Dream by the Shadows (Shadow Weaver Duology Book 1)

“Dreamer, dreamer—wake up .”

I sighed, burrowing into the silky depths of my bed. “Go away.”

“How long do you intend to keep us waiting? ”

“Us? Is Mother there, too?” I nestled deeper into the bedding, tugging a particularly fine blanket up to my nose. It smelled of juniper, night, and the brush of rain on fallen leaves. “I’m not ready yet.”

“We have not the time as you do. ”

“We wait. He waits.”

“But I’ve waited more. ”

A groan crept out before I could stop it. Why were Elliot and Mother so insistent ? Didn’t they know how exhausted I was? My bones were stone, my skin a sheath of molasses. I couldn’t possibly do what they asked.

“Wake up. ”

“Wake up. ”

“Wake up. ”

“Fine—I will,” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes and giving the room a bleary once-over. Everything was so dark, so formless—had they not thought to light a lamp? “Where are you?”

“We’re here. ”

Ice gripped my spine, spiraling up toward my neck. The Shadow Bringer’s room hit me with all its force—its every shadow, its colors and smell. I had been here before, but that memory paled in comparison to what I felt now. Now I was here —truly, physically here .

And I was most definitely not in my bed.

I threw back the covers, mortified that part of me still wanted to curl up in his blankets, breathe deep the scent of night and rain on his pillows, and sleep.

Where did those voices come from?

A quick once-over of the Bringer’s chamber told me I was alone, but the sky beyond the full-walled curtain told me night had just begun. There were too many places to hide, too many corners that could cloak or conceal.

And what was that dragging noise coming from the hall?

Oh, Maker. I’m not made for this.

I squeezed my elbows, wishing that I was wearing the Bringer’s dark, menacing armor. Surely that would be more useful than a flimsy dress worn from travel and time. I needed a weapon of some sort—something besides my bare and useless hands.

“Come to me, shadows,” I said, attempting to sound strong and confident. I wasn’t sure that I succeeded. I waited, expectant, trying to quiet my breathing. My heart was panicking, clawing itself to my throat, which made it difficult to hear the demons in the hall. Were they watching, waiting? Did they know I was here, alone? “Shadows, come forward,” I hissed again, feeling absolutely ridiculous. Why weren’t they listening?

“Let us outtttt! ” A demon suddenly shrieked, slamming its weight into the door. The walls trembled at the force of it, letting loose dust and a few books.

All right, strength and confidence be damned.

“Please ,” I begged, glancing around wildly. Where were the shadows? It felt easier to summon them before; what was I doing wrong? I focused on my hands, acutely aware of the emptiness there. Nothing prickled at my palms or flooded my chest. There was no rush of energy, no thrum of the Bringer’s lingering power.

I was truly alone—without anything or anyone keeping me from the demons.

“The old-fashioned way, then,” I said through gritted teeth.

And I went to work.

By the time I was finished, the back of my dress was damp with sweat, clinging to my skin as I knelt to inspect my work. A tower of interlocked furniture, the Bringer’s sumptuous chairs, bookshelves, and bed, were now shoved haphazardly against the door. It was fine enough, I supposed. At least a demon would be met with some resistance before getting the chance to eat me.

For good measure, I climbed through the maze of furniture and shoved a piece of iron—the scepter of some sculpture—through the door handle.

Better.

I sank into an armchair I left behind. As with my other Realm adventures, I felt no hunger, no thirst, no urge for bodily functions—but cold, heat, and the dusting of pain could easily seep in.

And seep it did.

Night air swept in from the balcony, chilling my sweat-sheened skin and rustling the curtain it passed through. It mingled with the many candelabras, tossing their flames close to death, and roved back to me, forcing shivers down my arms.

It nearly made me forget why I was there in the first place.

Somehow the Shadow Bringer had locked me here, trading places so that he could be free. Escaping his tomb the first time hadn’t truly freed him—he had still been tethered to the Realm, locked within a cage of demons and darkness.

His own cage of demons and darkness , I reminded myself. It wasn’t as though he was locked in his castle without reason. According to the tales, the Shadow Bringer betrayed the Weavers, formed Corruption, and threw the Realm into chaos. Because of the Bringer—and those wicked enough to follow him—there were no dreams without demons, death, and Corruption. Because of him, the Weavers sank into silence, leaving humanity to its fate.

I muffled a scream into my hands.

The Bringer must have known that he could bind me. That’s why he led me to his tomb. He intended to lead me there, bind me, and…then what? Kill the legionnaires as he left? Take over Istralla and unleash his demons on mankind? Spread Corruption further and more pervasively? Destroy all the elixir stores?

Why did I trust him? And why didn’t I stop him when I had the chance?

Mithras had nearly defeated the Shadow Bringer. If I had taken his side instead of the Bringer’s, would my fate be any different? Perhaps I’d be in Istralla, safe and drinking proper, capital-brewed elixir to banish visions of the Bringer and his nightmarish castle. And the Bringer would be locked within his tomb, buffering the world from his demons and darkness.

