Page 93 of Cursed By the Dawn

“Our most brilliant hopes…,” Lelantos added.

“And the power to carve a destiny for ourselves,” Fenrir finished.

Xander nodded. “When Raelion twisted the Dream Realm to his whims, he didn’t just cast us into darkness. He severed the pulse of humanity as we understand it.”

“He’s had his claws in our world for too long,” Nephthys said, shaking her head. Her eyes were shining again; she was close to crying. “You all remember that terrible night five hundred years ago. How Mithras condemned Erebus with a viciousness I’d never seen in him before. Who’s not to saythatwas Raelion?”

“I am beginning to suspect as much, too,” Somnus mused. “Raelion wants you dead, Shadow Weavers. So he did everything he could to—”

“No,” I interrupted. “No, he doesn’t want us dead. He wants our power.”

A shiver worked its way around the room.

“Your power?” Somnus asked quietly. “How do you know this so assuredly?”

Erebus tensed, ready to defend me.

“It’s okay,” I said to Erebus, giving him what I hoped was a confident smile. “I need to tell them.”

I forged on, explaining in vivid detail my visions of Mithras and Raelion. At first, the Weavers looked stunned. Horrified, even. But I left the worst detail—the thing that made me want to curl into a ball and scream—for last.

My markings.

I pulled off my scarf with trembling fingers, baring my neck for them to see.

“Maker help us,” Nephthys whispered. “You poor girl.”

We crept back to Citadel Firstlight under a moonlit sky, vowing not to fall asleep.

It was too dangerous to dream; no Weaver wanted to risk returning to Raelion’s nightmare. And so, the eight of us—everyone except Theia—vowed to stand together until the bitter end. We’d return to the quarters Silas had prepared for us, dress for the Revel, and claim our fates.

Wind whipped against our faces, sharp and salt laden, tugging at our clothes and tangling our hair. Waves churned and hissed in the darkness, their edges frothing white under the faint glow of moonlight breaking through scattered clouds. I licked my lips, tasting the subtle briny tang.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I had yearned to live in Istralla. I had dreamed of this exact sea—how it would feel against my face, how I’d splash in its waters. I had also dreamed that being in a grand seaside city would finally bring my family happiness. There would be no frantic elixir distributions, no fingers scrambling for every last drop we could manage to disperse. There would be no Corrupt prowling in the woods, no need to sit guarding our porch until dawn. There would be only love,laughter, and adoration for a golden king who would keep us safe. To a girl who’d spent most of her life without dreams or prospects for a better future, Istralla once symbolized the beginning of everything.

I curled into myself, clutching my elbows. I would not cry.

Mother, Father, Eden, Elliot.

If only you could see me now.

My feet sank into the damp ground. Sand clung to my boots and the edge of my cloak, but I didn’t mind. A little salt and sand were luxurious compared to the stench of dried blood, sweat, and ash. Nephthys had encouraged Erebus and me to use her reflection pool as a makeshift bath, offering us the finest in soaps, lotions, and perfumes to cleanse the dried demon blood that had still clung to our hair and clothes. She’d even offered me one of her lovely sleeping gowns, its amethyst neckline rippling like a seashell upon my throat. Erebus, on the other hand, had borrowed black leather pants and a fur-lined tunic from Lelantos’s wardrobe. Though Lelantos and Erebus were of similar heights, his clothes fit Erebus snugly, exposing part of his chest and revealing every rise and curve of his muscles.

It was impossible not to stare.

My fingers found Raelion’s mark. I had scrubbed my neck and chest until the skin was raw, but the marking would not fade. No matter what I did, no matter how forcefully I scratched, it remained emblazoned on my body like a sinister necklace.

Even now, I felt as if it were choking me.

Bitter anticipation, much like a rising tide, swirled around us as we neared the citadel. The fate of our kingdom was at our fingertips; and so was a collection of weapons and clothes suitable for revelry. We’d decided to arm ourselves to the teeth with weapons from the tombs, unable to rely on the unstable dream magic that occasionally flickered among us.

When we neared Firstlight’s hidden entrance, we took a moment to pause.

The Weavers tilted their heads to look at the midnight sky, throatsbared in silent reverence as a crisp, salty breeze sifted through their hair. I’d nearly forgotten they were all experiencing reality for the first time in centuries. The Dream Realm was extraordinarily realistic in the sensations it evoked, but there was still something perfectly wonderful about everyday scents, sights, tastes, and sounds. Erebus and I joined them, relishing in this final moment of peace. Beyond the crashing waves, all was quiet—no echoes from Istralla or the citadel, no other signs of life at all.

Erebus found my hand, brushing his thumb across my wrist.

My gaze snagged on him, drawn not to his face but to the way his hair moved across it. The wind tugged at it with wild fingers, sending strands flowing and twisting like threads of moonlight unraveling into the night. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen anything so beautiful in all my life.