Dream by the Shadows (Shadow Weaver Duology Book 1)

For the third time that night, elixir sat sour and wrong on my tongue.

Sleep taunted me, toyed with me—wrapped its hands around my eyes and called to me—but I couldn’t settle. Unease descended in a black, horrible cloud, prying my mind into pieces.

Irritated and exhausted, I took a fourth mouthful and fell back into my pillows.

But nothing happened.

Again.

Well, nothing except for the sensation of long-limbed insects dragging their bodies over my legs. I shuddered and sat up again, reaching for the vial. I would take a longer drink and count backwards from a thousand. A hundred thousand, even. I would bar Thomas’s corpse and the leaking eyes of two three-year-olds from my mind. But when the glass grazed my lips, only a small rivulet of liquid trickled out.

I stared in disbelief at the empty vial.

How could I have used so much? Our family’s supply wasn’t endless like the villagers believed. And here I was, wasting a quarter of a vial in a single night .

Disgusted with myself, I stormed downstairs to our personal elixir reserve. I didn’t have a choice; if the tonic wasn’t immediately taken before sleep, my soul might drift into the realm of demons. But this was another reason the average family—the average person , even—struggled to maintain an elixir supply. A stomach tight with hunger, fear, or discontent made sleep difficult, but most couldn’t afford more than one or two mouthfuls per day.

I searched the dark recesses of our kitchen shelves, expecting to graze the smooth glass of elixir vials, but I felt nothing but dust and shadows.

Strange.

I peered through a window at our barn near the woods, noting the tell-tale glow of candlelight. But the more I stared, contemplating if I should risk making the trek to where my father or mother might be, the weaker the light seemed.

Norhavellis’s supply, tucked away in our apothecary, silently beckoned.

The elixir trade curtailed Noctis’s susceptibility to Corruption, and Absolvers were required by law to document the elixir consumption of families within their assigned territory. My mother and father were healers, farmers, elixir suppliers, and Absolvers—overseers of Corruption. But secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, the Norhavellians despised them. They assumed we had an endless supply of elixir all to ourselves, and they hated us for it.

If only they knew how we suffered.

Darkness pushed into the apothecary, bloating the walls with thick shadow, and plants cascaded from the ceiling, pressing against curtain-drawn windows. They felt serpentine, more akin to slimy, writhing beasts than harmless vegetation.

I quickly searched for a spare vial, ignoring the sensation that something was watching me, lurking just beyond my vision. Once I found what I was looking for—a small portion of elixir, suitable for a few mouthfuls—I hurried upstairs, drank from the vial, and settled under my blankets, fully prepared for an unremarkable night of dreamless sleep.

I fell.

Wildly.

Relentlessly.

My hands clenched around wet, slimy things. Cold mud. Decaying leaves. I was a doll, a stone—useless, useless —slamming into branches and the sharp underside of tree roots. By the time I stopped moving, I didn’t recognize the gasping, pitiful breaths that stumbled out of me.

Slowly, I opened my eyes.

Trees swayed overhead, glistening softly in the twilight. Still reeling, I absently noted the dark, wet soil between my fingers. The papery leaves as they pressed against the back of my head. I sat up, gently stretching out my joints. I must have been delivering elixir parcels with Mother and Father. I must have fallen from the cart as we made our rounds.

Yes, that was it.

They must be so worried.

The whisper of a melody caught my attention, the only indication of any life beyond trees, mud, and a rapidly darkening sky. The song was beautiful—simple and carefree. It reminded me of a time when Eden and I were finally allowed to go into the Visstill Forest by ourselves. We were on a mission to collect a certain herb, but the job itself didn’t matter. We spent that whole morning pretending we were warriors, sparring with branches and dancing through the tall grass as if nothing could ever hurt us.

I sang along to the tune, making up words as I went. Time lost itself as I walked, but I continued to sing, deep in my thoughts and my made-up song, until I heard the crunch of quick footsteps moving through the leaves. I had only an instant to grab a fallen branch, its tip curved and sharp, before they were upon me.

A group of men materialized from the brush, covered in oily fur and the stench of unwashed flesh. They slunk around me, silent except for muffled panting. Their costumes were terrifyingly intricate; there were no seams in the material.

Performers, then.

My palms felt hot around my makeshift weapon. Humans, even if they were just performers, shouldn’t ever look the way they did. It was unnatural. A mimicry of life.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice uncontrollably shrill. “My father and mother are the Absolvers of Norhavellis. They’re somewhere near—” I didn’t know where to look. They were everywhere, forcing me backwards. Where were their eyes ? “Get away from me! ”

Were they from Norhavellis? Did the Radlers send them in revenge for killing Thomas? The more I considered the idea, the more hysterical I felt. Was I to be killed? Tortured? Left to starve in this maze of decaying trees?

