19
Someone had left supplies for us at the entrance. Lots of supplies.
Two hooded cloaks, crafted from midnight-blue fabric laced with silver threads that shimmered like starlight.
Sturdy boots, travel leathers, and gloves in our exact measurements.
A set of soft sleeping clothes and undergarments.
A satchel filled with ample coin. A longsword and several daggers for Erebus; a lighter blade and short, concealable daggers for me.
A small pouch held a few practical necessities: a hairbrush, flint, steel, and some rose-scented soap.
Everything had a thick layer of dust over it, but the tomb’s climate had largely preserved it all.
We were well taken care of. Our survival, protection, and general comfort had been carefully considered, even if there was no elixir. Someone had also removed all the bodies, including Ceveon’s and Sorren’s skeletons.
Odd.
The tomb’s stone door groaned as we pushed it fully open, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap in the silence.
Cool, fresh air spilled in, carrying the crisp scent of pine and lingering frost. I stumbled forward, legs still a bit clumsy, and blinked as late afternoon sun filtered through the leafless trees.
It felt like an eternity since I’d last seen true daylight; the weight of the Dream Realm still clung to my skin like shadowed silk.
Erebus stepped beside me, shielding his eyes with a gauntleted hand. He said nothing, simply peering at the clearing with a sharpness that made me wonder what he was searching for—or expecting.
But it was the horses that drew my attention.
The skeletal remains of two horses lay collapsed on the leaf-strewn forest floor, bones bleached by the sun and picked clean by scavengers and time.
They rested where they had fallen, bodies still tethered to a tree by rotted leather reins.
One was on its side, ribs curving skyward, while the other’s skull tilted forward, jaws parted in a silent cry.
Around them, remnants of supplies lay scattered and decayed.
Saddles, stiffened with age and cracked along the seams, rested in heaps next to stringy harnesses and the remnants of bridles.
A rusted water trough stood half-sunken in the earth next to them, a nest of brown leaves and twigs filling its basin.
Leather saddlebags, split and frayed, spilled their rotten contents across the dirt.
Small bones, broken jugs, shriveled pouches.
Perhaps they’d once held food and water.
It was as if the riders had intended to return but never did.
The forest had claimed it all. A quiet conqueror, weaving roots and vines through what remained.
“How long have we been gone?” I asked, stomach twisting. “Those poor horses…”
He crouched beside one of the skeletons, fingers gently brushing the decayed leather of the reins. “This didn’t happen over the course of weeks. It’s been months. A year, even. Perhaps more.”
“A year?”
He nodded grimly. “Raelion capturing Evernight, the Nocturne, and the Weavers must have broken something. Time is layered and unpredictable within the waters of the Nocturne—within humanity’s most common dreams—but it is typically more linear in the Realm itself.”
I felt sick. “In the Weavers’ domains, you mean.”
Erebus nodded again. “The linearity allowed dream interpretations and Revels to occur. Imagine if every dream masquerade ball put all its attendees into a deep sleep for several months. There would have been riots.” He gripped the leather too hard; it crumbled between his fingers.
“But everything is wrong now. This shouldn’t have happened. ”
My mind drifted at once to Aris, to her fingers working magic on my face, hair, and dress in preparation for the Revel of Rebirth. How sad she had sounded when she admitted she—and her brother—had no assigned Weaver. How cleverly and kindly she had guided me despite all the troubles she carried.
What happened that night had changed the course of history.
My heart wept for her, as it did for all people deeply hurt by centuries of Corruption.
And if it had already been a year since I fell asleep in Erebus’s tomb, then what did that mean for Elliot?
He would be older now. He had been only ten when I’d last seen him.
An innocent child thrown into a sea of darkness and expected to swim.
A second, far darker possibility tugged at the back of my mind, but I shoved it away.
“You’re alive. You need to be alive,” I whispered softly, heart twisting even as I spoke the quiet prayer out loud.
My gaze darted back to our provisions—to the gold and the weapons.
Whoever had left them here, whoever had tied those horses, had been preparing for something—or someone. “Who do you think left these?”
Erebus stood, brushing his hands against his cloak. “Someone with wealth who, once upon a time, actually wanted us to live.”
