Dream by the Shadows (Shadow Weaver Duology Book 1)

I stared past my steaming bowl of porridge, scarcely able to believe what I was seeing.

The legionnaires were awake.

And cheery .

They moved about the camp in an efficient morning rhythm, none the wiser to what had happened in my dream. The demonic chorus, the wail of demented release—it took most of breakfast before my stomach stopped churning. Still, the dream lingered.

Letussouttletussouttletussoutt.

The Shadow Bringer’s breath against my ear, his eyes as they lit up, searching me—

Does he face those demons every night?

I took another mouthful of oats, awkwardly maneuvering the bowl in my bound hands.

Is he facing them now, alone?

All of what I knew about the Dream Realm stemmed from Weaver tales and Norhavellis’s small collective knowledge of both demons and Corruption. And, as I was very aware, that knowledge had been twisted, challenged, and wrung out to dry due to a few recent events. Still, sensical or not, the Shadow Bringer was indeed trapped in that castle of his, unable to control the demons that stalked it.

His world of shadow, dust, and darkness.

I shook my head, remembering when he had once called my world ‘little’.

When he told me that, I assumed it was because he mistook my small understanding of the world for a lie. That in managing to craft a dream of my own, complete with my home, Norhavellis, and a part of the Visstill, I changed things to hide my affiliation with whatever enemies he claimed I allied with. Mithras, probably.

But my world was little.

And when he had called my world ‘little’, he sounded haunted—and surprised, maybe—by a yearning I didn’t understand. There was mistrust there, sure, but there was something else, too. Something that may have manifested from a man who hadn’t been outside his shadows in many, many years.

By the time I finished my breakfast and was lifted atop a horse, I had convinced myself that the Shadow Bringer was someone who could, in some ways, be pitied.

Definitely not trusted, exactly, but pitied.

We rode into the late afternoon, wandering through the Visstill in what seemed like aimless, looping circles. As the sun arced above the treetops, shadows lengthened, blanketing the root-spattered ground in patches of thick darkness. Mithras dismounted on occasion, conferring with his legionnaires. They examined patterns in the dirt, traced markings etched deep into crumbling stone, and spoke in tones that fluctuated between mildly amused and vaguely hateful.

I stretched my aching muscles, stifling a yawn.

It was our third day of travel, of haunting songs, and wondering why I hadn’t dreamed of the Shadow Bringer since the night in his bedchamber. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, running through a mental inventory of everything I knew about him. Even with his half-lies and vague insults, it was becoming more and more difficult for me to perceive him as evil.

I found myself wondering what his true name was. Or if he even had one.

“Ugh,” Mila sighed, earning a few semi-annoyed glances from the legionnaires. “Where is this dreadful tomb? You’d think since we visit it yearly that it wouldn’t be so utterly impossible to find.”

Alcott, who had dismounted with Mithras to analyze a stone that looked suspiciously similar to one they had examined earlier, didn’t react. Silas, who was riding next to Mila and I, however, rolled his eyes.

“Enough with the dramatics, Mila. You’re going to frighten our horses into oblivion.”

Mila scoffed. “Oblivion? Surely you mean insanity. We’ve been traveling in damn circles . This tomb is a pest.”

Silas looked uncomfortable. “Lord Mithras wouldn’t knowingly misguide us.”

“There you have it,” Mila said, shaking her head. She wore an array of small, golden earrings, but they were barely noticeable in her hair. “Knowingly .” She turned to me. “You don’t suppose we’ve been traveling in circles, do you? If anyone knows their whereabouts in this massive and dull forest, it would be you.”

“I’ve never ventured out this far,” I answered, bristling. The Visstill was somewhat uniform in its appearance, but it was hardly dull. In fact, I considered it rather beautiful after the hellish occurrences of the past few days. “It does feel like we’re circling something, though. The stone they’re looking at is very familiar.”

“I knew it,” Mila said with a groan, then shifted into a whisper, her voice conspiratorial. “The cross, the chip in the corner—it’s the same rock we saw yesterday. What do you suppose they’re getting at?”

“Save for finding the tomb, they’re not getting at anything,” Silas snapped, his mouth tight with exasperation. “And what really makes you think you can spot the difference between one chipped stone and another, especially from a distance? They’re rocks , Mila.”

“Because I’m not spotting differences. It’s where they’re similar that matters, you utter chicken-head.” Silas made to fix the top of his hair but caught himself. A flush crept through the tips of his ears, and Mila grinned, pleased with herself.

From our angle, we could see that Mithras and Alcott were debating something. Alcott was nearly smiling, but it came across as a grimace. Mithras was half-smiling too, his gloved hands raised in a victorious gesture.

Mithras, glorious Light Bringer and sovereign of Noctis.

But in the Realm, the Shadow Bringer considered Mithras a bitter, vile enemy, worthy of me being banished to the depths of his castle for just being associated with him.

I shuddered, remembering the cruel, long days spent in that space.

Mithras was likely spinning a web of his own. It was that possibility—perhaps more than any other—that was beginning to terrify me.