One performer stalked toward me, growling out puffs of air from slits in the mask’s nose. I lurched backwards and tripped, collapsing to the ground. They were wretched. Absolutely wretched . My head was burning—white dots sparked across my vision.

I shut my eyes tight.

Then, I realized. Remembered.

I was asleep —I was asleep , and this was a dream —

My eyes flew open. The men weren’t performers. They were demons , grinning at me with maniacal glee. Saliva oozed from between their cracked lips, sliding into their fur. If I didn’t escape, they’d force me into Corruption.

Dragging myself to my feet and blindly picking a direction, I ran for my life.

I still had a purpose.

I had to live .

Do everything in your power to run or hide from the demons. You cannot fight them.

Surprise or harm your body enough to force it into consciousness.

Seek shelter in one of the Weaver’s domains; they are no more, but their domains stand firm.

The voices of my mother and father rang through my head, reminding me of each rule and every dire, deadly warning. But I knew with sickening certainty that I couldn’t outrun a demon, I didn’t have the bravery to harm myself when everything felt so real, and I had absolutely no chance of finding a Weaver’s sacred domain. I wasn’t capable of any of those things. Still, I ran deeper into the woods, attempting to change my fate. The trees shifted around me, branches gleaming like dark, iridescent fish scales, just as the forest melded into a vision of jeweled hues and emerald hills, shimmering leaves spiraling to meet fragrant, glowing flowers.

Beautiful.

I nearly laughed. No one told me that damnation could be beautiful .

“Girl .”

I stiffened. They found me.

“Girl ,” repeated the voice, raspy and hollow like bones being dragged across gravel. “What is a mortal doing within the Shadow Bringer’s domain ?”

A figure, vaguely masculine, stepped into the clearing, filthy and solemn. He looked as though he recently clawed his way from the very depths of Hell to stand there, digging through layer and layer of earth until he finally broke free. Thick cords of hair wilted from his scalp, hanging at crooked angles, and mud clung to most of his body. A tattered piece of embroidered cloth clung to his shoulders, trailing into the dirt behind him, and his eyes matched the state of his hair, grey and sagging.

“Look around ,” the figure said, stilling itself. “Do you see? ”

The demons moved to surround me, forming a loose circle within the glistening trees.

What do I see? I see demons. I see ugliness. I see filth.

But I also saw a clearing, bursting with luminous trees and glowing flowers. I saw darkness settling over the emerald grass like a velvet cloud. I scanned the space again, finally settling on something in the distance that was murky and irregular.

“Yes—you have found it, ” the creature sighed.

The massive shape of something unfurled before me like the husk of some newly discovered creature. The form of it slipped in and out of focus, sometimes taking shape, other times whisking away into the air as though it was nothing.

Is that a fortress? Some sort of mountain?

Breathe. I needed to breathe.

I took a lungful of perfumed air, willing my mind to clear. I examined my hands, staring at my tear-blurred skin until it sharpened. Satisfied with the clarity of my fingers, I took a final breath, steadying myself.

I looked up.

A castle loomed overhead, casting a thickening darkness over the land. It was a goliath of lofty spires and obsidian walls, and stars dappled the expanse of sky just beyond it, mingling with the last dying thread of day. Moonlight reflected in the stained-glass arches of the upper floors, illuminating the glass.

It was a palace of shadow and starlight.

I could feel the power it held; so deep within the gilded woods, it seemed to foretell a presence that waited in silken, shadowed corners and watched. When I finally tore my eyes away, I was alone. Gone were the demons and the grey-haired being.

Pressure formed within my stomach, willing me to move, so I walked to the castle’s sprawling courtyard, unable to keep from admiring its uncanny beauty. Lush floral arrangements bloomed from sapphire vases, dipping into starry water that poured from stone fountains. I ran a hand along a vase, alarmed that it felt so real . I could touch the surface, glossy and dark, and feel the twilight air upon the glass.

My acute sense of touch also told me that my hands were shaking, which was a problem.

Demons sensed fear like animals smell blood; they could latch onto your weakness and gnaw on it until they consumed all of you. Or at least that’s what the tales claimed.

“Pleasant thoughts now,” I whispered, swearing to banish ‘gnaw’ and a few other choice words from my current mental vocabulary.

As I neared the castle’s colossal iron doors, my smallness became painfully obvious. I was utterly insignificant here, not at all capable of battling demons or the wicked lord who ruled over them all.

But despite my fear, I felt the urge to knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

My hand tapped the cold metal three times. A metallic, unnatural noise rang out, echoing throughout the courtyard. The doors quivered in time with the echoes, rippling as its surface changed; every inch of the dark material carved away at itself, forming into thousands of meticulously detailed sculptures.

I tried to examine the images, but they escaped me, flitting from my vision like spinning grains of dust. Was that a person? A white-haired monster? Nothing at all?

The shadows stained everything—I couldn’t see.

I can’t see .