Page 71 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

AMIR

T he clanging of steel echoed through the desolate chambers, each strike of my blade a cry into the void.

I drove the weapon again and again into the practice dummies, their straw-stuffed forms bearing the brunt of my fury—futile stand-ins for the anguish tearing me apart.

Every swing was a desperate attempt to silence the cacophony of loss that resounded in my skull, to drown out the unbearable silence left behind by Elizabeth’s voice—the one I’d never hear again.

Days had bled into weeks into an endless blur of sweat, blood, and exhaustion.

I had made these cold, stone walls of the underground palace my prison, exiling myself from rest and reason.

Sleep had long abandoned me; food was an afterthought, and pain…

pain was the only thing that still reminded me I was alive.

My knuckles were torn open, raw, and bleeding, skin peeling back like my sanity. Still, I persisted. A hollow shell of the man I once was, filled only with rage, haunted by a grief that would not loosen its grip.

My men had tried. Their words—pleas to stop, rest, heal—were whispers lost on a storm wind. I didn’t hear them. I couldn’t.

“Amir.”

My name cut through the haze of exertion like a knife, but I didn’t stop.

“Amir!” This time, the edge in Lazarus’ voice snapped something inside me, and the blade stilled in my hand.

Chest heaving, I staggered back, the weight of my limbs suddenly unbearable. I slumped to the cold floor, my back hitting the stone wall with a dull thud. Once so vast and filled with weapons, the room now seemed to close in around me, pressing against the hollow of my chest.

I lifted my head, my gaze locking with Lazarus’. His face was unreadable, but I knew that look—it was the calm before a storm. My voice ripped from my throat, hoarse and worn from disuse.

“What?” I snapped.

Lazarus didn’t flinch. “It’s time,” he said. “We’re going to the New World. Your children—” he paused, letting the words fall like stones in a still pond, “—they’re about to be born.”

The world tilted beneath me. The blade slipped from my hand, clattering to the floor, useless and forgotten.

But through the haze of shock, suspicion clawed at the corners of my mind. My brow furrowed, and I fixed him with a piercing, wary stare. “Why would you let me see Elizabeth now,” I demanded, voice low, edged, “when you forbade me from getting close to her before?”

The question hung between us, heavy with accusation and the remnants of hope I couldn’t quite smother.

Lazarus’ eyes remained unreadable, his next words cold and precise, each syllable a dagger. “I have ordered Dancing Fire to inform Elizabeth that one of the children did not survive. I must raise one of the twins.”

His declaration punched the air from my lungs. I staggered, my chest tightening around a grief that was not yet real but already unbearable.

“You what?” The words scraped from my throat, disbelieving, guttural.

My body screamed in protest as I forced myself to my feet, trembling with rage.

“Out of the question!” I stepped toward him, every fiber of my being bristling.

“You think I’ll allow this? That I’ll let you take my child like some—some pawn? ”

But the image of Elizabeth—her hearing those words, believing one of her babies was dead—ripped through me more viciously than any blade. The pain of her grief, of her being deceived, gutted me. I could see her face crumple. I could feel the weight of her sorrow.

Anger and desperation clashed in violent waves, our voices ricocheting off stone walls like war drums. Fury scorched in my veins, but Lazarus stood firm, unmoved by the fire in my eyes.

And then came his final blow, his ultimatum slicing through my rage with ruthless precision.

“Do you want to see your newborn babies, or don’t you?”

Silence fell. My breath hitched, broken. My heart beat against the walls of my chest like a caged beast.

“Will I get to see Elizabeth?” Her name cracked from my lips—part plea, part curse, part prayer. Just her name. That was all I had left.

Lazarus’ face hardened, his voice a hammer driving nails into the coffin of my hope.

“That is out of the question.”

* * *

The journey passed in a blur—time and space folding around us, warped by the shadows that carried Lazarus through the in-between. Reality bent and twisted, thick with anticipation and dread. Then, suddenly, we were there.

The plains stretched before us—vast, wild, and breathtaking. A land so foreign, so achingly beautiful, it felt like stepping into a dream painted in colors I’d never seen before.

Here, where the sky bowed low to kiss mirrored lakes, where earth and water met in harmony, Elizabeth brought our children into existence.

And yet, despite the beauty that stretched endlessly before me, torment gnawed at my insides. My heart beat not with joy but with aching because I was not by her side. I was denied that moment, exiled from the most sacred threshold of life.

