Dream by the Shadows (Shadow Weaver Duology Book 1)

The next dream came in waves.

Water lapping against a shore. The deep thrumming of bells and a low, melodic humming. The scent of something pure and promising—but distant and nostalgic, too. Above was a deep, golden light lined in silver, purple, and midnight blue. A sky clothed in eternal twilight.

And when the dream finally pieced together, revealing itself in its entire glory, my breath held.

In Norhavellis, water pooled in shallow rivers and cattailled ponds. It poured from the sky, collected in puddles, and forced pastures into muddy pits. It sat heavy in grey clouds, fell like fingers against my bedroom window, and soaked into my shoes as Elliot and I raced home from Absolver supply rounds in the village. Anything grander—seas, lagoons, lakes so wide a fleet of ships could sail through them—was a tale to be read about. A story tucked away in a book. Briefly, I had glimpsed the sea near Istralla. But in the dream it was half-formed, distorted by mist.

This was something else.

The sea in this dream was alive .

Part of its body rolled and surged like a willful horse, swelling into the sky. Other parts dipped low, cowering like a wounded fawn, or stretched taut and still. Its crystalline skin, reflecting the twilight sky, stretched over each wave and melted into the horizon. It was wild, glorious, and mesmerizing. Peaceful—and not. Silent, but loud. The more I stared, the more I felt it could—would —take me. That it would turn at any moment, raging over the shore, swirling over my head, and pulling me down into its depths.

But it never did.

Despite its wildness, the sea was contained; glossy stone, shaped in a perfect arc, formed its limits, and an iridescent tower anchored its center.

Standing at its edge, staring out into the sea as it dove and swelled, was the Shadow Bringer. Bits of shadow clung to his edges, trailing down his newly armored arms and back. They had grown in number since the last dream. Perhaps Somnus decided he needed his power after all.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

Stubborn, stubborn man.

“You don’t have to hide your hurt from me, Bringer. I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s only because you can’t run,” he said simply, as if it were the most matter-of-fact thing in the world. “If you had the choice, you would.”

I shook my head, exasperated. “No, I wouldn’t. Where would I even go?”

He scoffed, lowering his head. I couldn’t see his eyes, but his shoulders were rigid and unyielding. “Even if I wasn’t fine, I need to be. I’ve had five-hundred years to come to terms with my fate. I shouldn’t be throwing my burdens onto you.”

“But that’s the thing—you don’t have to be fine. No one is forcing you to be fine.”

He turned, briefly looking at me before facing the sea again.

“This is the Nocturne, as I’m sure you’re aware,” he announced suddenly, gesturing at the swelling waves.

Changing the subject. Of course.

“You say that as if I should know it,” I replied, staring out into the waves as he did. I was fully transfixed by the sea—its color, its depth, its call. Maker, even its scent . It smelled of salt, moss, and violets. “The Weaver tales never mentioned anything like it.”

The Bringer sighed. “There’s more to the world than a single book of Weaver tales. You’ve never even seen a sunset outside of your village.”

“I’ve been to places other than Norhavellis,” I said, bristling.

“A distorted, half-formed dream in Istralla hardly counts.”

“I don’t see why not.” I raked through my memory, searching for another example. “And there’s also your castle.”

His eyes, ringed by his shadows, narrowed. “Paying visits to my castle counts even less. You need to see more of the world, Esmer. I wish that for you, even if I can’t be there with you when it happens.”

He stormed off to a different part of the shoreline, shadows hesitating a moment before trailing him.

“I don’t know what things were like five-hundred years ago, but people’s fates are a bit more limited now. We don’t have dreams—” I matched the Bringer’s pace, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him. “—or adventures—” Pointedly, he avoided looking at me. “—so forgive me for not being as knowledgeable as you—”

He spun to face me, catching me by the wrist. The movement was impossibly fast, marked by shadows with a faint glint of starlight within them.

I snatched my wrist away, darkness trailing behind. “I see your powers are back.” For a moment, the Bringer looked confused. Then he glanced down, noting the shadows as they rolled off his body. “You should be happier now, at least.”

His eyes snapped to mine. “I’ve lived with these shadows for centuries. They’re a part of me, but they aren’t a source of my happiness.”

“You have a source of happiness, then? What is it?”

