Page 39 of Cursed By the Dawn

The invisible threads that connected us to the other Weavers, as they did to our dreamers, quivered. One snap and the Weavers would be sent flying, much as we had done to Somnus all those weeks ago. The ghost of a smile tugged at Erebus’s lips, as if he could tell I was considering their dismissal.

But we couldn’t let them go. Not yet.

“We need to show you the current situation at Evernight—a vision that must first be marked by a glimpse of the past.” Xander pursed his lips, resentful of having to state his next inquiry. “Permission to weave these visions?”

“Permission granted,” I said smoothly.

Somnus went first, deftly weaving a detailed vision for all to see. The citadel towered above us in the center of the table, as magnificent as I remembered it from the Revel of Rebirth. I had to crane my neck to see it in full; fortunately, the room we were gathered in was cavernous, its ceilings stretching high above our heads. Seven bridges jutted from Evernight like spokes in a wheel, connecting the citadel with the domains of each Weaver. Among the bridges churned a miniature of the Nocturne—the ancient sea of dreams. The very sea that once sought to consume Erebus’s castle and banish us to spend eternity in the Beyond.

“After we fought against Erebus,” Somnus began, “it was discovered that demons had infiltrated the Revel of Rebirth as dreamers in disguise.”

“Inviting demons to Evernight was our plan all along,” Erebus said coldly. “Mithras and I had agreed to lure them to the Nocturne during the Revel, where we’d destroy them once and for all.”

Xander’s brow arched. “Then Mithras was your ally?”

“Of course he was my ally,” Erebus snapped. “We were once…” He trailed off before he could finish the sentence.

“Friends,” Ceveon supplied. “You were friends.”

“But he betrayed Erebus,” Sorren added. “Don’t you recall following Mithras that night like meek children holding on to a rope?” His disgust was apparent. “Erebus wanted to purify the Nocturne with the might of his shadows. But when the sea revolted against him, spewing thousands of demons into the Dream Realm, Mithras was already there, waiting with you all. How curious.”

Fenrir scowled. “What else were we to do? The darkness sang to Erebus in ways we’d never seen. The demons practically licked his feet like he was their king.”

“Fenrir speaks true,” Somnus said smoothly. “Although I recall no boot licking.”

As proof, Somnus flashed the scene for us all to see. The memory was through his eyes; his long hair was visible whenever he adjusted the position of his gaze. The Weavers were at the top of Evernight, staring down at Erebus as the Nocturne raged with his shadows. Demons poured from the waters, shrieking with glee. They were furious.Vicious.But not a single demon attacked Erebus.

Erebus’s jaw ticked.

It was a horrifying image. One that would alter the state of the Dream Realm for centuries to come.

“It isn’t horrifying. It is beautiful,” cooed the voice.

I must have flinched, because Erebus shot me a concerned glance.

The voice was soft enough—embeddedjustsubtly enough in my own internal monologue—that its origin was murky. Was it coming from me? Or was it coming from somewhere else? The former was concerning. The latter was terrifying. The voice hadn’t claimed itself to be the Maker, nor did it sound like Raelion.

So what was it?

What do you want?I demanded silently.

No answer. Only a low, indulgent hum, as if it was pleased that I had spoken at all.

Concern gnawed at me, sharp and immediate. Was I unravelingalready? Was this the first fray in the threads of my mind? I forced my hands to remain still in my lap, though every instinct screamed for me to press them against my ears, to block out the voice before it slid deeper.

“You see it, too. The beauty in the darkness.”

A low pulse of curiosity stirred. Did it mean the endless dark coiling beneath the Dream Realm in the form of the Beyond? The demons? Or the raw power, the darkness, that had poisoned the ancient sea of dreams? Part of me, a part I didn’t recognize, did feel the allure. I swallowed the thought before it could fully flower.

The voice wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

A test, perhaps. A trial of the mind. Or maybe it was a consequence of dreaming, the border between thought and reality thinning. Nothing more.

And even if the voice was something more, what would I gain by naming it out loud? The Weavers would be suspicious, and Erebus would only worry. And if I was wrong, if it was simply my own mind cracking under pressure, giving voice to fear, then speaking of it would only mark me as weak. Better to bury it. Better to listen, to learn, and to control it.

“Clever girl,” the voice breathed, warm with approval as it retreated into silence.

I froze, suppressing a full-body shudder. Somewhere deep beneath my careful rationalizations, a rotten thought stirred, unwelcome and persistent.