I woke to the sound of shouting and the pinch of a hand clenched over my nose.
Naturally, I tried to scream.
“Quiet, ‘smer!” Elliot begged. He kneeled over me, eyes fixed on the window above my bed. “The Radlers are here, and they’re firin’ some mean words at Father. You’ve gotta stop snoring so I can listen.”
The memory of last night slashed around in my head, angry, desperate, and howling. An animal stuck within the attic of a house on fire.
Breathe , Mother had said to me. Put one breath in front of the other, Esmer. Please.
Breathe in.
I inhaled, slowly counting to five.
Breathe out.
My exhale trembled at the edges. Still, I counted to five again.
Good, Mother had praised, giving me a gentle smile of approval.
After the attack, she sat Elliot and I by the stove while Father continued his watch. It was her attempt at coaxing us back into normalcy. She fixed a vegetable chowder with our favorite seasoning. She massaged a lavender salve into the bruised, aching muscles of our necks. She hummed a song as she brushed and braided my hair.
But it was useless. No matter what she did, I felt hollow, broken, and cold.
Far too cold.
Elliot tiptoed back into the kitchen once my hair was nearly braided, hiding a book of Weaver tales under his sleeve. The book was a battered, stained thing with a peeling cover, but its pages were velvet-soft from years of exploration.
“I was going to read a story if you wanted,” Elliot said, cradling the book sheepishly. “I can do the speakin’. Thinkin’ the one with Nephthys and the sea dragon.”
“The Water Weaver again, Elliot?” Mother asked, glancing up from my hair. “You favor her.”
“It’s because her stories always have creatures in them. It’s not ‘cause I think she’s pretty or anythin’.”
As Mother continued to tease him, I swallowed my unease. I didn’t want to hear a tale from our kingdom’s perfect past. Not when the present was dark, twisted, and haunted by the shadow of what it used to be. What it was meant to be.
But for Elliot I agreed, and his face lit up.
Before Eden’s death, I enjoyed reading about the seven Weavers. Delighted in every heroic, wondrous deed they did for mankind, the gifts they gave to dreamers, and the worlds they created in the Dream Realm. Back then it had seemed possible—so very, achingly possible—that they would return, making everything right and true. But after Eden’s death, when a festering hate for the Shadow Bringer and his demons finally settled in, reading about the Weavers felt painful.
I propped my face into my hands, trying not to flinch as Elliot began to read.
Nephthys was one of seven immortal beings once tasked with creating intricate and prophetic dreams for all of humankind. The age, livelihood, or morality of the dreamer didn’t matter, because every person in the Kingdom of Noctis could dream. Even the filth-covered vagrants, scraping coins from the pockets of tavern-dwellers. Even the jewel-bedecked lords and ladies wasting beautiful, lazy days in their golden manors. Even the elderly. Even the children.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
And while the kingdom dreamed dreams of prosperity, invention, and divine understanding, the Weavers held the Realm in sacred balance, overseeing dreams and destroying the demons that sought to taint them. Fear of Corruption was unthinkable because Corruption didn’t exist.
But this didn’t last.
Dreamers wanted more than the Weavers could give. They craved power and indulgence. Dreams were no longer enough—they wanted more, more, more . And so they betrayed the Seven in favor of demons who could satisfy their desires. Desires to steal, kill, and commit unspeakable evils. Demons, heralded by the Shadow Bringer, grew stronger, and humanity welcomed them. The price we paid—the price we all paid—was our right to dream without the consequence of death.
I watched the mist slinking through the Visstill Forest, saturating the morning air in a thick veil of grey, and I wondered if we truly deserved our fate. I wondered, too, what it would take for the kingdom to finally atone.
Thomas lay lifeless at the edge of our property, face buried in the grass. Crouched by his scorched body were two men: Abbott Radler, Thomas’s father, who had draped a shroud over his son’s face, and Alcott, Thomas’s older brother. I hadn’t seen Alcott in years; he was rumored to have joined the ranks of the Light Legion.
“—no right,” Father was saying. “You shame me and everything I stand for.”
