Dream by the Shadows (Shadow Weaver Duology Book 1)

I smelled the next room before I could see it.

Salt and flowers. The wormy smell of fresh earth. The brush of a storm-soaked wind. Tree roots, pine needles, and sun-warmed fur. Damp rocks and cracked acorns and sweet dandelions. Tart berries. Gentle touches of lavender, sage, mint. And roses. The soft, powdery scent of roses. Peonies. Tulips.

And about one hundred other things that I couldn’t name.

“It smells…” I trailed off, unsure of what word, exactly, could possibly do it justice.

“Most say ‘heavenly’. But I’ve heard one or two dreamers who thought it too rustic. As if the smell of earth is a thing reserved for animals.” Aris took a deep, cleansing breath. “Or those of common blood,” she added, frowning.

“That’s ridiculous. It smells incredible. Like joy and wonder.”

She led me to a glass bridge that split the center of a cavernous antechamber. Except there was no ground under the bridge—and no visible ceiling, either. Only pillared walls connected the room’s various parts. Under the bridge was a vista of a great forest, and above the bridge, where the chamber’s ceiling cracked apart, was a cyclical sky. Dawn, day, dusk, night. The sky rotated quickly, mesmerizing in its pure depiction of the sun, moon, stars, and clouds. It illuminated the bridge and the forest with new colors every few steps.

It was life itself, captured in a room.

No, it was more than life, idealized beyond what would be possible outside of the Realm. The trees were too even, the sky too wondrous, the flowers too full, the rocks too precisely placed. Still, I couldn’t help but to recognize the majesty of it all. It was, after all, the essence of earth made into its fullest potential. And as we walked across the bridge—my footing unsure in my new slippers—I breathed deep and examined all that I could.

A strange emotion welled up in my chest, hollow and aching. I wanted to share this experience with someone—wanted deeply, achingly, to share in what I was seeing, hearing, and smelling. Elliot and Eden would have loved Evernight. And the Bringer—

I’d very much like to watch his eyes as he beheld the room.

“Every year, a different Weaver is charged with furnishing Evernight,” Aris explained, softly interrupting my wandering thoughts. “It is Ceres’s year.”

Furnishing Evernight.

As if the scene was no more important than a rug or a houseplant.

She pointed at the sky, growing heavy with the colors of dawn. “This room is enchanted to change at precise points on the bridge. But only to the beholder.” She gestured at a family ahead of us. They laughed as several plumed birds flew overhead, circling once before diving underneath the bridge. “By the time we reach that point, it will be day. But they will be further along—so they will see the onset of dusk. Three cycles pass before we reach the end.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is. And tedious,” Aris sighed. “And a few hundred paces too long.”

“What’s the purpose of it, then? To be beautiful and tedious?”

She shrugged. “Evernight serves a different purpose for each of its inhabitants. And it’s best to be aware that some purposes are darker than others.”

At its end, the bridge forked into three paths; the dreamers, dressed in their finery, continued forward. Their accompanying scholars did not. With a quick curtsy or bow, the scholars left them to continue on. Alone.

“Go to the middle bridge,” Aris directed. “Revels are for the Weavers, their acolytes, and dreamers. The scholars have other matters to attend to.”

“Like making dreamers look acceptable?” I asked, fluffing the folds of my dress.

“You look more than acceptable,” she said approvingly. “You should be thankful I found you. Others would have put you in yellow. Or worse, pink.”

“If that’s the case, I’m very thankful. I doubt Erebus would recognize me if I was wearing pink,” I said with a grin. Aris returned my smile, but her expression felt a little sad. And expectant, somehow. “I hope you’re chosen by a Weaver,” I added. And I meant it. “I hope your brother is, too.”

Aris bowed, and when she stood again, she straightened her back and held her chin high. “Enjoy the Revel. Perhaps I will see you again, one day.”

And she left me to continue alone.

I hesitated at the end of the path, centering my breath. In the flurry of being whittled into a finer, more elegant version of myself, I had nearly forgotten where I was. And, perhaps even more importantly, where the Shadow Bringer was.

And where was the Shadow Bringer?

