“What do you care about that wretch?”
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 scrutinizingeyes, 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, vibratingthrum. 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, somethingbetter.
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, poolingfrom 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.”