“Light Legion,” Mithras began, projecting his voice over the traveling party. “Dismount and tether your horses. We continue on foot.”

Legionnaires spoke in low voices as they worked to quickly secure their equipment and horses. A few hesitated, opting to remain behind and take watch over the supplies, but Mithras refused; he commanded that they all walk, single-file, down a nearby hill.

So we did.

My boots stuck into the hillside as we descended, squishing and pulling against mud left undried from a previous rainstorm. Leaves were strewn everywhere, and the early evening air began to take on a chill, forcing the hair on my neck and arms to rise.

“The Tomb of the Devourer is ever the trickster,” Mila mused, gliding down the hill. She outmaneuvered us all, delicately side-stepping fallen logs and hollows in the earth. It looked as if she was dancing. “Hidden away in some moldy forest in the middle of nowhere.”

I nearly tripped, sliding forward on a patch of wet undergrowth. My skirt snagged as I slid, ripping part of the hemline.

I don’t want to be here—I don’t want to be here.

Silas reached for me, holding out his arm for support. It was warm and steady, a solid anchor against my panic. He searched my face, noting the fear there. “Don’t worry, I’ll guide you down.”

I was afraid. Deeply so.

And strangely, not of the Shadow Bringer.

His unseen tomb, however, was a different story. The tomb was the Shadow Bringer’s earthly grave, unknown and unseen to everyone save the Light Legion. Over the past few days, I’d been told that the Shadow Bringer’s physical body was still alive, but Mithras couldn’t kill him. The Weavers entombed him in the Realm with the souls of demons only he could contain—and devour. To kill him would be to release a horde of demons into the world and make everything far worse than it already was.

Part of this was true, I knew, but I wasn’t so sure about the whole ‘devouring’ part.

As if on cue, a structure—the tomb—emerged before us, shrouded by a copse of ancient, clawing trees. Its body, which rested behind an entrance so dark it seemed partially open, was dug into the innards of a second hill, obscuring its size. And the light seemed dimmer here—the air heavier, colder. A slow, steady mist clung to the damp earth, threading out from the shadows and clinging to the tomb’s dark, overgrown walls.

I fell into silence with the rest of the legionnaires.

Mithras, mask affixed and sword drawn, approached the entrance. He reached for the stone slab marking the entrance, but something caught his attention.

“My lord,” a legionnaire warbled, breaking the silence. He cleared his throat to give his words more purchase. “My lord, the tomb is nearly open.”

I had blamed it on the light, on the adjusting of my eyes, that the tomb door seemed so dark, so seamlessly hidden. I thought the slab was a part of the shadows, not an empty, gaping hole. But as our eyes adjusted, the truth was laid bare.

The tomb was open .

Not enough for a body to fit through, exactly, but close. Extraordinarily close.

At first, Mithras said nothing. Then he murmured, so softly that it sounded like a shift in the wind, a crunch of someone’s boot against the leaves, “May he rot.”

“My lord? The tomb—”

“May he rot ,” he repeated again, louder, stronger.

A legionnaire—I didn’t see who—tossed a stone into the gap. It sailed past the archway, disappearing into the shadows with a faint, echoing crack as it landed somewhere far within.

The legionnaires flinched, some taking a step or two back into the forest.

Mithras turned around, facing us. Rage burned in his golden eyes, spilling over his taut, too-stiff body and trembling in his clenched fists. It trickled from the dust still floating from his hands. Without warning, he tore his mask from his face and hurled it into a nearby tree. It sank deep into the wood, narrowly missing one of his men.

“What do you use your eyes for?” He directed this question at the man who spoke of the half-open tomb. “For what do we use our senses? Our sense of taste, touch? Of scent and sound?”

“I-I use my eyes to see, my lord,” the man stammered. His skin shone with sweat. “And I use my senses for the Light Legion. I use them for you, my lord.”

“And what of the rest of you? Can you sense the darkness?”

The legionnaires nodded, a mixture of duty and discomfort splayed across their faces.

“Can you all sense it?” Mithras implored again, louder, more insistent.

“Yes, my lord!” the legion echoed.

“And can you find it, even if it walks among you?” He arched his hands through the air, motioning at the depths of the forest. The shadows had lengthened, drawing attention to the encroaching darkness.

“Yes, my lord!” the Light Legion repeated, its voice rising as one.

“And would you drag it out of the shadows and bring it to the light? Bring it to me?”

They nodded grimly and bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

“Always,” Alcott added, crossing an arm over his chest in a vague salute.

“We must walk in the shadows,” Mithras intoned.

“To walk in the light,” they answered.

“Good. Set up camp,” Mithras ordered. “We will avenge this wrong and reunite the Shadow Bringer with an eternity of damnation. He will not escape.”

The legionnaires exchanged glances, clearly uneasy. The Tomb of the Devourer stood partially open, a staggering reminder of the man that laid within.

Or nearly without.

Mithras’s gaze lingered to me for a moment. And as the legionnaires scurried away to their various duties, fading into the dark, I noticed that he was the only one without fear in his eyes.