More dreamers passed by, continuing to the Revel. Women in floating gowns and glistening makeup. Men, some in makeup, too, in equally brilliant clothes. Supple fabric, open necklines, dramatic hemlines, intricate layers and beadwork. There were a few children, too; some of the younger ones beamed with excitement, but others seemed listless, as if they’d already been to Evernight a thousand times and this was just another boring familial requirement.

Men, women, children. Beautiful, chattering dreamers of all ages.

But no Shadow Bringer.

Maybe he decided to pursue whatever it was he wanted to do now that we could be seen and felt. Maybe he figured I’d only get in his way. I gritted my teeth, considering. Okay, so maybe I would get in his way. But that would only be because I was brave enough to try.

But damn it all if I would sit here waiting for him.

I decided to follow the next family—a man and woman with their son and daughter—slowing my pace so as to not draw attention to myself. The mother and father walked with fluid movements and raised chins, maintaining their grace and poise even in the casual audience of their immediate family. Even the guise of Realm attire couldn’t hide what—or who—they probably were.

Royalty. Or near enough to it.

My mother and father had tried to mimic that kind of elegance once. Tried to fold it into their steps and smear it over their hard edges and dirt-covered lines. A tired king and his dutiful queen.

I folded my arms over my chest, frowning at the turn my thoughts had taken.

Who was I to judge my parents? I was just as broken as they were.

If not worse.

The middle passageway brightened significantly as we neared the exit, widening and arching up in time with our progress. At the top, the bridge paused in its ascent, caught by a swirling veil of mist that obscured our steps.

The daughter visibly balked, shivering as soon as the mist touched her skin. “This had better be good,” she said with a sigh. “The last time they did the mist, it was so dull. Who even cares about old war demonstrations? They’re already dead.”

The brother glared at her, more than ready to participate in a battle with his sister. “You think everything is boring. I should throw you over the bridge. Then you wouldn’t have to suffer the intolerable dullness any longer.”

“How creative,” she hissed, flicking her hair over her shoulder and quickening her steps. “Is that how you punish your servants, too? Throw them over your fancy drawbridge? Find your imagination, brother. Or did you lose it at the last Revel? With that ugly lord’s son—“

“Ugly?” he hissed back. “Ugly? What’s ugly is your gross stain of a dress. Why would you let them make it orange?”

“How does this look orange to you? It’s peach ,” she snapped, nearly shouting. But she picked at her dress anyway, examining the fabric. “Just—just stop talking to me. I don’t need the validation of an idiot.”

Their mother spun around, her mouth frozen in a serene smile. Which made it all the more frightening as she said, “What is dull and ugly is sitting in your bedchamber, miserable and alone, as everyone else in society is enjoying the Revel. Your father and I can see to it that you never attend one again.”

The brother and sister immediately straightened their backs and squared their shoulders, as if to remind their mother how prim and perfect her children truly were.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

The mother had already turned around, no longer bothered by her children’s bickering, but the brother and sister spun at once, eyes wide behind their masks.

“The audacity,” the sister gasped, mortified.

The brother frowned at me before dragging his eyes from my feet to the top of my curled hair. Then he smirked, as if discovering some strange, disturbing secret. “You’re some fledgling acolyte’s new pet, aren’t you? You must be so overwhelmed. Or—” He made a point to look around us. “Oh, I’m sorry. Have you been forgotten already? You poor thing. The acolytes can be so fickle.”

“I’m no one’s pet, thank you very much,” I snapped. “And my friend is waiting for me inside.”

“It really is a pity to be alone on a Revel. And in such a depressing dress, too,” the sister added.

The brother cocked his head and thumbed his chin. “Actually, it’s quite a nice dress.”

“It is not ,” the sister insisted.

“Who made it? And your makeup. The glamour that they did with your eyes is striking—”

“Why do you care? Ugh. You really are the worst.”

They turned their backs to me, more fascinated with their argument than my dress or my makeup. The mist snapped at their heels, partially obscuring them despite their nearness.

And just as quickly as they lost interest in me, the mist lifted.

The coliseum that appeared before us fell straight out of the pages of Elliot’s favorite Weaver book. Rows upon rows of gilded seats circled the coliseum floor, filled with dreamers enjoying the finest of food, drink, and entertainment. Chalices automatically refilled themselves with sparkling liquid, and platters were always full and brimming with colorful, strange, and fragrant foods. Dreamers filled the seats in their beautiful attire and pristine masks smiling, laughing, flirting—vying mightily for the attention of others.