He scowled, turning to face what he had called the Nocturne, and my face began to heat with a surprising amount of regret. We had just relived a deep, vicious trauma from his past in the last dream, and here I was questioning his happiness. Of course he wasn’t happy. How could he be?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Enough,” he muttered. “I’ve heard enough for the moment.”

Glimpses of color and light began to shimmer within the Nocturne. If I focused on a particular area, the color and light sharpened, briefly taking shape. In one section, I saw a moonlit house with a family embracing on the porch. In another, a girl walking through dry sands, white pillars, and winged statues. Then a woman, smiling by a field of shining crops. A man riding a horse down a narrow road with a cave at its end.

“What are those things in the water?”

“They’re dreams. The Nocturne holds them all—both Weaver-crafted and those of the ordinary kind.” He pulled his gaze from the waves and settled it on me. “What do you know of the Realm? Its configuration and how it functions.”

“Well, there are—or were—seven Weavers.” I counted them on my fingers. “Somnus, Xander, Theia. They control dreams of the past, present, and future. Then there are the elemental Weavers: Fenrir, Nephthys, Ceres, Lelantos. Fire, water, earth, and air.”

I could have sworn the Bringer rolled his eyes. But maybe it was just a trick of the Nocturne’s lights. “And where do they reside in the Realm?”

“They each have a domain. They’re like kingdoms in the Realm.”

“Exactly,” the Bringer agreed. “They call their lands—which include any permanent acolytes—domains. And all seven domains border the Nocturne. The nearness is important, since that’s how the Weavers access their intended dreamers.” He pointed at the Nocturne’s tumultuous waters. “Over there. See the mountains? The barest hint of clouds? Lelantos’s domain.” Sure enough, there was a faint mountain range in the distance. He pointed in another direction, toward a darker sky and shimmering line of emerald. “Ceres’s forest. Nephthys’s domain is next—you can tell by how it glitters. She thoroughly enjoys her jewels.”

“Are the Weavers there, right now? In their domains?”

He considered the question, thinking. Remembering. “In a sense. Their spiritual selves manifest within the dreams of the Nocturne. But their physical selves could be anywhere—feasting and drinking with kings and queens on earth, creating pretty things within their domains, or persuading dreamers into following them as acolytes.”

“Then we’re still in the past. None of that exists in the present.”

For a moment, genuine concern flickered in his eyes. Then it faded, quick as smoke. “As you have claimed.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t know what happened to the Weavers after I was banished. It is difficult to watch the world when you’re confined to demons and the dark.”

I shivered. I couldn’t help it. It was madness—madness —to consider what it would be like.

Letussouttletussouttletussoutt!

How many times had he borne witness to those hellish screams? That he was even capable of a smile—or a coherent sentence—was a testament to his strength.

The Bringer ran a gauntleted hand through his hair, unaware of where my thoughts had turned. “Next to Nephthys—you cannot tell from here, but there’s the most idiotic looking palace. Fenrir’s. He—” The Bringer finally noticed me watching him instead of looking wherever he was pointing. “What?”

“Nothing.” I managed a smile, much to the Bringer’s irritation. For all his supposed hatred of the Weavers, there was no mistaking a genuine interest in his explanation. And if he knew each of these details, his memory must have returned, too. Or at least in part. “Continue on, please. I’m learning quite a lot.”

“Are you?” he asked, scowling. “I don’t see how you’re learning anything at all by watching me .”

I suppressed a laugh, instead motioning toward the massive structure at the Nocturne’s center. It was a colossal, beautiful thing, glowing through its various spires and archways, and as the waves dipped, several bridges were revealed, spanning from it like spokes on a wheel.

“Whose domain is that?”

The Bringer’s eyes darkened a shade. “That is Citadel Evernight.”

Evernight.

I knew that name.

“In the demon’s stomach, your younger self asked if I was from there. And Somnus—” I searched for the right word. Invited? Called? Coerced? I settled on the first. “—invited you to it.”

“Invited?” Apparently the Bringer didn’t like my choice. “I was not invited to Evernight. I was forced to Evernight. After years of silence, the Weavers cornered me at my weakest. If it wasn’t for them, perhaps my fate would have differed.” For a moment, a smile ghosted his lips. “You know, it was considered an honor to be chosen as a permanent dreamer of the Realm. To be summoned by a Weaver to hone your dream talents at Evernight. You’d even have your family generously compensated in return.” He turned to me, suddenly asking, “Do you want to know how my parents died? Or how they were in life?”