We didn’t voice what we were both thinking.
Silenced by the impossibility of it.
Mithras.
But then my stomach dropped as I remembered.
In my last dream with Mithras, he had said he’d opened our tomb and left us enough supplies to travel to Istralla.
But that was mere hours ago—and yet these supplies, these poor horses, appeared as though they’d been rotting for years.
I shook my head, shuddering. I couldn’t feel Mithras’s presence, nor could I feel Raelion, but I didn’t want to tempt fate.
Perhaps he was locked out of my mind for good.
Before departing from the tomb, we tried one final time to reenter the Dream Realm.
I curved my spine into Erebus’s chest, breathing slow and deep as he worked to guide us back. But no matter what we tried, the veil of dreams remained impenetrable. Once, I would have welcomed that boundary as a blessing.
Now it felt like a curse.
We changed quickly into our gifted clothes, Erebus opting to wear parts of his dilapidated armor over the traveling leathers. Our new cloaks were a welcome shield against the crisp air, padded thick with velvet and lined in soft black fur, and our boots were comfortable and warm.
There was only one path that led from the tomb; we followed it and did not look back.
It was a somber, quiet walk as we took in our surroundings.
From what I could tell, it felt like winter on the cusp of spring; there were some plants sprouting in the undergrowth, and some trees were beginning to bloom green leaves, but the forest still held the unmistakable remnants of a harsh winter.
There were hardly any birds or animals—no insects, for that matter—and snow still clung to its deepest corners.
Before long, the faint marks of wagons and hooves became our guide toward the nearest village.
The forest closed in on us as the afternoon stretched into the early evening, but time felt slippery, bending and warping in ways I couldn’t grasp.
Had we truly been in the Dream Realm for a year?
It didn’t seem possible. And yet, everything that made up my compass—my instincts, my heart, my mind—was screaming at me to recognize the truth.
Even though it was unbearable to consider Elliot alone for all that time.
Our plan was simple: reach Istralla as swiftly as possible, find Elliot, and confront Mithras.
There was also the matter of the Weaver tombs.
If we could locate their resting places under Citadel Firstlight and rouse them from their eternal slumber, perhaps we could loosen Raelion’s vicious grip on humanity’s dreams or even sever it entirely.
I’m coming for you, Elliot. No matter what it takes.
A village appeared just as night drifted upon us like a thick fog, blurring the edges of reality.
Relief unfurled in my chest as I walked quicker, the thought of a warm bed and a roof overhead pushing aside my usual caution.
Erebus matched my pace, his presence a steady, silent shadow at the edge of my vision.
“We’ll rest here tonight and get directions to Istralla,” I said, mostly to fill the silence. The capital—our destination—felt both impossibly distant and alarmingly close. “We should have plenty of gold for a meal and a bed. Horses, too.”
Erebus said nothing; he merely tightened his fingers on the edge of his cloak as he drew it farther over his head, shadowing the lines of his handsome face.
The motion was subtle, but I caught the way his hands stiffened as he adjusted the fabric, as if trying to shield himself not just from the cold but from a far worse threat: recognition.
That someone might remember his name. The one whispered in fear and in hatred.
The name that still clung to him like a curse.
Shadow Bringer.
As we approached the village gates, our progress halted.
A group of men stepped forward, expressions grim beneath their flickering torches. They were armed, though their weapons were crude—wooden staffs, a rusted blade or two. Not trained soldiers, but capable enough that they’d fight back if pressed.
“Stop there,” the tallest of them called out, his voice loud and rough. “We need to check you both.”
“Check us?” I asked, clenching my fists. “For what?”
Erebus stiffened beside me, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword.
“For signs of Corruption,” the man clarified, his tone making it apparent he expected obedience.
“Black lines in the skin or eyes. Can’t let anyone pass without inspection.
” He spit on the ground, clearing his voice.
“Maker help us if we take in any more Corrupt. The holding cells are already full.”
The mere mention of Corruption hit me like a cold wind, tugging at the edges of my composure.
I glanced at Erebus, but his expression remained unreadable, his silence like a hidden blade.
The men moved closer, their torches throwing long, jittering shadows across the dirt path.
One of them, a scraggy figure with a nervous energy, raised his fire to my face.