Page 53 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Twenty-One

ELIZABETH

I awoke to the caress of silk brocade beneath my fingertips, the fabric cool and unfamiliar against my skin.

A dim glow surrounded me—countless candles flickering in their sconces, their trembling flames casting eerie shadows across the vaulted ceiling.

My head throbbed with crushing pressure as if it were caught in a vise, each pulse of pain sending waves of disorientation through me.

Where was I?

Fragments of memory swirled in my mind like scattered leaves in a storm.

The masquerade—bright masks, laughter like chimes of crystal?—

And then, chaos.

I had been the alchemist of that ruin.

The thought struck hard, cutting through the haze and leaving only regret behind.

With a soft groan, I turned to my side, curling into myself, seeking comfort in a place that held none.

The room was vast and oppressive in its splendor—its walls were lined with intricate gold leaf carvings that shimmered in the candlelight. The air seemed to pulse, alive with something unseen.

There were no windows.

There was no way to measure day or night.

Only the endless stretch of stone, its grandeur stifling rather than beautiful.

Tapestries of legendary battles and mythical beasts hung like silent sentinels, their embroidered figures almost shifting in the low light, watching.

I tried to rise, but my limbs refused to obey.

Heavy as lead, my body was unresponsive, bound by a fatigue that felt deeper than flesh.

“Easy, Lady Elizabeth.”

The voice rumbled above me.

I turned my gaze toward the source and found him?—

A man who seemed to fill the room.

The deep creases etched into his face betrayed age and experience, but his eyes held a power that defied time.

Something was commanding about him. Something undeniable.

Yet beneath that, there was a peculiar sense of protection.

“Who are you?” My voice came soft, unfamiliar, raw.

“Why am I here? And where’s…?”

The question died on my lips.

His hands pressed me gently back onto the plush divan.

“Shh… rest now.”

The words weren’t just spoken.

They settled over me, sinking into my bones like an enchantment.

“You are safe. I am trying to protect you.”

His voice dipped lower, shifting into something ancient, resonant, otherworldly.

He uttered an incantation—a language not meant for mortal tongues.

“Lost to the void, hear my call. By shadow’s grace, find new life in the vessel before me. Return, and walk among the living.”

His fingers moved with quickly, each stroke dragging hidden forces into being.

Glyphs of power, ancient and unreadable, burned into my skin.

Something stirred beneath my consciousness.

Something was pulling me back.

Something that did not belong to me.

A creeping frost coiled around my bones, spreading through my veins and wrapping around my ribs like iron vines.

Shadows—thin, spectral, alive—slipped beneath my skin, twisting through me like living whispers of darkness.

My body recoiled in instinctual terror.

This was not healing.

This was not protection.

This was something else entirely.

Panic clawed at my chest. I thrashed weakly, my limbs useless against his unshakable grip.

“No—stop!” My voice was a raw whisper, barely escaping my throat.

My eyelids fluttered, yet my mind screamed against the horror unraveling before me.

Then I saw it.

The gash across his chest—seeping, bleeding.

And his forefinger, drenched in his blood, dragging those cursed symbols across my flesh.

He was using his blood.

To inscribe me.

A fresh wave of revulsion surged through me.

I tried to sit up, tried to shove him away, but my body betrayed me.

I could only watch as warm, wet crimson landed on my forearm, tracing lines I did not understand or want to understand.

The sight sent a raw terror flooding my system.

I wrenched my arm free, my breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps.

Rune-like symbols sprawled across my skin—etched in blood.

Then—

A pinch.

A sting bloomed against my wrist.

A needle.

He was taking my blood.

“Stop!” My voice broke into something close to a sob as I thrashed beneath his hold. “Why are you taking my blood? What evil symbols are you inscribing on me?”

He did not flinch.

His voice was a low hum, unwavering.

“Easy, child. The symbols are not evil. They hold the key to your future.”

His gaze pinned me, deep-set, willing me to understand.

To accept.

But I could not.

Not when my life essence trickled into the glass vial clenched in his hand.

“Wh-what are you doing?” My voice shook, laced with raw alarm.

His dark eyes met mine, unshaken by my panic, his expression unreadable.

And then, with an infuriating calm that only deepened the terror in my chest, he said?—

“I’m taking your blood to protect you.”

His words were soft, assured.

But they did nothing to quell the storm rising inside me.

“Protect me? From what?”

My breaths came fast, shallow, desperate.

A battle I was already losing.

“Shh,” he murmured, his voice a whisper of smoke and shadow.

He swiped his palm before my face, slow, purposeful.

My eyes fought to stay open.

And then—his blood.

