30 #2
“My father is dead,” Mithras bit out. “He told me everything. How you persuaded him to bind himself to the king of demons. To sacrifice himself—” He choked back an angry sob.
“He killed his guards, made me stab him, then destroyed the entrance to your tombs. He’s dead. And now his demon is inside of me.”
“I—I—” Theia stammered.
He stalked closer. “You did this. So now tell me your grand plan. Tell me what you’ve seen. Tell me that it leads to the most beautiful future this kingdom has ever known. You’ve kept your visions hidden from me, but now I am your king.”
Theia fixed her pale eyes on Mithras, her ethereal beauty unnerving him as ever. She was more ghost than woman—a shine of glass, a flutter of snow, a painful truth. She was already dressed in her attire for the Revel that evening, though her mask sat in her lap.
“I do have a plan,” she said softly, her voice as pure as any melody. “But you will not like it. And you must swear not to tell anyone. Not the Weavers, not Erebus.”
Mithras agreed.
And so, Theia told him everything.
Of the futures she’d seen—the horrors she’d witnessed.
The demons that would descend, destroying the Dream Realm and crushing it underfoot as they strove to overtake Noctis.
The demon Raelion needed to be contained.
Corruption would slowly progress over the course of five hundred years, but they would be centuries of tentative peace.
They’d need to use those centuries wisely, prepare for the battle ahead.
And the chosen ones who would finally end Corruption were a dark-haired girl and Mithras’s closest friend.
A friend who had become a brother.
Erebus needed to be kept safe, alive, and immortal until Raelion broke free after five hundred years.
He was the only one who could command the dark and use it to destroy the demons for good; if he died before fulfilling his destiny, Raelion would win.
But to be kept immortal, he’d need to be banished to the dark for five hundred years.
He’d need to let his shadow power fester, grow, crest—until he became so powerful the demons would tremble.
“Will he hate me for it?” Mithras felt himself ask.
Theia nodded, lips set in a grim line. “He will never forgive you.”
Mithras’s head ached. His limbs felt numb. “I see.”
“You will see him again, after the five hundred years are through,” Theia offered. “You will have plenty of work to do to fill those years. Time will slip through your fingers like an angry river.”
They seemed insurmountable, the tasks she said he’d do.
He’d become the Light Bringer—Noctis’s holy sovereign.
He’d been blessed by the Maker with light magic for a reason; he’d use it to help guide Corrupt souls back to their godly creator and send the rest to Erebus’s castle in the hope that they would one day be cured.
Raelion would sustain Mithras in a twisted mockery of immortality, as would Raelion’s second, Estaroth, consume a man named Silas.
He wanted to sink to his knees. He wanted to scream; he wanted to hit something; he wanted to cry.
“I wish it didn’t have to come to this,” he ground out. “I wish—”
“I know,” Theia murmured, her own eyes glistening with icy tears. “I cannot permanently bend the threads of time, nor can I intervene in ways that tamper with fate. But sometimes I wish I could.”
She placed a cool hand atop his chest, right over where his heart would be.
“What are you doing?”
“Right here,” she said, pressing gently, “will be a reminder that you are still alive. That you are still good.”
But he didn’t feel anything at all. He felt hollow, cold.
Like a man walking feetfirst into a dark, endless abyss.
503 Years Ago: A Village in the Kingdom of Noctis
Sweat trickled down Mithras’s neck. He adjusted his mask, fingered the collar of a chest plate that fit too snugly against his neck. He was the kingdom’s Light Bringer now. The golden king who continued to wage war against the Shadow Bringer and his horde of wicked demons.
He swirled a vial of elixir between his thumb and forefinger, watching as the amber liquid shimmered faintly beneath the glass.
The elixir had been a crucial part of King Gabriel’s deal with Raelion; Raelion had agreed to give Gabriel not only five hundred years of immortality but also the recipe for a nightly tonic that would protect humans from demons.
Unfortunately, the solution was complicated to make, and Mithras expected that sourcing its ingredients would grow difficult in the coming centuries.
As would distribution throughout the entire kingdom.
So he’d commanded each village to have its own elixir distributors.
It was all an empty promise, an illusion of hope, an illusion of choice, and an illusion of control.
Drink the elixir, be free. Drink the elixir, be whole.
But the elixir wasn’t a cure-all.
It wasn’t the magic his citizens had come to expect.
