Page 17 of Cursed By the Dawn

“Weavers, summon your strength,” Theia called, her words echoing over the landscape. Her voice was a choir of maidens, brimming with light and promise.

The Weavers surrounded her, sacrificing their power to feed her growing light. Together, their united power was beyond words—it was glorious, reverent, indescribable. A testament to the Maker and the responsibility He had bestowed upon each of them.

And before them all stood Mithras, golden eyes grim.

Had the circumstances been different, Erebus would have wept in veneration.

“Together,” Theia said, “we will banish this wicked place and your demons into the Beyond.”

The Beyond—or hell, as mortals knew it to be. The indomitable space that clung to the underbelly of the Realm, bleeding into nightmares and harboring demons with their false gods. The Beyond was where wicked souls were sent to rot, putrefying in an eternity of madness.

“You will not,” Erebus snarled, raising his hands higher. A bolt of Ceres’s rock broke through, deadly in its swiftness, raining down on his defenseless body as his barrier stretched. “You will not take my soul.” Rock crushed his outstretched arms; his left dropped, fractured and useless. But even mangled and broken, trembling and bloody, his right hand held steady, commanding the dark as he fought to survive.

“You will not take my soul!” Erebus roared again.

And the Realm roared back.

With a swiftcrack, the dream ended.

Overwhelmed with horror, I wiped away the errant tears sliding down my face. As a child, I had been told that the Light Bringer and the Weavers warred against the Shadow Bringer in a bloody, terrible fight, but the Shadow Bringer had won. And after his victory, he and his legions of demons were said to have descended upon the Dream Realm, forcing Corruption upon Noctis like a festering poison only the Light Bringer could salve.

But reality was painfully different.

It told of a broken hero trying to save the Dream Realm. A frantic plan made with Mithras to purge the Nocturne of its shadows once and for all. A plan ending with shocking betrayal. The Weavers painted Erebus as a villain, a scourge who summoned demons as his playthings.

The injustice of it all was nauseating.

“I meant it when I said I would never forgive them. I am not the only one at risk from their deceitful ways this time. It’s all of you, too.” Erebus stood and walked to the open window, beholding the dreamers in the courtyard, the forest, and their new dwellings. “And the hundreds of dreamers who now rely on Esmer and me for their safety. We’re all they have left.”

“Indeed,” Sorren agreed. “Outside of the Dream Realm, we’re just bones growing brittle in the dirt or collecting dust somewhere infernal like your tomb.”

“The bones in my tomb could belong to anyone,” Erebus said, shaking his head.

I remembered Erebus as I had first seen him in the Tomb of the Devourer, kneeling over two skeletons. He’d been genuinely surprised to find the bones there, I realized. And then Mithras had mocked him. Aflicker of rage danced behind my eyes, eager to blame the Light Bringer for yet another grievance. I couldn’t imagine being forced asleep for centuries, only to wake and be utterly alone, with nothing but my two dearest friendsdeadat my feet and my enemy peering down at me with contempt in his golden eyes.

“Who else would defend your tomb to the death?” Sorren inquired, twisting his silver thumb ring, shaped like a snake, impatiently. “If you had looked closely enough, you’d likely have found my jewelry.”

Erebus’s mouth tightened. I could tell he’d known all along, but the confirmation hurt.

“The bones in your tomb are none other than ours, my friend,” Ceveon said gently.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad my eternal resting place is in your tomb,” Sorren offered, his earlier impatience shifting into light humor. “I’d imagine a worm-infested coffin would be far more stifling.”

“How did you die?” I asked, curious why these two warriors died in a dark, windowless tomb in the middle of the Visstill Forest. It was impossible to tell how they’d perished by the sight of their bones alone.

Ceveon and Sorren shared a look.

“By a blade,” Ceveon finally said, shuddering as he took a long drink. Perhaps he was recalling where the sword had pierced him. “Centuries ago, Mithras ordered a secret dwelling to be built for Erebus. A magical tomb that would ensure he remained in immortal sleep. Sorren and I planned to rescue Erebus during the burial process before he was sealed away.”

“But when we tried to retrieve him from the tomb, we were cornered,” Sorren added.

“Who cornered you?” Erebus pressed. “In fact, I believe you’ve been purposefully omitting it.” Shadows rippled from his shoulders in an ominous cloud. They became a kaleidoscope of threatening things—swords, snakes, clawed arms—as though he couldn’t decide how he wanted to use them. Orwhoto use them against. “Name them.”

“It was—” Ceveon began but was interrupted by a quick palm over his mouth.

“Don’t—” Sorren insisted. “We can mull over the past after the demons have been defeated.”

“Mithras,” Ceveon said angrily, ripping Sorren’s hand away. “It was Mithras. He gutted us like we were swine.”