Everything felt vibrant, fresh, alive .

Some dreamers swiveled to regard me with a curious or scrutinizing eye, but I was mostly left to wander without interruption. If they remembered who I was from the Shadow Bringer’s dramatic entrance, they didn’t show it. The food, the drink, the company—it was all more tempting than a lone girl who may or may not be associated with their Lord Erebus.

I took a seat and picked up a stray goblet, interested in what an Evernight drink might taste like. I knew I needed to find the Shadow Bringer, but couldn’t I enjoy myself in the meantime?

Stop thinking about the Bringer—he clearly isn’t thinking of you. Or looking, for that matter.

Clarity burst through me as I drank from the goblet, cooling my skin and tingling across my tongue. It tasted of fresh rain, morning mist, and a little like the gasp of air you take while running—the breath you force into your lungs when you’re at the peak of exhaustion, giving you a glorious burst of raw, powerful energy. It tasted of freedom and redemption and hope.

A bit like the sky, I thought.

So I took another sip. And another. I tried all kinds of drinks and food, each tasting more brilliant and more invigorating than the next. And the more I consumed, the more I craved.

I wanted more , more , more .

For what felt like forever—and not nearly enough—I laughed and smiled and drank and ate with the masked dreamers around me. Watched as great winged beasts flew overhead. Smiled at the compliments of men and women. Of my dress. Of my skin. Of my beauty. Everything was lost to me. Time, purpose, and logic. Anything that wasn’t the here, the now—none of that mattered.

And the more I felt like I belonged among these mysterious, beautiful people.

Maybe I didn’t want to go back home after all. If I forgot my purpose, maybe I could stay here forever. Here I could be who I was meant to be: beautiful, glorious, free.

Free!

As the night—or day, because who could tell?—spiraled on and the winged creatures stopped their flight, the conversation slowed to a deep, vibrating thrum . At the height of the silence, the dreamers’ attention snapped to a mist-veiled archway on the opposite side of the coliseum.

“Has that always been there?” I asked, taking another gulp of my drink and settling back into my chair. The young man beside me—a cousin of a king of some faraway kingdom—wrapped his hands around me. “I hadn’t even noticed.”

“It has,” he whispered into my hair, toying with my curls as he added a small braid. He took his time, deliberately forming the braid as slowly as possible, but I was strangely unbothered. I was more transfixed with his eyes of molten amber. “The Weavers are about to make their procession. How thrilling.”

Glee built in my chest, heavy and overwhelming. Glee the anticipation of something new, something better —

Fenrir the Fire Weaver appeared first, stalking out of the mist like a lion after a long and glorious hunt. His body, loosely draped in robes the color of wet blood, displayed a wealth of black tattoos. They clawed up his chest, stopping at his jaw; his face was bare save for a ruby crown and a dominating, white-toothed grin. But his eyes were something else—something unnatural and indicative of his power. They burned with a fire so bright and so wild that it hurt to even look at him—even from across the length of the coliseum.

His acolytes fell in line behind him, all clothed the color of wet blood, too. They bore their lord’s sigil proudly, rubies gleaming from their throats and hands, and walked down the coliseum steps with power, glory, and purpose.

Nephthys the Water Weaver came next, more stunning in person than any storybook illustration. Sea-green hair curled down her bronze shoulders, falling proudly across shoulders dusted in jewels, and ocean eyes sparkled above a mouth pursed in mischief.

And pride, I thought.

A sapphire crown arched across her brow, matching the blue pearls beading her bodice and skirts. Her dress moved as water would, pooling from one step to the next. Like Fenrir’s, her acolytes emerged behind her, wearing extravagant blue silks, matching sapphires, and beaded slippers.

Then there was Ceres the Earth Weaver, garbed wildflowers, undergrowth, and leaves. A horned headpiece curled from her scalp, embedded with emeralds yet dripping with what looked like spiderwebs, roses, and small skeletons. She was a walking contradiction; the contrast between life and death, growth and decay. And her followers held themselves as she did. Steady feet and steadier hands, rooted in the earth. Only they didn’t wear spiderwebs or dying things. Layered in green robes and dark leathers, they looked practical—grounded. As they walked, their emerald amulets glittered.

