25
Xander’s tomb was simple and regal, much like the man himself.
Iron adorned every surface, shimmering with silver filigree.
On the ceiling, painted in painstaking detail, were two maps: The Kingdom of Noctis was on the left, and the Dream Realm was on the right.
I lingered on Norhavellis, the sight of it twisting something soft in my chest. I wondered if I’d ever see it again. If I’d even want to.
Xander was lying on top of an enormous bed, unnaturally still under a crimson blanket.
His chiseled features were serene, perfect; not a single chestnut hair was out of place.
It truly did look as though he’d been slumbering here for centuries, frozen in immortal sleep.
His shrewd brown eyes were closed, unmoving. They did not so much as twitch.
“Do you think he’ll wake up?” I asked, voice low.
“We’re not leaving here until he does,” Erebus answered, determined. “Do you feel the remnants of our shadows? They’re responding to the slumbering Weaver magic. Let’s try to reach him.”
We moved closer, placing our palms on his chest. Xander wore a striking gray doublet embroidered with gold and red thread.
It was difficult to feel if he was still breathing.
He felt distant, untouchable—as though he was trapped in another plane entirely.
Erebus’s hand closed over mine, steady and warm.
Together, we sent our faint magic, bolstered by the tomb, into Xander.
The connection sparked faintly at first, hesitant. But then it burst with the force of a thunderclap. Xander’s chest rose sharply, a gasp tearing from his lips as his eyes snapped open. His gaze darted around the room, sharp but disoriented, before landing on me.
My breath hitched, expecting the worst.
“Esmer?” he bit out, clutching his chest. It was exactly where Raelion’s chain had pierced him.
“And… Erebus.” His eyes welled. “You came for us. We’d lost all hope.
” Then, frantically, “Maker, it still hurts. It shouldn’t still hurt.
” He doubled over, groaning in terrible pain. “Go. Please. Leave me to acclimate.”
Erebus nodded. “We’ll wake the others.”
Xander gritted his teeth, movements slow and deliberate as he swung his legs over his bed. Even now, weakened and shaken, he exuded an air of quiet authority. If only he’d been made king instead of Mithras.
Each of the other rooms told a story of its inhabitant, the echoes of their personality carved into stone and fabric alike.
Somnus’s chamber was predictably unsettling.
The walls seemed to shift and breathe underneath a ceiling of curved bones—really, really long bones—their surfaces alive with shadows that whispered unintelligible secrets.
The air was sweet with the scent of incense, a rich mixture of sandalwood and petrichor.
Somnus lay sprawled on an elegant divan, draped in flowing black robes.
He wore jewelry carved from more bones—human?
—which adorned his ears, neck, and pale hands.
He woke slowly, happily, lips curving into a smirk as his depthless eyes found us.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this glorious awakening?” Somnus drawled.
Then he winced, doubling over as he, too, clutched his chest. “Ah, that is right. I owe myself the pleasure. Since it was I who welcomed Erebus to the Dream Realm all those years ago. I who found Esmer and encouraged her power. I who helped free you.”
“Don’t start,” Erebus said, his tone clipped. But he was smiling.
Maker, he was smiling.
“It’s good to see you again, Somnus,” I said, unable to stop myself from smiling, too. “Truly.”
Somnus’s nose wrinkled as he eyed our bloodstained clothes. “I’d call this touching and give you both a hug, but I fear it would sully my good robes.” He gestured for us to leave his chambers, offering a smile of his own. “Be off, then. Rouse the rest while I gather myself.”
Lelantos’s tomb was nearly the opposite of Somnus’s.
The walls gleamed as if they were glowing from within, as though lit by moonlight.
His furniture was a mixture of stone and milky, almost translucent finishes that reminded me of clouds.
Being in his room felt like being on top of a windswept mountain at midnight, surrounded by clouds and the moon.
Swirling patterns were faintly visible across the floor, resembling frozen mist or soft ripples of air.
A gentle breeze rustled through the feathery curtains that framed his bed.
Brown feathers and delicate glass ornaments adorned other parts of the room, catching the light from the candelabras that were set deep into the walls.
Lelantos woke with a quiet inhale, eyes wide and curious.
“Well, this is unexpected,” he said, flinching as he stretched. He wore a billowing brown shirt, its neckline open to his navel. His half mask of bone was elsewhere; his tanned face was bare. “We’re back to reality, then, it seems?”
