Page 7 of Cursed By the Dawn

“How?”

“With our minds.”

I racked my brain, pondering what might cause the almighty Somnus, Weaver of the Past, to flee.

“We could turn his hair into shadow,” I suggested, trying to imaginethe powers a Shadow Weaver might have. Or thatanyWeaver would have, for that matter. I didn’t have the faintest idea beyond what the tales explained. And the tales were cryptic at best, fictitious at worst. “Or transform him into something small and ridiculous. Dream him into a snake that worships its own tail.”

“Clever.” A sly grin tugged at Erebus’s lips, but just as soon as it appeared, it was gone. “When I was a scholar at Evernight, we were taught that Weavers had complete control over the inner workings of their domains. They could allow dreamers in or force them out with just a thought. So if weareShadow Weavers, removing him should be a simple feat. No conjured snakes necessary.” Turning to Somnus, he added, “But if he’s toying with us—if this is just some test—then we will make sure he understands this domain is a place for those who wield the dark. And those who test us will find their nightmares more merciful than our shadows.”

Somnus yawned. “How utterly terrifying.”

Erebus is going to make him regret that.

Something nudged the edge of my consciousness, caressing my mind like a soft, sentient feather. It curled around my temples, circling my thoughts as if awaiting permission before it found a place to settle. I met Erebus’s eyes, sensing that he felt it, too. He nodded almost imperceptibly, jaw tense and mouth set in a tight line.

There.

Light burst from behind my eye sockets, warming my skull and flowing down my limbs. My crown felt lighter, my dress more radiant, my boots firmer, my vision sharper. And then I feltthem. Every soul. Every dreamer in the courtyard. Ceveon, Sorren, Somnus. Each one was a tiny thread winding into a much larger map only Erebus and I could see.

I could sense every emotion they felt, too.

Their pain, their confusion, their relief. And at the edges of their fractured minds, even a faint, meandering hope. Several dreamers openly wept, scarcely more coherent than they had been in their moremonstrous forms. Somnus’s thread differed from the dreamers’; his was bone white while the dreamers’ were tinged with small shadows.

Is this what it feels like to be a Weaver?

Erebus examined Somnus’s thread, plucking it with the end of a claw-tipped gauntlet. One white thread in a sea of interconnected dark.

“Sever it,” he urged, only to me.

“Gladly.”

I drew my blade from where it magically hid inside my palm and cut without hesitation.

The thread snapped as easily as a hair; Somnus scarcely had time to roll his eyes before his body slammed backward through the iridescent trees, melting into a void of shadow. The dreamers froze, jaws slackening at the wake Somnus left behind.

“You killed him,” Ceveon said in awe.

My eyes widened. I didn’t kill him.

Did I?

“No one can kill a Weaver that easily,” Sorren scoffed. “He’ll return any second now. If Esmer and Erebus decide to let him back in, that is.”

A faint knocking could be heard—or felt, rather—in the distance.

“Can you hear that?” Erebus asked.

Sorren glanced around. “The dreamers whispering that you’re gods? Or did you mean something else?”

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

“There’s someone knocking,” I clarified, much to Ceveon and Sorren’s confusion.

I focused on the sound, trying to discern who it was and what they wanted. Slowly, the knocks grew louder, and I could see their origin in my mind’s eye. A faint outline of a man appeared. Long hair, black robes, skin the color of bones, and a face wearing a frightening smile.