The voices of his mother and father, shrieking at a young Erebus through the walls of their decaying home, came rushing back.

Sons would not make their parents choose between themselves and their children.

Sons would not dream when they should be working to provide.

Sons would not let their parents die!

I shook my head. “The last dream depicted them cruelly.”

He smiled again, but it felt cold. “My dreams were always that way. They would begin one way and twist into something else by their end.” His hands clenched at his sides, shadows twining between his fingers. “That is how I first learned how to manipulate them.”

“And by being able to manipulate your dreams—you thought a Weaver would notice you. You thought you’d be chosen.”

He nodded. “Only the most exceptional dreamers could form a dream to their will. And I was one of them.” His voice chilled as he continued, slipping into something lifeless and bitter. “But months passed, and no Weaver ever noticed me.”

“Because your power stemmed from shadows and not something simpler, like fire or water?”

He nodded. “And when my mother and father found out the truth of my powers—that they were grounded in shadow and not an element or a time construct—they began to despise me. They said I was evil. A cursed child, sent to ruin them. And in a way, I did.” He fixed his shadowed gaze on me. “In my time, families with wealth and power hired dream interpreters. Sometimes dreams were simple in meaning. Sometimes not. An interpreter ensured that the Maker’s message was clearly heard and followed.”

“That sounds like an incredible amount of responsibility.”

A cold half-smile. “Indeed. And if the dream’s interpretation was incorrect or ill-received…” He drifted off, and my imagination began to wander. “My mother and father interpreted dreams for a wealthy family in Istralla. They were well-known for their interpretations—clever, precise, and true. They eventually caught the eye of the king.”

“So they began interpreting for him?”

“For a time. And for a time we lived in luxury, with our own wing in each of his palaces. But it’s a funny thing, wealth. Power. They destroy as easily as they create.” He laughed, the sound cold and miserable. “Our new status destroyed my mother and father. As I grew older, they consulted me for their answers. They told me the Maker dulled their understanding, but I think they just grew complacent. Lazy. So they came to me. Even in their hatred, they came to me. Me—a child—secretly interpreting the dreams of royalty.”

A shiver of cold crawled over my skin. I didn’t like where this was going.

“One day, I was asked for my opinion of the king’s dream. In his dream, he saw a great, blazing sun and a shadowed moon. At first, the dream was peaceful—all was in perfect balance. But as the dream went on, the moon crept closer to the sun, ate it, and became something else. Something other. A thing made evil and cruel.”

“That’s horrible.” Shivering, I pressed my hands to my side, willing them to warm. “But why was the king having a nightmare? Before Corruption, they weren’t meant to exist.”

The Bringer walked closer to the waves. For the briefest of moments, It appeared as though he would walk into their depths. “When you speak of dreams, you act like you regret not having them. But dreams were never kind to me as a child. I only dreamt in demons and nightmares.”

The Bringer sighed, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“The king’s dream wasn’t a nightmare. Nightmares are personal—they uproot the dreamer’s deepest fears. His was a vision of the future. A warning. After the moon ate the sun, it bathed the land in darkness, swallowing all light. The king saw this happen. He also saw something emerging from the dark—two swords. One white, one black.”

A vision of the dream appeared from the Bringer’s hands, formed by shadows of every size, color, and texture. I watched as the storied king rose up from between his fingers, desperately swinging the swords against an unconquerable evil. It was a violent, hopeless fight. One I never wished to see again.

The king’s swords shattered before a single blow was even landed.

“The sun represented the king, and the moon represented a great demon. The dream’s warning was complicated and deadly. It warned that the king would be Corrupted by evil, and someone would seek to defeat the king with two powers: justice or logic—the white sword—and war or power—the black sword. But neither would suffice.”

The king’s mouth widened in a silent scream.

“The future would come to pass regardless.”

With a clench of the Bringer’s fist, he was put out of his misery.

“The dream was intended to warn the king of his fate. It was up to him to recognize the impending evil and to prepare for it in different ways. When I gave my opinion of the dream, it wasn’t well-received. My parents chose to tell the king a different interpretation—one that smoothed the dream’s warning into something more palatable. But someone close to the king had overheard my original interpretation.” Absently, the metaled ends of his fingers flexed open and shut. “The king was furious. He condemned my parents—banished them for it. Made them starve. They died of disease within a year.”

