Page 80 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Thirty-Three

AMIR

T he rhythmic scratching of my quill halted as a faint knock echoed through the chamber door of my underground study. “Enter,” I commanded, setting the black feather aside.

The door creaked open, revealing my servant, head bowed low. In his outstretched hand lay an envelope, its edges frayed as if it had crossed continents and centuries to find me. “This just arrived for you, Pasha,” he murmured.

I rose and took the letter with a nod. “You may go.”

The door closed behind him softly, leaving me alone in the dim, flickering light. My fingers traced the rough parchment, and my breath stilled as I recognized the unmistakable scrawl clawing across the seal—the mark of Dancing Fire.

With a practiced flick, I broke the wax and unfolded the missive, the parchment trembling between my fingers. The words inside bled sorrow onto the page, each line steeped in grief, raw, unflinching, and heavy with heartbreak.

He wrote of Marcellious—my son—and how the boy’s departure to Rome had cleaved through his heart like a blade. He spoke of the silence that filled his home now, the ghostly echoes of laughter that once danced through the halls, and the unbearable weight of a son who no longer called him father.

Each sentence was a wound drawn deep across my chest. I felt his pain as if it were my own—because it was my own.

Reflected, refracted, returned to me in cruel, haunting clarity.

I had entrusted Marcellious to him not only out of duty but out of necessity—a choice born of love, forged in the hope that it would protect them both.

And now, that fragile bond was severed.

Then came Roman.

He stepped into Dancing Fire’s life, and, for a time, light and hope returned. Together, they began to heal. But that peace was short-lived.

Roman was never meant to stay.

It was time to reunite him with his brother.

And now Roman was gone too—both of your sons, lost to me.

Roman has traveled to Rome. I’ve lost them both.

And the pain is unbearable. But I let them go—because the future depends on the strength they will forge in the fires of the past. I have followed Lazarus’ instructions.

.. and sent them back to Ancient Rome. Both of your sons are now in the past, shaping themselves into the warriors they were born to be—for the war that waits.

The letter trembled in my grip, the ink smudging beneath my thumb as I clenched it.

Elizabeth.

Her name struck like lightning across the storm of my mind.

It had been too long since I had touched her skin, tasted her breath, and buried myself in her love.

Too long since I’d felt her fingers threading through my hair, her whispered promises curling around my soul like smoke.

The ache surged like a tide—relentless, savage—tearing open wounds I had long since forced into silence.

Memories of her flooded me, vivid and merciless.

Each recollection was a blade, each fleeting moment we’d shared over the years a spark stoking the inferno of longing that consumed me.

I had tried to bury it—by gods, I had tried—but love this profound defied suppression.

It dragged me toward the edge of madness, dismantling my resolve piece by piece, whispering her name into every breath I drew.

I refolded Dancing Fire’s letter with care, laying it atop the sprawl of maps and manuscripts that charted the path of our grand design.

This was no time for hesitation. My brother-in-arms needed me.

Though the wheels of destiny turned, grinding ever forward, they would not crush the bond we had forged in blood and fire.

I would go to him.

Dancing Fire—stoic, steadfast—now stood on the precipice of loss, his heart shattered by Marcellious’ and Roman’s departures.

I would offer comfort, as only one who had walked beside him through war and ruin could.

In a world teetering on the brink of upheaval, such simple acts of loyalty were rare. .. and sacred.

The air in my study seemed to pulse, alive with anticipation. The time had come.

Marcellious and Roman were in Rome, unaware. They were two sons, born of the same blood, carrying the same legacy, and walking blindly toward each other’s fate.

I stood slowly, my hand trailing across the ancient scrolls and yellowed parchments scattered across my desk. They whispered of secrets long kept, of power waiting to be claimed. I let my fingers rest atop the map of Rome, its veins etched in ink, its heart beating with destiny.

“Rome,” I murmured, the word thick with meaning.

The time had come.

Every piece on the board had shifted.

The twins had stepped into the lion’s den.

And the game was about to begin.

Lazarus, Amara, and their daughter, Theodora, had already begun their journey into Rome, where destiny and danger intertwined with every breath. When news came that Marcellious had time traveled, there was no hesitation.

They followed.

