Page 37 of Cursed By the Dawn

And the dreamers—the hundreds who were still alive, still fighting—listened.

And they rose.

When we all finally reached the cliff, dark wings fluttering with the thrill of what we had just accomplished, Erebus and I directed our shadows into the trees, ripping them apart by their dark, hidden centers—much to Sorren’s and Ceveon’s delight.

And much to the Weavers’ shock.

“Good,” said the voice inside my head.“Let them squirm.”

Xander cleared his throat.

“Ninety-five percent of your dreamers survived the first trial,” he said, his tone very much like that of a teacher accusing lackluster pupils of lying on an examination. If Xander wore glasses, he’d surely have been peering over them to give us a withering stare. He tipped his regal head at Erebus and me, some of his chestnut hair flopping across his brow. “While the other five percent failed to rise, succumbing to the elements of earth and air.”

The Weavers all turned to look at us, as though that number meant something important.

I forced my back straight, trying not to fidget. They all sat at our table in various states of intensity, ignoring the starlit drinks Sorren had quickly prepared before returning to help Ceveon settle the dreamers. Erebus, unaffected by their stares, brazenly traced his hand along my spine as he drank from his goblet. Even the shadows around us shimmered in what I would almost describe aspride. Our shadows were sated. Content.

Triumphant.

His energy was at odds with what I felt: that I had failed, somehow.As though there were a thorn wedged in my teeth, and if I opened my mouth, the Weavers would see it.

“We’ve done our best given the circumstances,” I said, feeling defensive. Five percent failed, but ninety-five didn’t. That wasn’t so pitiful, was it? “I know we’re in a rush to reclaim Evernight, but these dreamers aren’t formally trained scholars like you’re used to seeing.”

Never mind the fact that I myself was barely trained.

“We are aware,” Xander said primly. “That is what makes this situation so peculiar.”

“Forgive me, but didn’t scholars train foryearsat Citadel Evernight before becoming acolytes in your domains?” I asked. “And even then, only the best ever rose to the ranks of your legions.”

“Of course they trained for years,” Fenrir snapped. “It is what made our legions so strong. It took time for power to emerge.”

“If you are not satisfied with our progress,” Erebus began, commanding the shadows to wrap around his silver goblet and fill it to the brim, “then leave us to handle the demons by ourselves. We know our target.”

“It is not that we aren’t satisfied,” Ceres admonished, shaking her head. The jeweled beetles on her headpiece clattered together, and for a moment I thought a few moved on their own. “It is merely that what you accomplished has never happened before. Ripping apart our magic by using shadows like blades is—”

“Most unusual,” Nephthys finished, amethyst eyes glittering under a fan of perfectly curled lashes. “But perhaps not surprising at all; you are new. You do not yet know our ways.”

In other words, we were not like them. We were inadequate. A weak excuse for beings meant to rule our section of the Dream Realm.

“Ninety-five percent of your dreamers survived the first trial,” Xander repeated, peering at Erebus and me more intently.

Erebus’s lip curled. “Point taken, Xander.”

“The resounding average across the Seven is atwenty-fivepercent survival rate for preliminary trainings such as these,” Xander illuminated, letting the words hang. Erebus’s mouth snapped shut; mine dropped open.“And that came from, as Fenrir so eloquently put it, our seasoned dreamers. Acolytes who were carefully selected after years of training at Evernight.”

“You commanded them,” Lelantos noted, thumbing the faint stubble on his jaw. “You told them how to succeed.”

“We told them to imagine the threats they faced as soft and movable. That they could simply pretend the danger wasn’t danger at all,” I described. What I was explaining felt so painfully obvious. It was a lesson they’d surely taught their own dreamers thousands of times. “Once the dreamers defeated their mental blocks, they were able to rise.”

Ceres’s brow furrowed. “But I did not hear you speak, Shadow Weaver. Only to Erebus did you converse.”

The shadows stilled, listening.

“Well, they surely used their minds, then,” Somnus sighed. His skeletal fingers slipped around his goblet, giving it a good swirl. “How peculiar our new Weavers are.”

“Peculiar?” Xander queried. “Weavers should be leaders and guides, not puppeteers. If a dreamer cannot succeed during training, they simply do not triumph. We do not command them using theirminds.”

“We didn’t command them like some cruel puppeteer,” Erebus spat.