3
The next few weeks passed in a blur.
I’d wake up pressed against Erebus’s chest, roused by tendrils of shadow that never seemed to fully disappear. I often felt myself longing for him—a stolen kiss, a heated glance. Wondered if I should be the one to initiate.
But for now, getting lost in each other wasn’t a priority; our dreamers were.
We became close in other ways. I memorized the rhythm of his emotions, the way his eyes caught mine when I laughed, the rare but growing curve of his smile.
We traded stories as we drifted to sleep, not of demons or curses, but of happy things.
His escapades with Ceveon and Sorren when they were scholars at Citadel Evernight.
The adventures Eden and I would take Elliot on as soon as he could walk.
Our favorite songs, poems, and myths. Some nights, when sleep wouldn’t come, I’d imagine food and drink for us to enjoy, much to his delight.
His memory of food was still splintered; it was nearly impossible for him to conjure it himself.
Other nights, we would simply walk the castle halls and reminisce.
He’d share his hurt, and I’d share mine.
In those quiet hours, we stitched the jagged edges of ourselves together. He made me feel whole. Cherished.
And it made me realize how much I cherished him, too.
During waking hours, our time was spent rebuilding the castle.
Though majestic in its prime, it had become cluttered and dusty, filled with far too many ripped paintings, crumbling staircases, and forgotten passageways.
But room by room, we pieced it back together.
And by the time we were finished, walls gleamed, windows were wide and glassless, and floors were lined with rugs so soft I’d temporarily compel my shoes away just to feel the texture beneath my bare feet.
After we restored the most important parts, we added more.
Made it ours. Purple flames sparkling with silver stars roared from the draconic jaws of fireplaces.
Azure clouds and golden moons raced across the ceilings to imitate the night sky.
Lucent waterfalls, smelling of mist and violets, trickled from hidden alcoves.
We created several paintings, too.
Mine depicted scenes directly from my memory: the night I met Erebus and watched him descend his staircase in a flare of shadow; my childhood home at dusk, snow lightly falling as smoke curled from its chimney; the river Eden and I liked to dip our toes into.
Erebus’s paintings tended to be more gruesome than mine, focusing on the demons he fought while at Evernight, but my favorite one, which was cradled inside a gilded frame in the entryway, was of us dancing, wings unfurling from our backs in a swell of feathers.
It was from the night he’d finally let his guard down, removing his gauntlet for the first time in centuries.
As well as the night we’d properly kissed for the first time.
In a secret part of the castle, deep within our shared bedroom, I tucked away a small painting of my family.
Mother, Father, Eden, Elliot, me. I tried to imagine us smiling, but Mother’s was too tight, Eden’s too lopsided, Father’s too toothy, Elliot’s too sad.
It made me wonder if I had already forgotten what they looked like.
Each night, right before bed, I’d try to remake it, but the image never turned out how I wanted.
I hated it.
When Erebus and I weren’t rebuilding the castle, the dreamers took what little time we had left.
We practiced the basics of dreaming. Of battle.
Of human dignity, even. We attempted to share meals as a unified group, but the atmosphere never quite felt right.
The dreamers were too wary, too uncertain in their new bodies.
And every day, new dreamers arrived.
They bore the bodies of the demons that Corrupted them and were drawn to our domain like poisoned moths to a half-lit flame.
It was eerie watching demons emerge from the trees or the cavern below the castle, but Erebus remained unfazed, his quiet wisdom soothing my nerves.
What Erebus had thought for centuries to be demons were actually Corrupt dreamers.
He’d spent five hundred years believing he was cursed to contain them—a punishment for his supposed betrayal during Lelantos’s Revel of Rebirth.
The infected dreamers weren’t pleasant to look at; all had shadows writhing under their skin and wore demonic bodies they were desperate to claw off.
But they visibly relaxed when we purified them, eager to share what had happened to them.
Their stories were heartbreaking.
A father who sacrificed the dregs of his elixir so his children could be safe.
He died during an altercation with his neighbor.
An old woman, no longer hindered by age in the Dream Realm, who was forgotten during her village’s last distribution and died in her sleep.
An adolescent who didn’t take the elixir because they, like me, had merely wanted to dream.
After becoming Corrupt, they wandered into a river and drowned.