A family forged in sacrifice, bound by love, and tempered by loss, they stepped willingly into the flow of time, traversing centuries, crossing the boundary between worlds, all to protect the most precious asset we had left—Roman.

They went to shield him and ensure that the brothers would become what they were born to be.

Warriors.

Legends.

As I paced the perimeter of my underground sanctum, the weight of destiny settled over me like an old cloak—familiar, heavy, inescapable.

Lazarus and Amara had tasted the bittersweetness of reunion only because of Roman’s birth—a child conceived in turmoil, destined to shake the very foundations of empires.

“May the gods watch over them,” I muttered, a rare invocation slipping past my lips.

They were more than protectors—they were sentinels of fate, guardians of a legacy too dangerous to fall into the wrong hands.

The twins, torn apart by the cruel hand of destiny, would now come full circle.

Their bloodline was the key—the spark to ignite the future we had all bled for.

It was in Rome that they would be forged.

They would rise among swords, fire, and sand under the Colosseum’s roar.

I could see it in my mind—Roman, every movement honed by purpose, every clash of steel drawing him closer to the brother he had never known.

And above them, Lazarus—ever watchful, ever vigilant—standing guard, a silent sentinel over their fate.

I strode to my desk, planting my hands upon the cold stone surface as maps and ancient texts rustled beneath my fingertips. The silence throbbed with anticipation.

Our pawns were in place.

The board was set.

And now... the war for the future would begin.

* * *

The full moon cast a silver sheen over the wilds of the New World as I stepped through the veil of time, leaving behind the ancient stones of Anatolia.

The night air hit like a blade—crisp, untamed, carrying the scent of pine, river, and distant fire—a savage contrast to the cold opulence of my underground palace.

I found Dancing Fire’s cabin nestled in seclusion, its flickering light a beacon against the darkness. The door yielded to my hand without resistance, and inside, I saw him, hunched over his desk, shoulders trembling with silent torment.

“Forgive the intrusion, my friend,” I said, my voice even despite the knot twisting in my gut. “But we both knew this day would come.”

The floor creaked under my boots as I stepped closer. He did not turn at first. But when he lifted his head, his eyes—red-rimmed and shadowed—met mine with a depth of sorrow I had not seen in years.

“I know,” he rasped, voice as rough as gravel. “It’s just... hard. I raised Marcellious as my own. And Roman—I’ve worked beside him these past three years. Guided him. I fought with him. Both of them are my sons in every way that matters.”

His words struck me like a blow. The man before me had done what I could not—stood in the light, loved them without restriction, and touched their lives openly. My chest tightened with regret, but duty did not weep.

“It’s because you love them that you must now step into the fire,” I said, resting a firm hand on his shoulder, anchoring him to the gravity of what must come. “It’s time for you to play for the other side.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flashing behind his eyes as he turned to face me. “The other side?” Suspicion and exhaustion tangled in his voice. “You mean… the side of evil?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “That serpent bitch Alina has betrayed Balthazar. She’s hunting the blades now. Lazarus has already set pieces in motion. A man named John James will guide her to you. She’s vicious. Ruthless. Born of shadows.”

A flicker—no, a roar—of flame ignited in Dancing Fire’s gaze, the battle-hardened warrior rising beneath the sorrowed surface. “I can handle her,” he said, his voice edged with steel, his pain receding behind armor forged in duty and rage.

“I know,” I replied, the words laced with warning and faith. “But this is a game we must play carefully. She won’t see you coming.”

The weight of our shared history pressed upon us—two soldiers standing on the precipice of chaos, fates tangled in deception and blood.

I pulled him into a firm embrace, the clasp of warriors, of brothers. “Now,” I murmured, stepping back and locking eyes with him, “it’s all about playing this game. And playing it to win.”

I stayed with him until the next full moon, letting the days blur into the rhythm of old camaraderie—hunting, riding, fishing.

The forest welcomed us with its scents of pine and loam, the air alive with the trill of birdsong and the rustling of leaves.

We rode side by side, hooves pounding the forest floor, like the beating of war drums to come.

At night, under a quilt of stars, we shared stories around the fire, kindling flame, and memory.

On the eve of my departure, I spoke the words heavy with reminiscence. “Remember when we were in France, to destroy the French Timehunter society?”