Dream by the Shadows (Shadow Weaver Duology Book 1)

Part Two – The Forgotten Dawn

Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour

They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks

Extinguish’d with a crash—and all was black.

The brows of men by the despairing light

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

The flashes fell upon them; some lay down

And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d;

And others hurried to and fro, and fed

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up

With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

The pall of a past world; and then again

With curses cast them down upon the dust,

And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d.

– Darkness , Lord Byron

FIVE CENTURIES BEFORE

The castle had been built from shadows and starlight.

It towered over the hillside like a dark jewel, embraced by iridescent trees and an eternal sky rotating between twilight, dusk, and deep, relentless night. Its stone was the outer threads of dreams, its mortar the underbelly of fire, water, air, and time.

Erebus hadn’t intended for it to be beautiful; no, the intent for the castle was for it to be his haven. A place to freely practice his Maker-given talents. A place to create and dream and be. But the longer he worked, the more glorious it had become.

And work he had.

Its spires touched the heavens, its rooms overflowed with eldritch paintings and sumptuous furniture only his imagination could produce. A light in the bitter dark.

Now, it was none of those things.

He shuddered awake in his bed, chest tight with an emotion he hadn’t felt in some time. It overcame him, flooded him, twisted his throat into a knot and his hands into loose, shaking things.

Fear.

The castle was a blur as Erebus raced through it, his limbs disappearing and reappearing as his shadows pushed him forward. They carried him past standing sculptures and reliefs, libraries filled with literature both historic and imagined, a cavern pooling with liquid stardust, winding staircases and strange passageways—past the living shadows, those who had breathed deep the dark and became it themselves. They could not heed him, nor could they communicate; they felt like ghosts, despite the darkness and humanity that mingled within them. Ghosts that he could—would—protect. Ghosts that he would free.

If he could make it.

If the Weavers would listen.

The castle’s entryway loomed in front of him, carved with smaller living shadows that danced to their own stories. Tonight, they were spinning around in wide, looping circles, teeth mawing open and close in silent screams. He placed a hand upon the undulating stone and the mouths paused, quivered, then continued with their endless, tortured, open-mouthed howls.

Clenching his teeth and ignoring the shivering of his hands, Erebus threw the door wide.

Outside, the sky was churning in a riot of midnight colors. It ravaged the horizon as it moved, screaming a deadly warning. Erebus growled at the sight, throwing up his hands in a final, desperate plea for protection.

There—he could do it. There was still time.

Lelantos descended in a spiral of lightning and wind. Cloaked in feathers that floated over his tawny body, he hovered over the forest that surrounded the castle. Watching, waiting. His half-mask of bone was imposing—sinister, even—hiding the friendliness that usually emanated from his pale eyes.

There was still time.

Calling forth the fullest weight of his power, Erebus’s shadows curled up from the earth and down from the sky. They poured from the castle’s open doors and surrounded him, thrumming around his body in time with his every heartbeat, his every breath.

Fenrir and Nephthys announced themselves in a flurry of fire and water, mingling their powers in a dance of power and grace. Nephthys’s clothing, a maze of jewels, brooches, and pearls, coiled up to her headpiece, a mass of curved spires and dried, oceanic skeletons. It glistened wildly, even in the eternal night, contrasting with Fenrir’s coal-black tattoos and blood-red robes. Flames burned in Fenrir’s eyes, reflecting into Nephthys’s.

No—no—no.

Erebus spread his hands wider, leaning forward to brace himself against the immense power rolling from and around him. At his call, the dark surged forward as one.

Ceres came separately from her elemental brothers and sister, exploding from the ground in a cocoon of tree roots. She unfurled from it like a beast born anew, stepping barefoot upon the ground. Her horned headpiece, curled tightly around her scalp, was tangled with spiderwebs, roses, and decay.

He was running out of time.

Erebus growled, grinding his teeth together as he struggled to maintain the wall of shadow. He had never before witnessed a domain being set, but he felt, somehow, that he could. The knowledge was there, somehow, deep within his core. For his castle—and the wild land that surrounded it—to be contained as his, he would have to embed his power into the very fabric of the space.