Erebus nodded. “For better or for worse. Welcome back.”
Ceres’s tomb was a sanctuary of earth and life.
Her walls were polished wood, her floors a carpet of moss, roots, and roses.
The scents of loam and wood filled the air, grounding and soothing.
Ceres woke reluctantly, emerald eyes heavy with sleep but wrinkling warmly as they landed on me.
Her brown hair, adorned with what looked suspiciously like pine cones, was piled into the shape of a crown above her face.
“Esmer, Erebus,” she said softly, her voice like the rustle of leaves. She grabbed for her chest, gasping slightly. “I’m sorry. The pain feels so fresh. What has happened?”
“Rest while we gather the others,” I answered, throat tight. “We’ll talk soon.”
I steeled myself before Nephthys’s tomb. The last time I’d seen her, she’d nearly stabbed me with a dozen blades of ice. Only the back of Raelion’s claw had spared me.
Surely she’d still wish me dead.
Upon entering her chamber, the scents of jasmine, lichen, and stormy ocean air washed over us.
Her walls were sapphire, polished to a mirrorlike sheen, and a large crystalline pool dominated the floor.
Her bed, just beyond the pool, was shaped like a clam, boasting intricate pearl beadwork and rose-colored pillows.
She was fast asleep in its center, wearing a sumptuous blue nightgown that perfectly matched her hair.
The moment we laid hands on her, her long lashes snapped open.
Nephthys glared at me, then Erebus, then back at me.
I winced, wanting very much to flee the room.
“Took you long enough,” she finally said, her voice a blend of irritation and relief.
Her eyes glittered as she rose, throwing herself into my chest with such force that I nearly fell off her bed.
“I thought all hope was lost, but you did it. You actually came.” She sobbed into my neck, squeezing me tight.
It took me a breath to process what was happening.
When I finally hugged her back, she cried even harder.
“Maker, why does it still hurt? My ribs feel like they’re being pried apart. …”
Fenrir’s tomb was last.
His walls were made from rough-hewn stone, streaked with veins of fire that glowed bright red.
Weapons of every kind lined the walls, from brutal axes to finely honed daggers.
The air smelled of crackling embers, burnt herbs, and rich, smoky leather.
His bed, sharp and angular, appeared carved from rubies, but it was filled to the brim with yards of the finest black silk.
Fenrir was arranged haphazardly in the middle, covered only by one of his bunched-up silk blankets.
I noted the wealth of tattoos that marked his deep brown skin; observed how they circled his chest and cascaded down his stomach.
I wasn’t sure if he was wearing any clothes.
We had to wake Fenrir with more force than we’d used on the other Weavers, shadows snapping against the stubborn resistance of his slumber. When his eyes finally opened, they burned with fury.
“When I find Raelion, I’ll tear him apart,” Fenrir snarled.
He pushed himself upright, muscles taut with barely contained rage.
Unlike the others, he didn’t act as if he felt any traces of lingering pain.
“I’ll kill him. I’ll—” But then he broke, cracking like an overburdened vessel.
“It feels like he’s still here, tearing through my body with that damned chain,” he grated out, hiding his face in his hands. “Let me kill him. Please.”
“You’ll have your chance,” Erebus promised, his tone as deadly as any blade.
Fenrir locked eyes with us, something tenuously close to camaraderie glowing within his. He took our hands between his, gripping them fiercely. “Swear it, Shadow Weavers. Swear it right now.”
We did not hesitate.
“We swear.”
We gathered in Theia’s tomb, sprawling atop the lavish pillows, blankets, and chairs from the Weavers’ various chambers.
The atmosphere among us was a mixture of two beautiful contradictions: warm fellowship and ferocious rage.
Erebus and I told the Weavers what little we knew, beginning with our awakening and ending on the disturbing cave-in found in the bowels of Citadel Firstlight.
The Weavers brought us up to speed, too.
We learned that they had been suspended above Citadel Evernight all this time, but their memories were murky.
Some had experienced pain for only a few days.
For others, it had felt like decades. As a last resort, they had retreated into their subconscious minds, drawing on the dregs of their power to dull their realities into something more palatable.
Erebus shook his head, eyes hard.
He knew what that felt like more than anyone—to be trapped in a nightmare, unable to escape, completely at the whims of his environment. Perhaps that was why they were so friendly to him now.