Still warm, still slick with something unholy, he dragged it across my forehead in a single, binding stroke.

“I bind the soul to this new life by my blood and shadow’s might.

“Rise, be born anew, and walk the path once more.”

The words slithered through me, coiling around my bones, sinking into the marrow.

I exhaled a long, shuddering sigh.

A lull pulled at me, a sweet oblivion, an enchanted embrace whispering surrender.

No.

Don’t succumb.

I clawed my way back, forcing myself to hold on, to fight.

“Where’s Amir?”

The question ripped from my lips before I could stop it, the urgency of a living, breathing thing inside me.

“What happened to him?”

There was a pause—too long, too heavy.

And in that breath of silence, I knew.

I knew before he spoke, before his lips formed the words.

And it gutted me.

“He didn’t make it. He’s dead.”

“No…” My voice broke. “Amir!”

His name tore from my throat—an uncontrollable wail of pure agony.

The sound bounced off the walls of this gilded tomb, filling the space with my grief.

No.

No, no, no.

This couldn’t be real.

A scream ripped through my throat, raw, broken, shattering me from the inside out.

I thrashed beneath the old man’s grip, my body twisting in futile rebellion, as if fighting hard enough could undo his words.

Could bring Amir back.

But there was nothing.

Just this unbearable truth swallowing me whole.

“Amir!” I sobbed, my vision blurring with tears that would never be enough to mourn him.

The pain—gods, the agony.

It filled me and devoured every crevice of my being until I was nothing but loss and ruin.

“Please, child.”

The old man’s voice no longer commanded—it pleaded.

His touch, once cold and foreign, softened.

But no hands could hold me together.

Not when everything inside me was coming undone.

And then?—

A bitter taste bloomed on my tongue.

Something pressed to my lips.

A thick and foreign liquid coaxing me to swallow, to yield.

I tried to fight.

I tried to spit it out.

But the world was already tilting, my limbs growing heavier, my body sinking.

The old man, jailer, and savior watched as the darkness took me.

And I—I could do nothing but fall.

In the abyss of unconsciousness, nightmares found me.

They did not creep in gently.

They tore through me, ravenous.

I saw Amir?—

Stoic.

Dissolving.

His dark eyes—once full of unspoken strength—stared, empty, unseeing.

His flesh peeled away in slow, agonizing strips, exposing raw sinew and gleaming bone.

His arms, his legs—once powerful, once familiar—contorted into grotesque angles, twisting, breaking, mocking the proud warrior he had been.

I screamed for him.

I begged.

But my voice came out raw, hoarse, useless.

He did not hear me.

He did not move.

He was vanishing.

Fading.

Until all that remained was emptiness.

And the aching echo of what we had lost.

* * *

I woke with a violent start.

My chest heaved. My pulse pounded in my ears, a frantic drumbeat against my skull.

But Amir was gone.

The dream—the nightmare—clung to me like sticky cobwebs, its poison still thick in my veins.

My bedroom wavered into existence, familiar yet distant, as though I had been gone for an eternity and returned to find everything slightly… off.

I wasn’t alone.

Mary.

She sat beside me, a silent tether to reality.

Concern etched into her face, her hands folded in her lap, but her eyes mirrored my fear.

“Mary...”

Her name barely scraped past my lips, a whisper, a ghost of a voice that no longer felt like my own.

Reality’s embrace was tenuous at best, the line between waking and nightmare dangerously thin.

I tried to sit up.

The world tilted violently, blurred at the edges.

My limbs were heavy, unresponsive—like lead weights dragging me down.

Mary’s hands were there.

Gentle. Pressing me back into the cool linens.

Lavender.

Faint. Familiar.

A scent that should have grounded me but felt distant, disconnected.

“Easy now, Lady Elizabeth,” she soothed, her voice a balm against my fractured mind.

“You’ve been quite ill.”

Ill.

The word felt foreign. Inadequate.

This was not an illness.

This was something else.

Something stolen.

Something lost.

My thoughts spun, untethered, drifting through a haze of broken memories.

Searching for reality.

Finding only pieces.

Memories. Fragments.

A dream too vivid and cruel to be only a nightmare.

“Mary… was there… a man?”

The words felt foreign and hesitant, as if speaking aloud would pull the shadows from my mind and make them real.

“An old man. With power in his eyes.

“He was drawing these… blood symbols on me.

“He said he was protecting me…”

Mary’s expression shifted, the lines of concern on her brow deepening.

She shook her head.

“No, my lady. You’ve been here in your bed.

“It’s been a month since the masquerade.

“I’ve not left your side.”

A month.

The revelation punched through me, swift and unforgiving.

A whole month.

Lost to this bed.