I walked to the curtain of billowing fabric, determined to figure out a way to stop the wind, when a strange noise whistled in the distance.

“Dreamer ,” it keened, and I recognized it as the voice from earlier.

The voice I had thought to be Elliot’s.

Under the unusually bright and silver-tinged moonlight, the Bringer’s balcony was a sight to behold. Dark roots entwined with ironwork, forming sculptural motifs across the castle walls, and the floor, a glistening, star-flecked obsidian, felt like silk underfoot.

“Have you finally the wits to see us? Here, here, ” the voice whistled again, echoing out from somewhere below the balustrade.

I peeked an eye at the forest below, uncertain as to what I’d find.

“Ah, dreamer ,” the familiar grey-faced demon rasped. “Quite some time it has been .”

The demon seemed more human than before, its eyes no longer seeping and its cheeks less like the curves of a skull. Even its posture seemed more composed—tall and graceful, not hunched and dragging as though the weight of Hell was upon its shoulders.

Or maybe it was just the moonlight playing tricks on me.

Moonlight and the orbs that floated like stars through the forest’s many trees.

“Where is he, dreamer? ” A second demon asked, slinking from the forest. This one wore a short cape—unlike the long, meandering cloth of the first—and glared up at me with eyes of coal. “What have you done? Where is Erebus? ”

Erebus ?

Did they mean the Shadow Bringer?

I bit the inside of my cheek. If they knew he was gone, what would they do? Would they try to take advantage of the situation and overrun me? “He’s inside,” I answered, turning my shoulders as if to leave. “In fact, he’s calling for me. I had better return before he notices I’m speaking to monsters in the woods.”

The first demon grinned and tilted its head. “You’re cold. Has he not attired you with one of his cloaks? They are rather dramatic, but practical enough. Quite suitable for times such as these. ”

“He already asked. I declined.”

The second demon scoffed. “You would spite him in such a manner? How loathsome. ”

The grin of the first demon widened. “Quite loathsome indeed. But I do forget—our poor demon-riddled minds are so fragile, you know—our lord has only a single cloak, typically affixed to his shoulders . He does not lend it willingly.”

“I spoke too quickly. I only meant that he offered me a blanket .”

“Hmm. A blanket, you say? Strange—my memory has returned. Our lord always adorns his personal guests in his cloaks. Yes, most definitely cloaks. A welcome gift, if you will. ”

Color rose to my cheeks, clearly marking my frustration, so I stepped back into the shadows. I wasn’t sure how well the demons could see—or how powerful they were—but I didn’t feel like finding out.

“Retreating so soon? Are you certain you wish to do that? ”

“I won’t tolerate your tricks, demon. Leave me be and go back to where you belong.”

“And where is that, dear mortal? Where is it that we should go? ”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned on my heel and marched back inside, clenching my jaw against their varied and clever taunts. The conversation had almost felt preferable to the uncertainty and loneliness that dwelt within the Bringer’s chamber.

Almost.

I spent the next few hours searching through the Bringer’s things, hoping that his real or imagined cloaks would rise into existence. His room was cavernous, stretched tall by ribs of obsidian and adorned with unimagined opulence, so it took some time to look through it all—even with half its furniture piled against the door. I found books both strange and familiar; some pages were empty, some burst with poetry, art, and music. Then there were some Weaver tales, though they didn’t feel like tales at all. They seemed living and true, depicting the Weavers in ordinary settings and conversations.

According to these new tales, Fenrir and Nephthys were lovers, Lelantos wore a half-mask of bone to look more imposing, and Ceres was a habitual hoarder. Though Xander was technically the youngest, he enjoyed acting as the Weavers’ responsible older brother, and Theia occasionally tricked them by materializing as a spirit. Somnus preferred to keep to himself, sometimes disappearing into his domain for years, but he brought back life and mischief to any gathering when he chose to return.

And then there was Citadel Firstlight and Evernight. In these books, Citadel Firstlight was a haven to the Weavers and their acolytes; it provided resources, training grounds, and a means for the Weavers to delegate with earthly rulers. On the other hand, Citadel Evernight was a place where nobles and their families could dream in profound ways; it was here that collective Realm feasts and balls, lavish affairs beyond the imagination, could occur without restriction.

There was also a Realm warrior named Erebus.

He was an anomaly, failing to possess a specific affinity to any Weaver, but his acclimation to the Realm allowed him to join their ranks regardless. The pages spoke of his raw, unprecedented ability, describing the ferocious battles he led against demons and their false gods.

I read until my eyes hurt—until the pages blurred and the words swam.

Moving to the floor, I cradled my head in the crook of my arms. Above me, dramatic seascape and mountain paintings, easily the height of three or four men, crawled up the walls to coil around a black chandelier. The paint broke apart in some places, slipping out of the canvas to float by the shadows.

It was a beauty both strange and breathtaking.

The floor held me for some time, writhing its phantom smoke over my skin to the balcony where it disappeared. Despite its opulence, the Bringer’s room felt empty. Cold and void of warmth, hope, and joy.

It ached for something, but I wasn’t sure what.