Chapter 32 #2
They turned their backs to me, more engrossed in their own bickering than my dress or the shadows swirling in my eyes. 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 was straight out of the pages of Elliot’s favorite Weaver book.
Rows upon rows of gilded seats circled the coliseum floor, flush with dreamers partaking in the finest food, drink, and entertainment.
Winged beasts, their intelligent eyes sparkling with amusement, flew between the columns, making the children laugh.
Evernight scholars, masked and smiling as though they, too, were enjoying themselves, performed various feats atop floating platforms—everything from adorning dreamers’ attire with feathers to commanding the air itself to carry guests to and from different parts of the coliseum.
Chalices automatically refilled themselves with sparkling liquid, and platters were always brimming with colorful, strange, and fragrant dishes.
Dreamers crowded the seats in their ethereal dresses, silky shirts, and perfectly crafted masks, smiling, laughing, flirting—vying mightily for the attention of others.
Everything felt vibrant, fresh, alive.
Some dreamers swiveled to regard me with curious or scrutinizing eyes, but mostly I was left to wander without interruption.
If they remembered who I was from the Shadow Bringer’s dramatic entrance, they didn’t show it.
The sweet-smelling food, the heady wine, the rows of beautiful people—it was all more seductive than a lone girl who may or may not have been associated with their lord Erebus.
I took a seat and picked up a stray goblet, curious to taste the flavor of an Evernight drink. 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.
The liquid tasted of fresh rain, of 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 last. The more I consumed, the more I craved.
I wanted more, more, more.
For what felt like forever—and not nearly long enough—I laughed, smiled, drank, and ate with the masked dreamers around me.
Watched as great winged beasts flew overhead.
Smiled at the compliments from men and women.
On my dress. On my skin. On my beauty. Everything was lost to me.
Time, purpose, and logic. Anything that wasn’t here, now—none of that mattered.
And as more time passed, the more I felt as though 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 in this place forever. Here I could be what 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 flights, 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 from some faraway kingdom, wrapped his hands around my waist. “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 green.
“The Weavers are about to make their procession. How thrilling.”
Glee built in my chest, heavy and overwhelming. 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, and his rich brown skin shimmered faintly, a striking backdrop to the ruby crown atop his braided hair.
But his eyes were something else; they burned with a fire so bright and so piercing that it hurt to look at him, even from across the length of the coliseum.
His acolytes fell in line behind him, all clothed in 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 in any storybook illustration. Dark blue hair curled over bronze shoulders, trailing down her jewel-dusted back, 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 in wildflowers, undergrowth, and leaves.
A horned headpiece curled from her scalp, embedded with emeralds and dripping with what looked like spiderwebs, roses, and small skeletons.
She was a walking contradiction, portraying the bonding tension 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 iron 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 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. A shiver of revulsion crawled down my neck at his nearness. “How delightful.”
I angled my shoulders away from him, twisting free from his arms.
“Who?”
He drank from his chalice, not bothering to wipe away the liquid that dripped down his chin. “The special little lords of light and dark. You really haven’t been to Evernight before, have you?”
Two figures, both in black leathers, appeared under the arch. The left wore a circlet of gold; the right, a circlet of obsidian. At the top of the coliseum stairs, they shared a genial smile.
Mithras and Erebus.
Two men flanked Erebus as he made his way to the coliseum floor.
The first walked with confidence and easy grace, nodding at the patrons nearest to him.
He was tall—as tall as Erebus—with 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. “An unhoused should never be made into something they are not. It’s like giving a pig a crown and calling it a king.”
“They appear quite powerful to me,” I said, ignoring the man’s crude dig.
“Unhoused, scum, pigs. They’re all the same.
Mithras and Erebus 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 great value to the Realm, then.”
“The Weavers may think so, but that doesn’t mean all Revel guests agree,” he responded, low and guttural. For a moment, his green 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 Mithras and Erebus 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, the Air Weaver, 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 coliseum 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 green-eyed man laughed at me, reaching for my hips. “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 know anyone here. Pitiful little dreamer, all alone.”
He rose to face me, squeezing my shoulders as the coliseum shook. No one noticed or cared. They were too busy laughing about the Revel’s newest entertainment. His 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.