Everywhere must be him, and he must be everywhere.

And with a domain set, he could negotiate with the Weavers in peace.

The final three Weavers manifested. Past, present, and future—Somnus, Xander, and Theia. Somnus, with his serpentine face glowing from under a curtain of black hair. Xander, armored in iron and shielded by six floating swords. Theia, ever more a spirit than a physical, living being, draped in translucent fabric that mirrored her silver hair, skin, and eyes. Crowns adorned each of their brows, forever embedded into their skin: Somnus, a crown of bone; Xander, a crown of iron; Theia, a crown of diamond.

There was no time.

The Weavers moved to surround him, rush him, destroy him—but his wall of shadow, his last hope, his last thread of power, stopped them from advancing. They eddied around it, thrashing with bursts of their own gifts—the sky was a maelstrom, a firestorm, a tornado, a masterful display of the Weavers’ indomitable might. Never before had he seen their abilities used in such a reckless, wild manner. They lacked pattern or precision, surging instead with hatred and rage. He could feel their emotions embedded deep within every blow, every spiral of elemental prowess. It thrummed through the air, singing through his bones.

Erebus dropped to a knee, sweat beading his brow as he fought their almighty fury, struggling to close the domain’s perimeter.

“Erebus! You have forsaken us—forsaken the Weavers and our Maker,” Xander cried, swinging each of his six blades against the barrier. Every blow was impossibly powerful, bending his wall and shaking the ground. “Your betrayal cannot be forgiven.”

“No, it cannot,” Nephthys chimed, her violet eyes flashing in their fury. Raging tides swirled against the barrier; they were a vortex of water darker than blood. “Do you know what it is you have done?” She was screaming now, her teeth sharpening into feral points. “Do you feel the blood of the innocents? Do you feel it staining your skin, pooling in the depths of your soul?”

Erebus’s throat closed. His limbs deadened, numb.

Still, he fought.

“Traitor!” Fenrir howled, his flames exploding across the forest. They razed every meadow and twisted trees into corpses. “I will burn you and your cursed brethren. By the Maker, I swear it—you all will burn!”

A stray drag of wind, threaded with feathers and ice razor-sharp, broke through a crack in his barrier and lanced open his cheek. Fire fought through the crack, following the wind, and grabbed his neck, burning him. Erebus cursed, low and dark. Blood dripped from his skin, staining the stone below.

Still, he did not fall.

Theia rose above the Weavers, white skirts trailing behind her in a cloud. She clasped her hands together and the earth shook, rumbling with an unseen power from far below.

“Weavers, summon forth your strength,” Theia called, her words echoing over the landscape. Her voice was a choir of maidens, bells full of light and promise. It was hope and mystery, threaded together in a symphony.

The Weavers moved to surround her, sacrificing their full strength into her growing light. Together, their united power was beyond words—it was glorious, reverent, indescribable. A testament to the Maker and the responsibility He had bestowed upon each.

Before them all stood Mithras, golden eyes grim with fear.

And regret.

Had the circumstances been different, Erebus could have wept.

“Together,” Theia said, “we will banish this wicked place into the Beyond.”

The Beyond—or Hell, as mortals knew it to be. The indomitable space that clung to the underbelly of the Realm, bleeding into nightmares and harboring demons with their false gods. The Beyond was where wicked souls—the souls who betrayed the Maker—were sent to rot, putrefying in an eternity of fire and madness.

“You will not,” Erebus whispered, raising his hands higher. A bolt of Ceres’ rock broke through, deadly in its swiftness, raining down on his defenseless body as his barrier stretched, agonizing under the assault. “You will not take my soul.” Rock crushed his outstretched arms; his left dropped, useless. But even mangled and broken, trembling and bloody, his right hand held, commanding the dark as it threaded together the final stitches of his domain.

“You will not take my soul!” Erebus roared again.

And the Realm roared back.