Lazarus’ hand gripped my shoulder firmly, steering me away from the tribal village where my soul strained to go. His touch was a shackle, and I resented him for it with every breath I took.

We veered toward the edge of the forest, where a modest cabin stood nestled among towering pines. It rose from the earth as if it belonged there—logs weathered smooth by time, unassuming yet grounded, rooted in silence and solitude.

A creek wound nearby, its gentle chuckle threading through the night air, mocking the staccato beat of my troubled heart. Its soft melody clashed against the storm inside me—a calm I could not reach.

Beyond it stretched a lake, its surface silvered by moonlight and endlessly still. Dancing Fire’s tribe revered this place, weaving their stories into its waters for generations. The lake’s gentle lapping whispered a song of peace through the darkness, a lullaby for the earth.

But there was no peace in me.

Smoke drifted from the chimney, curling into the star-kissed sky, betraying the life within that solitary home—Dancing Fire’s sanctuary, where he retreated to when even his tribe’s company could not soothe him.

The air was thick with pine, damp earth, and something else—the ache of what could never be. Nature tried to soothe, to console the soul, but it couldn’t reach me—not when the woman I loved was just beyond the trees, bringing our children into the world… without me.

As Lazarus and I neared the cabin, Dancing Fire emerged, like a storm breaking over waters. His face was carved with rage and something deeper—betrayal. In his arms, he cradled a bundle wrapped in soft cloth, from which a tiny fist emerged, punching the air in silent, newborn protest.

My heart constricted, each beat like a knife, echoing the pain I knew Elizabeth must be enduring. I ached for her. For them. For the life I was being kept from.

“Step inside,” he ordered, his voice low, taut with barely contained fury.

We obeyed, silent and hollow, like sheep herded to slaughter.

The cabin was cloaked in dim candlelight, flickering shadows across the rough-hewn walls. The scent of pine and woodsmoke clung to the air, thick and grounding. A fire crackled in the hearth, offering warmth that could not thaw the cold in my chest.

The space was humble—a simple bed, a sturdy table, and chairs worn smoothly.

But what caught my eye were the dream catchers delicately strung across the windows, each a masterpiece of thread, bead, feather, and bone.

They danced in the sunlight filtering through the trees, casting colored prisms against the walls, beauty born from pain.

On the table, his tools lay scattered—feathers, beads, leather strips, the remnants of his craft. The air was rich with the scent of freshly cut wood, oil, and smoke—a sacred harmony of the old ways he cherished.

Dancing Fire was not just a man of the Sioux. He was a Timeborne—born beneath the eclipse, chosen to walk through centuries. But he carried time not like a weapon, as others did, but like a story passed from elder to child. Each journey was a thread, each moment a prayer.

He was a bridge between worlds—past and future, spirit and flesh.

Then Dancing Fire spoke, and every word was a flint strike against a stone.

“I’ve done what you asked,” he spat, his voice honed like a weapon.

His eyes locked on Lazarus, intense. “I played the Grim Reaper to Elizabeth. I convinced her that one of her twins had gone to the afterlife.” His voice cracked, raw.

“And then—then I placed the lifeless child of another in her arms.”

His jaw clenched, pain etched deep into every line of his face. “Two souls departed that night—mother and child—but the deepest wound… was the lie. The deceit I laid upon Elizabeth’s shattered heart.”

A shadow passed over Dancing Fire’s face, the fury in his eyes dimming into something far more dangerous—sorrow.

“It’s unfathomable,” he muttered, voice trembling with restrained rage.

“The pain we’ve inflicted… for what? I wash my hands of you and your agenda.

” His gaze pierced Lazarus, blazing with the raw defiance of a man who had been pushed beyond the breaking point—a firestorm contained within the flesh.

Lazarus didn’t flinch. His expression remained a mask—stoic, unmoved, shaped from stone.

“You may be done with me,” he replied, “but the deed needed doing.” No regret, no hesitation.

It was just a cold calculation. “The boys, separated, stand a chance. Together, Salvatore’s reach would ensnare them both. ”

A feral growl rumbled in my chest, shaking loose from deep within, rattling my ribs like a beast waking from slumber. My gaze dropped to the infant still nestled in Dancing Fire’s arms, so small, so helpless—already born into war. He had been given no chance to breathe peace. Not even for a day.

My teeth clenched, a silent vow etched behind them. No one—no god, no demon, no man—would harm him.