Page 105 of Cursed By the Dawn

He stalked closer. “You did this. So now tell me your grand plan. Tell me what you’ve seen. Tell me that it leads to the most beautiful future this kingdom has ever known. You’ve kept your visions hidden from me, but now I am your king.”

Theia fixed her pale eyes on Mithras, her ethereal beauty unnerving him as ever. She was more ghost than woman—a shine of glass, a flutter of snow, a painful truth. She was already dressed in her attire for the Revel that evening, though her mask sat in her lap.

“I do have a plan,” she said softly, her voice as pure as any melody. “But you will not like it. And you must swear not to tell anyone. Not the Weavers, not Erebus.”

Mithras agreed.

And so, Theia told him everything.

Of the futures she’d seen—the horrors she’d witnessed. The demons that would descend, destroying the Dream Realm and crushing it underfoot as they strove to overtake Noctis. The demon Raelion needed to be contained. Corruption would slowly progress over the course of five hundred years, but they would be centuries of tentative peace. They’d need to use those centuries wisely, prepare for the battle ahead.

And the chosen ones who would finally end Corruption were a dark-haired girl and Mithras’s closest friend.

A friend who had become a brother.

Erebus needed to be kept safe, alive, and immortal until Raelion broke free after five hundred years. He was the only one who could command the dark and use it to destroy the demons for good; if he died before fulfilling his destiny, Raelion would win. But to be kept immortal, he’d need to be banished to the dark for five hundred years. He’d need to let his shadow power fester, grow, crest—until he became so powerful the demons would tremble.

“Will he hate me for it?” Mithras felt himself ask.

Theia nodded, lips set in a grim line. “He will never forgive you.”

Mithras’s head ached. His limbs felt numb. “I see.”

“You will see him again, after the five hundred years are through,” Theia offered. “You will have plenty of work to do to fill those years. Time will slip through your fingers like an angry river.”

They seemed insurmountable, the tasks she said he’d do.

He’d become the Light Bringer—Noctis’s holy sovereign. He’d been blessed by the Maker with light magic for a reason; he’d use it to help guide Corrupt souls back to their godly creator and send the rest to Erebus’s castle in the hope that they would one day be cured. Raelion would sustain Mithras in a twisted mockery of immortality, as would Raelion’s second, Estaroth, consume a man named Silas.

He wanted to sink to his knees. He wanted to scream; he wanted to hit something; he wanted to cry.

“I wish it didn’t have to come to this,” he ground out. “I wish—”

“I know,” Theia murmured, her own eyes glistening with icy tears. “I cannot permanently bend the threads of time, nor can I intervene in ways that tamper with fate. But sometimes I wish I could.”

She placed a cool hand atop his chest, right over where his heart would be.

“What are you doing?”

“Right here,” she said, pressing gently, “will be a reminder that you are still alive. That you are still good.”

But he didn’t feel anything at all. He felt hollow, cold.

Like a man walking feetfirst into a dark, endless abyss.

503 Years Ago: A Village in the Kingdom of Noctis

Sweat trickled down Mithras’s neck. He adjusted his mask, fingered the collar of a chest plate that fit too snugly against his neck. He was the kingdom’s Light Bringer now. The golden king who continued to wage war against the Shadow Bringer and his horde of wicked demons.

He swirled a vial of elixir between his thumb and forefinger, watching as the amber liquid shimmered faintly beneath the glass. The elixir had been a crucial part of King Gabriel’s deal with Raelion; Raelion had agreed to give Gabriel not only five hundred years of immortality but also the recipe for a nightly tonic that would protect humans from demons. Unfortunately, the solution was complicated to make, and Mithras expected that sourcing its ingredients would grow difficult in the coming centuries. As would distribution throughout the entire kingdom. So he’d commanded each village to have its own elixir distributors. It was all an empty promise, an illusion of hope, an illusion of choice, and an illusion of control. Drink the elixir, be free. Drink the elixir, be whole.

But the elixir wasn’t a cure-all.

It wasn’t the magic his citizens had come to expect.

No, it merely clashed against people’s subconscious minds to such a degree that it made dreaming impossible. It was all he could do, all he could hope for. Raelion had already claimed his soul and would walk free in five hundred years. Well, four hundred ninety-eight, now. The village Mithras was in had finally gotten their Corruption under control. Things were looking up. Things were looking great.

So why did he feel so damnably vexed?