Neither Abbott nor Alcott were speaking. They were looking at Thomas. At the long trail of blood and half-burned grass. At his arms, stretching in vain toward the forest’s cover.
At two arrows jutting from his burned body.
Abbott’s face, normally a stern mask, was contorted in anguish.
I had watched as Thomas fell. Heard his breath as it crept through ruined lungs. And yet—through it all—he must have found a way to cling to life. The scene spoke in ways that Thomas’s purpled lips could not: he had retreated toward the forest, even with flames tearing him down.
“You murdered him,” Abbott gasped, choking on every word.
“He would have killed my children had I not intervened.”
“You murdered my son . Through arrows and fire .”
Father shook his head. “I did what any father would have done. I am no murderer.”
But I am.
Elliot leaned his head against my shoulder, intently watching the scene as I ran a hand through his curls. Because of me, Thomas died before his soul could be purified. I should feel shame—I should feel guilt. Father would have subdued Thomas without resorting to fatal violence. Mother would have pacified him with just a few well-placed sentences. So what did that make me? Not a savior or a hero, certainly.
No, I was a monster who damned another soul to perish under the hands of the Shadow Bringer.
Alcott’s face, bearing a striking similarity to Thomas’s, twisted in rage. “Where are your children, then? Where is your proof ? I should also like to talk to your guardsmen—”
“They took ill and are with their families. They’ve not taken their posts in a fortnight.”
“Likely sick with Corruption, just like half of Norhavellis,” Alcott seethed, eyes flashing. His hand ghosted over his hip as if he expected a weapon to be there. “You’ve let darkness taint this village. I have never seen a place so saturated in death and disease.”
“Then perhaps Norhavellis is cursed. But that is no fault of mine.”
Alcott made a sound of disgust. “Then you’re either a fool or a criminal. Likely both.”
Father’s hands tightened on his crossbow. “To blame me for Norhavellis’s ruin is to put Eden’s death upon my shoulders. I will not stand for it.”
Abbott lurched forward, tears streaming into his beard. “You damned him, Galen. He won’t receive the Light Bringer’s blessing.”
“Away. Back away .” Father raised his crossbow.
“My poor boy,” Abbot wailed. “You damned him to Hell when you killed him.”
“You don’t deserve the right to be called an Absolver,” Alcott spat, moving to stand by his father. “Thomas had no signs, no indication—with all your training, you could have restrained him.”
“Take the body—”
“You’re a liar. A thief. A fool.” Alcott ripped one of the arrows from Thomas’s back and threw it at Father’s feet. “The Light Legion will see you hanged.”
My stomach sank. It wasn’t my father’s fault, it was mine . I should be down there, facing the Radlers’ wrath. I shouldn’t be cowering in my bedroom, nose pressed against the glass like a delusional child, but fear rooted me in place. I didn’t want to face my fate or the darkness in our yard. I wanted to run .
“I said, take the body—”
“Thomas took the draught each night for seventeen years! And Becca—what of my wife? ”
I frowned. Thomas, and Becca, too, had access to the elixir. Compared to most families in Norhavellis, the Radlers wanted for nothing, least of all the one concoction keeping them from absolute ruin. So why had they become Corrupt?
Elliot tugged at my sleeve.
Norhavellis was fracturing at its seams, and we were caught within its ruined center.
Night descended at a crawl.
I stood in the kitchen, watching as my mother prepared dinner. The mixture was fragrant and hearty: rosemary, butter, and juniper melting around rabbit and potatoes.
It was a sickening contrast to the bile and guilt churning in my stomach.
Thomas would be buried by now, resting in a place that the Light Bringer couldn’t cleanse. His soul would rot in Hell alongside the demon that Corrupted him, unable to find its way back to the Maker’s light.
I clenched my hands together. Thumbed away imaginary dirt.
The Light Bringer was exalted across the kingdom for his ability to purify souls, but it only worked if the Corrupt was alive. If a Corrupt died before they were cleansed, its human soul would perish and the demon would be free to be reborn in the dreams and skin of another.
