Dream by the Shadows (Shadow Weaver Duology Book 1)

The Shadow Bringer would have killed them if he could. With his power restored, he would have wrapped his shadows around their throats and watched as the light, dim and useless as it already was, was extinguished from their eyes. No longer would they have been puppets to their false lord.

Surely that would be preferable to whatever it was they were now.

But what would that make me, if I killed them all?

He cursed under his breath, grinding his nails into the palms of his hands. He was so weak—so damnably weak —and his thoughts were jumbled, lost, broken. He could not think clearly, could not make out the clarity of the shapes and colors around him. Things were fading, quickly. The shape of the tomb—his dwelling—was distorted, the shadows blending, swirling, rioting against the obscene brightness of the torches.

So many lights.

So many gazing, gaping, empty stares.

And what did they see? Did they see him as Mithras did? Did they see a monster, a demon, villain?

He focused on the tension in his palms and the dull bite of his teeth against the inner skin of his mouth. Vaguely, he remembered the pull that had awakened him—the crazed, half-formed feeling that Esmer was somehow tied to him. That she began to set him free when she opened his castle in the Realm.

Esmer.

He had wanted to take her here—lock her here in his place, rendering him free from his demons and his darkness. For a short while, he had believed that to be the best path.

Now he needed to return to where he belonged.

Torchlight flickered, hesitating against the dark of the tomb. His lingering shadows gnawed at the flames, leaving them as useless as the puppet-like hands that held them.

Good.

It silenced the vile, raucous voices. Forced them into panicked whispers and trembling, half-formed sentences. The Bringer slipped backwards in the chaos, sinking into the shadows as the forms around him stumbled and fought to see.

He did not think about the bones at his feet as he descended into the dark, did not think about Esmer or the way her hand felt in his as the walls drew nearer around him. He did not feel the cold as it seeped into his bones, did not feel the hollows under his eyes growing tighter and deeper.

His anger, his purpose—they had dissolved, leaving behind nothing in their wake.

It was fitting.

The Bringer was nothing, and to nothing he would soon return.