Page 106 of Cursed By the Dawn

He finished distributing the shipment of elixir to the village’s Absolvers, hands prickling as he neared the sole Corrupt of the season. A young man.

“What is your name?” Mithras asked.

“Silas,” the young man declared, his dark complexion radiant under the midday sun. He was hardly a year or two Mithras’s junior. A handsome young man, and familiar, somehow. His gaze fell on Mithras, searching for something that was behind his eyes. “But I don’t wish to speak with you, my lord. I wish to speak with Raelion.”

A cold shudder lanced through Mithras’s chest. “There is no such thing.”

Silas leaned forward. Even though his hands were bound, his arms flexed, ready to strike. Mithras would have stepped back, but there were simply too many people watching. “My demon says otherwise. My demon knows yours.”

Mithras’s shudder split into icy rage.

“Gag him,” Mithras ordered quickly. “Gag him now. He comes with us.”

His legionnaires rushed the Corrupt, placing a gag into his mouth. Silas relaxed, his shadow-marked eyes warming. Mithras could feel Raelion stretching inside his mind. He had shoved him far away, but the demon king lay coiled like a snake against his skull, ready to strike when the moment came.

“You will spare that one,” Raelion hissed as an order, deep inside his head.“His Corruption will fade; but in return, Estaroth will rise when I do.”Mithras’s shoulders spasmed. His upper lip twitched. It took everything within him to not vomit.“You should be pleased. He will be a companion in your lonely immortality.”

“Fine,” Mithras bit out.

And then he shoved Raelion back down into a dark recess of his mind, where he would remain for quite some time. This would be the only Corrupt Mithras would ever preserve. He’d make sure of it. The rest he’d cleave from their mortal bodies, sending their souls into the Maker’s light, and the others, the less fortunate, would hopefully find their way to the Shadow Bringer’s castle.

500 Years Ago: The Tomb of the Devourer

Mithras gleefully twisted his sword into Ceveon’s stomach. Ceveon tried to pry the golden blade free, but it was useless; the sword was too deep, and his hands were unarmored. A river of red fell over Ceveon’s fingers. Mithras wanted to taste his blood. To pour it into his mouth like wine.

Ceveon groaned in pain, writhing as he fought to remain conscious.

Mithras brought his mouth down, licking the back of Ceveon’s hand—

Only to shudder violently.

Mithras’s sword dropped with a loudclangupon the dirt-covered stone floor, sending Ceveon to the ground from the sheer force of it. Sorren was some feet away, corpsealready growing pale and stiff. Mithras clawed at his brow, flinching as his gauntlet cut fast and deep.

He—Mithras—had done this.

His hands violently shook.

What was he doing?

He had merely offered his gold and his resources to build Erebus’s tomb. It would be a secret, hidden place, known only to the holy Seven. He would need to cull it from his memory now, lest Raelion discover it. Mithras’s chest heaved; a panic rose steady and sick from his stomach to his throat.

How far into evil would he fall?

Did the kingdom know its golden king had a monster beneath his skin?

Mithras stumbled backward, face numb as something wet dripped down his chin. No, not just anything wet. Blood. And it wasn’t his. It was Ceveon’s, Erebus’s friend, and—

His knees hit the ground as he retched.

Ceveon’s eyes stared up lifelessly. He had rolled onto his side in agony, and even in his death, he was glaring at Mithras with condemnation.

Mithras had killed them. Both of them.

Now who would protect Erebus?

Mithras felt arms dragging him backward. He had been blindfolded during the entire trip to the tomb; he’d be blindfolded on the return trip to Istralla, too. And even though there were now two dead men left to rot alone in their best friend’s immortal resting place, Mithras would not so much as be questioned.

He understood it now.