Page 70 of Cursed By the Dawn

But then Erebus shifted, close enough that I could feel the tension ripple through him.

“The tomb was tampered with while we were dreaming.” His voice was no longer soft with longing but sharp with resolve. “The entrance was unsealed as well.”

I blinked, confused. Mithras had sealed the entrance when he’d trapped us here. Me, Erebus, and the corpses of his loyal dead. “Are you sure?”

He nodded grimly. “I do not know who did it, or why, but we need to be alert. We’re exposed here without our full Weaver magic. Outside of this tomb, we have only our humanity to rely on.”

I stood, pulse thudding in my throat. Whatever safety I’d imagined had vanished.

Now came the reckoning.

Erebus pulled his gauntlets back on and drew his sword from its sheath, careful to keep its blade away from my unarmored skin. It had weight and presence, its blackened steel gleaming even in the dim light. There was nothing dreamy or imagined about it. Only purpose, forged into an ancient blade that had likely tasted death before.

“Just stay close to me. Whoever opened the door intended for us to be free, but that does not mean they want us alive.”

Someone had left supplies for us at the entrance.Lotsof supplies.

Two hooded cloaks, crafted from midnight-blue fabric laced with silver threads that shimmered like starlight. Sturdy boots, travel leathers, and gloves in our exact measurements. A set of soft sleeping clothes and undergarments. A satchel filled with ample coin. A longsword and several daggers for Erebus; a lighter blade and short, concealable daggers for me. A small pouch held a few practical necessities: a hairbrush, flint, steel, and some rose-scented soap. Everything had a thick layer of dust over it, but the tomb’s climate had largely preserved it all.

We were well taken care of. Our survival, protection, and general comfort had been carefully considered, even if there was no elixir. Someone had also removed all the bodies, including Ceveon’s and Sorren’s skeletons.

Odd.

The tomb’s stone door groaned as we pushed it fully open, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap in the silence. Cool, fresh air spilled in, carrying the crisp scent of pine and lingering frost. I stumbled forward, legs still a bit clumsy, and blinked as late afternoon sunfiltered through the leafless trees. It felt like an eternity since I’d last seen true daylight; the weight of the Dream Realm still clung to my skin like shadowed silk.

Erebus stepped beside me, shielding his eyes with a gauntleted hand. He said nothing, simply peering at the clearing with a sharpness that made me wonder what he was searching for—or expecting.

But it was the horses that drew my attention.

The skeletal remains of two horses lay collapsed on the leaf-strewn forest floor, bones bleached by the sun and picked clean by scavengers and time. They rested where they had fallen, bodies still tethered to a tree by rotted leather reins. One was on its side, ribs curving skyward, while the other’s skull tilted forward, jaws parted in a silent cry.

Around them, remnants of supplies lay scattered and decayed.

Saddles, stiffened with age and cracked along the seams, rested in heaps next to stringy harnesses and the remnants of bridles. A rusted water trough stood half-sunken in the earth next to them, a nest of brown leaves and twigs filling its basin. Leather saddlebags, split and frayed, spilled their rotten contents across the dirt. Small bones, broken jugs, shriveled pouches. Perhaps they’d once held food and water.

It was as if the riders had intended to return but never did.

The forest had claimed it all. A quiet conqueror, weaving roots and vines through what remained.

“How long have we been gone?” I asked, stomach twisting. “Those poor horses…”

He crouched beside one of the skeletons, fingers gently brushing the decayed leather of the reins. “This didn’t happen over the course of weeks. It’s been months. A year, even. Perhaps more.”

“Ayear?”

He nodded grimly. “Raelion capturing Evernight, the Nocturne, and the Weavers must have broken something. Time is layered and unpredictable within the waters of the Nocturne—within humanity’s most common dreams—but it is typically more linear in the Realm itself.”

I felt sick. “In the Weavers’ domains, you mean.”

Erebus nodded again. “The linearity allowed dream interpretations and Revels to occur. Imagine if every dream masquerade ball put all its attendees into a deep sleep for several months. There would have been riots.” He gripped the leather too hard; it crumbled between his fingers. “But everything is wrong now. This shouldn’t have happened.”

My mind drifted at once to Aris, to her fingers working magic on my face, hair, and dress in preparation for the Revel of Rebirth. How sad she had sounded when she admitted she—and her brother—had no assigned Weaver. How cleverly and kindly she had guided me despite all the troubles she carried.

What happened that night had changed the course of history.

My heart wept for her, as it did for all people deeply hurt by centuries of Corruption. And if it had already been a year since I fell asleep in Erebus’s tomb, then what did that mean for Elliot? He would be older now. He had been only ten when I’d last seen him. An innocent child thrown into a sea of darkness and expected to swim. A second, far darker possibility tugged at the back of my mind, but I shoved it away.

“You’re alive. Youneedto be alive,” I whispered softly, heart twisting even as I spoke the quiet prayer out loud. My gaze darted back to our provisions—to the gold and the weapons. Whoever had left them here, whoever had tied those horses, had been preparing for something—or someone. “Who do you think left these?”