Page 1 of Cursed By the Dawn

PROLOGUE

500 Years Ago

Mithras felt like celebrating.

He took a long drink from a jewel-encrusted chalice, balancing a second, equally ornate cup and a bottle of the kingdom’s finest red wine in the crook of his elbow. He’d been told that the wine was over a century old, infused with honey and roses. It was inferior to wine in the Dream Realm, but part of him enjoyed the simple physicality of tasting something real.

Imperfect as that taste might be.

The toast would be a preemptive celebration, of course—the real celebration would come much later, after he and Erebus secretly purged the Nocturne of its demonic infestation—but his father would surely welcome a drink now.

Even if Erebus wouldn’t approve.

Tower bells chimed from high above, their melody a rich, familiar vibration in the late summer air. Mithras shouldn’t have been surprised it was already noontime, but hewassurprised that he hadn’t run into his father yet. He took a second swig from the chalice, flinching when a fewdroplets slid past his lips toward the ivory silk adorning his neck. He hastily wiped at his chin but missed part of the stream, which slipped under his collar, wet and vaguely rose scented, and stained the silk red. A minor annoyance; he’d change later.

Six hours left.

This hell was nearly over.

King Gabriel hadn’t been in his chambers, the throne room, the banquet hall, or the courtyard, so Mithras predicted he was in the tombs. His father rather enjoyed visiting with the Weavers prior to a Revel, and this event would be no different. Revels were filled with thrilling surprises and carefully planned secrets, and the king delighted in knowing them firsthand before the rest of the kingdom did. The entrance to the tombs was deep in the belly of the citadel, so Mithras backtracked until the air smelled like a cellar and the stone floor grew cool under his booted feet.

He contemplated leaving the gilded chalices and the velvet-wrapped wine bottle behind but thought better of it. King Gabriel Tethebrum, much like his only child, was known to appreciate a bit of liquid encouragement. And, Maker be good, Mithras needed all the encouragement he could get. If all went to plan, in just a few hours the evil sullying their kingdom would be crushed in one fell swoop. The sins of the past would finally be healed, and Noctis could begin anew.

And when Mithras became king one day, his kingdom would not be cast in rot and despair but, rather light and prosperity. He quite liked the sound of that.

Mithras rounded the final corner, expecting to see a small retinue of his father’s favored guards. Only the most esteemed knights in Noctis protected the Weaver tombs; the Weavers were simply too important.

Oddly, however, the iron doors were unguarded. For a moment, Mithras stood quietly at the entrance. He half expected the guards to materialize from the shadows cast by a few flickering candelabras. Had the Weavers already been summoned to the banquet hall?

Mithras almost turned to depart.

The laugh, identical to his father’s, boomed deep from behind the tomb doors.

“So youarehere, after all,” Mithras said smugly.

The images of seven beasts were carved into the iron doors: a wolf, a dragon, a stag, a hawk, a bear, and two entwined serpents—one of water and one of fire. Each beast symbolized a Weaver, and each had a lock that opened with a single twist of Mithras’s signet ring. With the final lock opened, stairs unfurled below his feet, spiraling deep underground. Only the occasional candelabra along the path provided any light. The farther he descended, the colder the air became.

Mithras thought he heard his father laugh again. King Gabriel was in a fine mood, it seemed.

Good.

“Father,” he called out. “What has you in such a rare form? I thought we’d share a drink—”

A scream cut him off.

Mithras froze on the next step, certain his mind was playing tricks on him. But then there was a second scream, a third, athud, a crash of metal on metal. A sickeningsquelch. A bone-chillingcrack. Suddenly, a knight was at his feet, clambering up the stairs on all fours. Wait, no—not all fours. He was missing an arm. And half a leg.

Mithras’s hands slackened. The bottle and chalices rolled down the stairs, disappearing into the dark.

“Prince Mithras,” the knight gasped, reaching for his prince’s boots. It was Richter, an honorable man from his father’s retinue. He’d been serving the kingdom for decades. “Run.”

Mithras tried to help the man stand, but the knight shrugged him off.

“No, please,” Richter insisted, pushing Mithras back with the last of his strength. Mithras stumbled, grasping at the stairwell for support. “Save yourself—gethelp—”

But then something grabbed them both by the legs, dragging them down the staircase. By the time Mithras staggered to his feet again, the screams had stopped. Richter was face down, unconscious or dead, andthe narrow hall leading to the Weaver tombs was littered with bodies of more knights.

“My son,” greeted a ghoulish, low-pitched voice.