A young woman who simply forgot to take her dose one night.
A boy who fell sick to fever and was too weak to stomach any liquids.
Day after day, Erebus and I stood shoulder to shoulder in the courtyard, drawing shadows from the most recent group of Corrupt dreamers.
They’d emerge shrieking from the forest, some wobbling on two feet but most crawling on all fours.
A mess of long limbs, wet teeth, and twisted spines.
Some had skulls for faces, horns jutting from their scalps.
Some wore bits and pieces of clothing. Capes, mottled and stringy.
Rows of clustered pearls. Lopsided cravats and dented armor.
Some looked vaguely human, but most appeared monstrous.
They’d form a haphazard line in front of us, impatiently waiting their turns to be cleansed.
“Let us out,” they begged.
“Let us free.”
With the month drawing to a close, we waited for news of the Weavers’ arrival.
Erebus, Ceveon, Sorren, and I sat in armchairs designed to look like folded wings, drinking mugs of spiced wine heated with blackberries and oranges.
I smiled into my mug whenever Erebus brought his to his lips; he didn’t realize it, but he let out a soft groan of appreciation almost every sip, and it sent a warm, shivery sensation down my spine.
We spent most of our evenings like this, recanting tales of the past, trying to enjoy small luxuries in food and drink, and strategizing for what was to come.
Doing everything we could to stave off the inevitable horrors ahead of us.
A fire, framed inside the mouth of a dragon, crackled in front of us, tinged with the same silver and purple as the courtyard flames.
Paintings, originally imagined by Erebus, had been restored, paneling the walls amid several candelabras, and our feet were comfortably padded by thick rugs and plush, fur-lined footstools.
No dust, cobwebs, or broken things—merely dark, comfortable luxury.
The glass had purposefully been removed from the windows, a straightforward answer to the demons’ pleas.
Let us out.
I took another sip from my spiced wine, enjoying the steam as it kissed my cheeks.
CLANK!
Suddenly, a tightly rolled scroll, sealed inside a bone carved to look like a thin cylindrical cage, rattled its way across the floor. It tapped against Erebus’s armored foot with a delightful clunk. He unfurled it quickly, face twisting into a scowl.
“Well, don’t leave us in suspense,” Ceveon pressed. “What does it say?”
With a swift crush of Erebus’s hand, the bone cage shattered. The scroll inside disintegrated instantly, floating up in a puff of smoke. Erebus leaned back in his chair, looking positively murderous.
“Somnus says we’re to welcome the Weavers tomorrow,” Erebus said, an agitated edge to his voice.
“I’ll need to finalize arrangements, then,” Sorren said smoothly, twisting one of his silver rings.
At Erebus’s instruction, he had been working tirelessly to redesign the lower rooms of the castle, including the dining room, and, with my help, crafting the dinner fare.
“What are our thoughts on entertainment?”
“‘Entertainment,’” Erebus bit out.
Sorren shot him a gentle, if a bit withering, glance. “We’re hosting the Seven, for Maker’s sake. The Light Bringer, too. We need to ensure they view us as venerable hosts before they agree to fight Raelion as our allies. So, yes. Entertainment. We’ve talked about this before. At length.”
“Perhaps our entertainment should be taking Mithras’s head and using it as one of our chandeliers,” Erebus suggested nonchalantly, hiding his smile with a quick drink from his mug.
“The Light Bringer, indeed,” Ceveon said with a snort.
Sorren’s chest deflated with a deep sigh. “I see now that it was a mistake to ask. I’ll proceed on my own.”
“Well, in that case, you should take Mithras and—” Erebus said, sarcasm sharp on his tongue.
“If we act like the monsters they expect us to be, how do you think the meeting will go?” I interrupted, tapping my foot in barely veiled irritation.
The three men stilled. “I don’t want to provoke Mithras,” I continued quietly, squeezing my hands together.
“I hate him for what he did, but he still has my brother. And we can’t afford to make enemies of him or the Weavers.
Not when we need their help to restore the Dream Realm. ”
“At least one of our leaders is acting rational,” Sorren said, giving me a grateful look. “We may never forgive Mithras and the Seven for locking us here, but there is a certain level of decorum that will be expected. And if we ruin any chance at an alliance before we face Raelion, we’ll—”