Page 58 of Cursed By the Dawn

The demon’s voice faltered, thick with anger.“No! You are mine. And if you do not heel, he will be next. I will crawl into his mind and make him my slave.”

With one final surge, I forced the demon from my mind, casting it out in a riot of shadows bursting with flecks of light. At once the bindings dissipated, loosening from Erebus’s neck and sliding from my wrist. My sword disappeared, too, rushing back into my palm.

Erebus slumped into my arms, no longer conscious.

A suddenbangon the walls of our domain sent me reeling; it felt like a direct blow to my skull, insistent and desperate. Every nerve screamed at me to resist, but I couldn’t fight the pull of unconsciousness. It was like a dark, drowning tide grabbing me hard by my ankles. With a sob, I collapsed onto Erebus’s blood-soaked chest, unable to stop myself from falling under.

And then I felt the unmistakable tug ofhim.

Mithras.

Once upon a time, there was the Light Bringer, and once upon a time, the Light Bringer was good.

Mithras was Noctis’s holy sovereign, a golden, immortal king who fought against Corruption with every breath in his regal body. He symbolized everything the monstrous Shadow Bringer wasn’t—the epitome of strength, heroism, and goodness. When he visited Norhavellis during seasonal elixir distributions, Eden, Elliot, and I would clamber over one another to catch a glimpse of him first.

When he emerged from the Visstill, he was always glowing.

He rivaled the sun in his radiance, ever adorned in white and gold. He rivaled the brightest star in his beauty, towering over ordinary men and taking in the world with honeyed eyes that seemed to sparkle from within.

Elliot wanted to be him.

Eden wanted to kiss him.

And I simply wanted him to win.

He was our final protector in the centuries-old fight against Corruption. A bright hope who could cleanse souls, dispel demons, and distribute vials filled with liquid so powerful it became a nightly ritual foreveryone in the kingdom. It washewho would bring the seven Weavers back. It washewho could finally rid the world of demons so that we may dream again. And once upon a time, not so very long ago, I would have done anything to firm his faith in me.

Even if that meant killing the Shadow Bringer.

But that was before Mithras had violently killed his own legionnaires with blades of light, leaving their bodies to rot unceremoniously in Erebus’s tomb. Before he had taken Elliot from me. Before he had told me the Shadow Bringer was—of all things—a “necessary darkness.” That I was to keep him alive and safely locked away for the good of the kingdom. Before I learned he’d betrayed Erebus centuries ago, trapping him with hundreds of screaming demons. Erebus’s pain, as well as the pain of the imprisoned dreamers and the legionnaires Mithras had slaughtered, was unfathomable.

The Light Bringer was not the fairy-tale king I’d grown up admiring, and I had questions.

I hadrage.

I used to think Erebus’s anger against Mithras was unfounded, a vengefulness aimed at the person keeping him rightfully imprisoned in a faraway corner of the Dream Realm. But now I understood it. Anger, pure and scortching, swept like fire through my veins.

Mithras was slumped against a charred tree in the center of a dim chamber, head in his hands. Somehow, he’d called to me, forcing me from my domain and transporting me to this strange, broken place. Black marble floors crumbled under my feet; the domed walls, painted with faded murals, appeared close to shattering. He wasn’t donned in his usual golden armor; he wore no cape, no sword, no crown. Instead, he was in a ripped tunic and brown pants tucked into knee-high black boots. His hair was damp and stringy, his golden skin marred by cuts and bruises.

He was a mess.

My own hair was loose, and I was clothed in a simple nightgown, feet bare. I didn’t have the outward adornments of a Shadow Weaver,but I didn’t need armor or a crown to communicate my power. Magic was already spewing from my fingertips, swirling behind me like a menacing storm.

Mithras’s gaze snapped to me at once, eyes flashing as he noted my shadows.

“Get thoseawayfrom here,” he roared, voice cracking as he sent a brutal wave of light my way.

His light tangled with my shadows, bidding them to quiet. It quickly became apparent that neither his light nor my shadows would win outright; they were evenly matched, neutralizing each other before one power could take any advantage. I cursed, remembering the fight that had taken place in the Tomb of the Devourer. Erebus and Mithras had been evenly matched; it wasn’t until Erebus had pulled power from me that the tide had begun to shift.

“I’m a Shadow Weaver now,” I said, fingers twitching as I continued to throw my shadows against his light. All it would take was one slip. One mistake and he’d be mine. “My shadows go where I go.”

With a snarl, Mithras sent another wave of light my way, this time using the chamber’s wide array of broken mirrors and shards of glass to amplify his efforts. The chamber instantly filled with undulating waves of light, banishing every thread of darkness I could muster. I screamed, shielding my eyes and expecting the worst. For the light to crawl down my throat and out of my eyes. For it to rip me apart as it had his legionnaires.

But the light simply bathed my skin in a soft, comfortable glow, much like feeling the sun’s warmth after a harsh winter.

Mithras stalked toward me, mouth tight and shoulders tense.

I reached for the familiar threads I felt in my domain, but I couldn’t feel Erebus, the dreamers, or any of the other Weavers. It was just me, Mithras, and the gnawing, dreadful sense that something else was watching us.