No, it merely clashed against people’s subconscious minds to such a degree that it made dreaming impossible.
It was all he could do, all he could hope for.
Raelion had already claimed his soul and would walk free in five hundred years.
Well, four hundred ninety-eight, now. The village Mithras was in had finally gotten their Corruption under control.
Things were looking up. Things were looking great.
So why did he feel so damnably vexed?
He finished distributing the shipment of elixir to the village’s Absolvers, hands prickling as he neared the sole Corrupt of the season. A young man.
“What is your name?” Mithras asked.
“Silas,” the young man declared, his dark complexion radiant under the midday sun.
He was hardly a year or two Mithras’s junior.
A handsome young man, and familiar, somehow.
His gaze fell on Mithras, searching for something that was behind his eyes.
“But I don’t wish to speak with you, my lord. I wish to speak with Raelion.”
A cold shudder lanced through Mithras’s chest. “There is no such thing.”
Silas leaned forward. Even though his hands were bound, his arms flexed, ready to strike. Mithras would have stepped back, but there were simply too many people watching. “My demon says otherwise. My demon knows yours.”
Mithras’s shudder split into icy rage.
“Gag him,” Mithras ordered quickly. “Gag him now. He comes with us.”
His legionnaires rushed the Corrupt, placing a gag into his mouth. Silas relaxed, his shadow-marked eyes warming. Mithras could feel Raelion stretching inside his mind. He had shoved him far away, but the demon king lay coiled like a snake against his skull, ready to strike when the moment came.
“You will spare that one,” Raelion hissed as an order, deep inside his head.
“His Corruption will fade; but in return, Estaroth will rise when I do.” Mithras’s shoulders spasmed.
His upper lip twitched. It took everything within him to not vomit.
“You should be pleased. He will be a companion in your lonely immortality.”
“Fine,” Mithras bit out.
And then he shoved Raelion back down into a dark recess of his mind, where he would remain for quite some time.
This would be the only Corrupt Mithras would ever preserve.
He’d make sure of it. The rest he’d cleave from their mortal bodies, sending their souls into the Maker’s light, and the others, the less fortunate, would hopefully find their way to the Shadow Bringer’s castle.
500 Years Ago: The Tomb of the Devourer
Mithras gleefully twisted his sword into Ceveon’s stomach. Ceveon tried to pry the golden blade free, but it was useless; the sword was too deep, and his hands were unarmored. A river of red fell over Ceveon’s fingers. Mithras wanted to taste his blood. To pour it into his mouth like wine.
Ceveon groaned in pain, writhing as he fought to remain conscious.
Mithras brought his mouth down, licking the back of Ceveon’s hand—
Only to shudder violently.
Mithras’s sword dropped with a loud clang upon the dirt-covered stone floor, sending Ceveon to the ground from the sheer force of it. Sorren was some feet away, corpse already growing pale and stiff. Mithras clawed at his brow, flinching as his gauntlet cut fast and deep.
He—Mithras—had done this.
His hands violently shook.
What was he doing?
He had merely offered his gold and his resources to build Erebus’s tomb. It would be a secret, hidden place, known only to the holy Seven. He would need to cull it from his memory now, lest Raelion discover it. Mithras’s chest heaved; a panic rose steady and sick from his stomach to his throat.
How far into evil would he fall?
Did the kingdom know its golden king had a monster beneath his skin?
Mithras stumbled backward, face numb as something wet dripped down his chin. No, not just anything wet. Blood. And it wasn’t his. It was Ceveon’s, Erebus’s friend, and—
His knees hit the ground as he retched.
Ceveon’s eyes stared up lifelessly. He had rolled onto his side in agony, and even in his death, he was glaring at Mithras with condemnation.
Mithras had killed them. Both of them.
Now who would protect Erebus?
Mithras felt arms dragging him backward.
He had been blindfolded during the entire trip to the tomb; he’d be blindfolded on the return trip to Istralla, too.
And even though there were now two dead men left to rot alone in their best friend’s immortal resting place, Mithras would not so much as be questioned.
He understood it now.
His legionnaires’ fear. Their wonder. Their hope.
They saw him as untouchable, as a god. And if their god needed to cull the weak and the unworthy, then it would be done. He’d cry out to the Maker, but he wasn’t worthy of being saved. Not anymore.
Five Years Ago: Havenfall Home, Near the Village of Norhavellis