“What happened to you, then?” I whispered, horrified. An image of him sprang up—of a young boy, desperately trying to feed his parents with food that never satisfied. A nightmare meant to trap and destroy. “You were just a child. You interpreted as you knew how.”

The Bringer saw the look on my face. Saw the other questions, lingering there.

Were you punished—like your mother and father? Were you left to a rotting shack in the forest, left to starve?

“I wasn’t punished for their crimes.”

“Why?”

“There were other uses for me. I was kept in the palace as the king’s chosen interpreter, for one. It was there that I met Mithras. He was the king’s only child.”

“Mithras ? How is he still alive? I thought only the Weavers were immortal.”

“I don’t know what sustains him, but he isn’t a Weaver. Maybe he’s cursed like I am.” A strained, irritated breath passed through his nose. “In those early years, we grew to be something like brothers. Though I was rarely allowed to leave the palace, he did everything in his power to ensure I was treated as an equal. Hell, we’d even share clothes and eat from the same table.”

“That’s difficult to imagine.”

He pulled his gaze from the Nocturne to me. Something burned there, simmering deep within the shadows. “Agreed. But loneliness can command a strong and desperate pull.”

We stood in silence for a few moments, looking out across the Nocturne. It was a horrible fate for a child—a wretched foundation on which to build a life. It explained more than one of the shadows that darkened the Bringer’s eyes.

“The Weavers oversaw two Citadels,” he began, switching subjects. “One in Noctis—Firstlight—and one in the Dream Realm. Evernight.” The Bringer walked toward one of the Nocturne’s seven bridges, shadows lapping at his pointed boots. “Firstlight allowed for Weavers to maintain relations to earthly rulers. Sponsorships from various kingdoms and such. It is also where Weavers’ physical bodies slumber. Evernight is…beyond explanation.”

I looked to Evernight—at its glowing spires and impossible proportions, beckoning to us. Without understanding why, I took a step forward. Then another. Before I realized it, I was staring into the Nocturne, wondering what it would feel like to swim beneath its waves. Could I swim through it—all the way to Evernight? What would it feel like? Would it warm my skin or chill it further?

I studied a particularly tall swell, considering.

The Bringer yanked me back, pulling me by the elbow into his side. “Careful. It’s known to call dreamers to its depths.”

I gritted my teeth, willing the Nocturne’s call to fade but less willing to leave the Bringer’s hold. “What would happen if I fell in?”

“Most of the time, dreamers walk in. Willingly.” He frowned. “Trained at Evernight, you’d enter the Nocturne in order to influence the dream of another. On behalf of your bonded Weaver’s directions.”

“And untrained?”

“Untrained, you would lose yourself in the Nocturne, jumping from dream to dream until you lost all sense of who you were and why you were in the Realm in the first place.” A wicked gleam formed in his eyes. “Dreams are feeble things, meant to live and die by the will of the Weaver who built them.” He drew near. “You’d wake a hollow shell of your former self, unable to recall the most basic elements of your identity.”

“That’s horrible. Why would the Maker—” Then I noticed a faint smirk on his lips. “You’re joking ,” I said incredulously. “You’re actually joking.”

“I am not,” he insisted. But the smirk grew, widening his mouth as it bloomed. “There are many things I do well. There are less things that I do willingly. Joking is not something I do well or willingly.”

Without warning, a deafening sound echoed across the sea.

Dmm. Dmm. Dmm.

It sounded like a death knell. No—louder.

Dmm. Dmm. Dmm.

After the seventh bell, the air stilled. The Nocturne’s waves fell at once, smoothing into glass, and seven great bridges were fully revealed, spanning across the sea from Evernight into their separate territories.

The Bringer’s grip on my elbow tightened.

I expected the worst. A monster, rising from the Nocturne, water dripping down its scales. Or an evil darkness, devouring Evernight like the moon in the king’s dream. Something—anything—evil, terrible, or wrong.

Instead, the Shadow Bringer asked, rather nonchalantly, “Have you ever been to a ball, Esmer?”

The question was so unexpected that I laughed. “They’re not exactly commonplace in Norhavellis.”

But Eden and I always dreamed of what it would be like to attend one.

The smirk was back—almost a smile, this time. “Then let us disrupt one.”