Page 16 of Cursed By the Dawn

Its spires touched the heavens; its rooms overflowed with eldritch paintings and sumptuous furniture his imagination alone could produce.

Now it had none of those things.

He shuddered into awareness in his chambers, having thrown himself here immediately following the disaster at Lelantos’s Revel. The Weavers were chasing him; he’d have to fight them all alone. His chest was tight. An emotion he hadn’t felt in ages overcame him, flooded him, twisted his throat into a knot and his hands into loose, shaking things.

Fear.

The castle was a blur as Erebus raced through it, limbs disappearing and reappearing as his shadows pushed him forward. They carried him past standing sculptures and reliefs, his library, a cavern pooling with liquid stardust, winding staircases, and strange passageways—and past demons who had breathed deep of the dark and become it themselves. They did not understand him, nor could they communicate beyond shrieks and growls; they were mindless terrors, disturbing and cruel.

And they had ruined his castle. Made it a place of horror instead of beauty.

The castle’s entryway loomed in front of him, made from living carvings. Tonight, they were spinning around in wide, looping circles, teeth gnawing open and shut in silent screams. He placed a hand upon the undulating doors, and the faces paused, quivered, then continued with their endless silent howls.

Clenching his teeth and ignoring his shivering hands, Erebus threw the door wide open.

Outside, the sky was a riot of midnight colors. Erebus raised his hands in a final desperate plea for protection.

There. He could do it. There was still time.

Lelantos descended first in a spiral of lightning. Marked by great tawny wings that framed his muscular body, he hovered over the forest that surrounded the castle. Watching, waiting. His half mask of bone was imposing—sinister, even—hiding the friendliness that usually emanated from his pale eyes.

There was still time.

As Erebus called forth the fullest weight of his power, his shadows curled up from theearth and down from the sky. They poured from the castle’s open doors and surrounded him, eager to protect him.

Fenrir and Nephthys announced themselves in a flurry of fire and water, mingling their powers in a dance of strength. Nephthys’s clothing, a maze of jewel and pearls, coiled up to her headpiece, a mass of curved spires and dried oceanic skeletons. Her clothing glistened, even in the eternal night, contrasting with Fenrir’s crimson robes. Flames burned in Fenrir’s eyes, reflecting into Nephthys’s.

Erebus spread his hands wider, bracing himself against the immense power rolling off and around him.

Ceres came separately from her elemental brothers and sister, exploding from the ground in a cocoon of roots. She unfurled like a beast born anew, stepping barefoot upon the ground. Her horned headpiece, curled tightly around her scalp, was tangled with spiderwebs, roses, and decay.

Erebus was running out of time.

He growled as he struggled to maintain the wall of shadow around him.

The final three Weavers manifested. Past, present, and future. Somnus, with his bone-white face glowing from under a curtain of black hair. Xander, armored in iron and shielded by seven floating swords. Theia, ever more a spirit than a physical, living being, draped in translucent fabric that mirrored her silvery hair, skin, and eyes. Crowns adorned each of their brows: for Somnus, a crown of bone; for Xander, a crown of iron; for Theia, a crown of diamond.

There was no time.

The Weavers moved to surround him, rush him, destroy him—but his wall of shadow, his last hope, his last thread of power, stopped them from advancing. They eddied around it, thrashing with bursts of their own magic. The sky was a maelstrom, a firestorm, a tornado, a masterful display of the Weavers’ indomitable might. Never before had he seen their abilities used in such a reckless, wild manner.

Erebus dropped to a knee, sweat sliding down his brow as he fought against their fury.

“Erebus! You have forsaken the Weavers and our holy Maker,” Xander cried, swinging each of his seven blades against the shadow barrier. Every blow was impossibly powerful, shaking the ground. “Your betrayal cannot be forgiven.”

“No, it cannot,” Nephthys said, amethyst eyes flashing. Raging tides swirled against the barrier; they were a vortex of water darker than tar. “Do you know what it is youhave done?” She was screaming now, her teeth sharpening into feral points. “Do you feel the blood of the innocents? Do you feel it staining your skin, pooling in the depths of your soul?”

Erebus’s throat closed. His limbs deadened, numb.

Still, he fought.

“Traitor!” Fenrir howled, his flames exploding across the forest. They razed every meadow and twisted trees into corpses. “I will burn you and the demons you harbor. By the Maker, I swear it—you all will burn!”

A stray drag of wind, threaded with sharp feathers and ice, cracked his barrier and lanced open his cheek. Fire fought through the breach, following the wind, and grabbed his neck, burning him. Dark, shadowlike blood dripped from his skin, staining the stone below.

Still, he did not fall.

Theia rose above the Weavers, skirts trailing behind her in a cloud. She clasped her hands together and the earth shook, rumbling with an unseen power from far below.