battleground.

In its shadowed heart, something far more dangerous than any enemy awaited—something that would change everything.