The three time Weavers emerged next: Somnus, Theia, and Xander.

Somnus slipped from the dark like a snake unbound, clothed in black and a crown of bone. Xander stepped to his left, the immortal warrior with a king’s all-knowing gaze, crowned in gold and flanked by floating swords. Theia completed the trio, draped in translucent fabric and a brilliant diamond crown.

Their acolytes emerged together, all in armor. They looked ready for a war, not a party, and they held themselves as such. Trained. Expectant. Aware .

The man beside me—a prince or a cousin to one, I couldn’t remember—put his mouth to my ear.

“The two strays are next,” he whispered. His breath was hot on my skin and as sweet as rotten plums. “How delightful.”

I angled my shoulders away from him.

“Who?”

He drank from his chalice, not bothering to wipe away the liquid that dripped down his chin. “You really haven’t been here before, have you? The special little lords of darkness and light.”

Two figures, both in finely tailored dress leathers, appeared under the arch. The left wore a circlet of gold; the right, a circlet of silver. At the top of the coliseum stairs, they shared a warm smile.

Mithras and Erebus.

Two men flanked Erebus, now a young man with raven-black hair, as he made his way to the coliseum floor. The first man walked with confidence and easy grace, nodding at the patrons nearest to him. He was tall—taller than Erebus—with deep caramel-brown hair, light brown skin, and an easy smile. The second kept a quieter, more calculated presence. Pale and mean-eyed, with sleek black hair falling to his jaw, he glared at the stands as if making a judgment about every patron in attendance.

“Lowly bastards,” the man beside me grumbled. “A houseless should never be made into something they are not. It’s like giving a pig a crown and calling it a king.”

“How are they houseless? They look to be quite powerful,” I said, ignoring the man’s crude dig.

“Houseless, scum, pigs—they’re all the same. Erebus and Mithras were both scholars at Evernight, but they never possessed a specific affinity.” The man shook his head and took another sloppy drink from his chalice. “Fortunately for them, they demonstrated power in other ways and became the Realm’s most illustrious demon hunters.”

“It sounds like they’re of benefit to the Realm, then.”

“The Weavers may think so, but that doesn’t mean we agree,” he responded, low and guttural. For a moment, his eyes darkened, becoming something evil and wrong. But it was only for a moment.

He took a final swig. The darkness was gone, replaced by mild boredom.

My skin prickled, buzzing with anticipation and fear that carved away my clouded edges. It didn’t seem possible that Erebus and Mithras would be friends—even five-hundred years in the past—but there they were, chins raised high and smiling across the coliseum as if they were celebrating something magnificent. They frequently turned to each other, sharing some secret joke or another.

They looked happy. As if the world no longer weighed on them.

And just like that, the host of the Revel finally appeared.

Lelantos jumped from the sky in a burst of blue, sparkling lightning. As he dropped, he splayed his arms wide—and the sky changed, shifting from twilight into clouds heavy with storm. He pulled the clouds closer, closer, and closer still , forcing them to spiral around the coliseum. The clouds moved quickly, spinning faster and faster, sparking with light and booming low with thunder. And as the clouds spun, the colosseum began to spin, too; it slowly rocked on its axis, tilting slightly to the left. Then the right. Finally, it cracked . In a rush of wind and lightning, the coliseum lifted into the air.

I gripped the edge of my seat, trying to anchor myself to something—anything.

The amber-eyed man laughed at me. “Easy. It’s not as though they’d make us fall into the Nocturne—” I stood up. Shoved myself out of his hands. His eyes burned with rot, twisting into malice. “Where are you going? You don’t have anyone here. Boring little dreamer, all alone.”

He stood up, squeezing my shoulders as the coliseum shook. No one noticed or cared. They were too busy laughing about the Revel’s newest entertainment.

At that moment, I was back in that clearing, a wild-eyed boy pinning me to the ground.

Fingernails ripped into my skin, tearing lines in my neck. I swiped at his face, kicked at his shins, but it was useless, useless—

The man’s lips bent into a sneer all the way up to the edge of his mask. “You don’t belong here. Why don’t you just wake up —”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Wings, unfurling in a snap of feathers, burst from our backs.

And just as the coliseum rose, it fell.