Just like what happened to Eden.
Wind rustled through the house, forcing the old wood to creak and groan, and I couldn’t help but picture a monster leering at us through the kitchen windows.
“When will Father be back?” I asked, trying to mask the fear in my voice.
“Shouldn’t be long.” Mother focused on her hands as she stirred our supper, adding a pinch of salt and a handful of dried plums. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair, wild and dark like my own, was scraped into a bun. “Are you hungry? Have some bread.”
Elliot wandered in, chewing his knuckle. “Why’s Father in the barn? He’s bein’ strange.”
“Not strange,” Mother said, eyes lifting from the pot. She grabbed our hands and squeezed them. “He’s working harder than you realize to change our fate. He wants to give us what we deserve . That’s why we’re leaving Norhavellis.”
“Leaving,” I echoed blankly. “We’ve never been able to leave.”
To leave Norhavellis would be to abandon it.
After Eden’s death, Mother and Father had petitioned the Light Bringer, begging for his aid against Norhavellis’s Corruption. For fair elixir prices. For medical supplies. For more trained guardsmen to protect us. But seasons passed, Corruption worsened, and seasons stretched into years. They never received a reply.
The Light Legion came only to restock our elixir supply and collect—or hunt, if they escaped—our Corrupt.
And so Norhavellis sank, year after year, into despair. Crops withered, buildings crumbled, and its people resorted to rage, greed, and deception. Corruption festered and bubbled over like an infection. But we couldn’t just leave.
Even though I deeply, desperately wanted to do just that.
I was sick of the darkness—sick of the despair. It clung to every interaction, scraping at the edges like a starved wolf.
“I know,” Mother said, exhaling. The sound was hollow and heavy. She brushed a strand of hair from my eyes. “But Eden was taken from us, and last night we almost lost you and Elliot, too. Your Father and I won’t stand for it any longer. We must claim a different future for ourselves.”
Sorrow ripped through me at the sound of Eden’s name. As it always would.
“But who will care for the Corrupt? Who else will manage the elixir?”
Mother shook her head, smiling sadly. Shadows from the fire danced across her face, carving out its most hollow parts. “Absolvers from our neighbors in Ystoven have agreed to share our burden. One will manage the duties of this place. Keep it safe with new guards until the Light Bringer selects our replacement.”
Wind threaded through the walls again, breathing out in a long, meandering sigh. A rattle sounded from the front of the house as it passed, almost as if someone was tapping lightly at the door. I tensed, looking at Mother and Elliot. They heard it, too.
Three uneven knocks. Two soft and dragging, one bolder and short.
Mother grabbed a candle and hid a knife in her skirts, motioning for me to do the same. “A precaution, of course,” she said, voice low. “It is likely just your father.”
“Father doesn’t knock,” I whispered back, incredulous. The knife felt wrong in my hands; I didn’t feel capable of using it.
The knocks subsided. There was only the wind, groaning through the crevices in the walls.
Mother gave each of us a fierce look. “Be unafraid,’ she said, setting the candlestick down and gripping the latch. “We cannot afford otherwise.”
As she opened the door, a sour wind blew in. I pulled my sweater over my nose, nearly gagging from the familiar stench.
“Good evening,” my mother said, voice cracking. “How may we help you?”
A woman and two children stood on our porch, miserable and pale. The woman, not much older than I, aimlessly caressed both her skirt and her children’s dirty hair.
“G-good evening, Mrs. Havenfall.”
Mother smiled, ever the proper host. “It’s fortunate you were able to make it this far without any trouble. The woods can be a dangerous place at night.”
“I know. I don’t like to come out this late, but they’re really sick.” She shot a nervous glance over her shoulder and continued, whispering conspiratorially, “I don’t believe the rumors, you know. About what happened to the Radlers and all. Please. I—I can’t lose them.”
Mother nodded knowingly. “Of course.”
“You remember my twins, Ronnie and Isabelle. Say ‘hello’,” she said, peering down at her children and coaxing them to acknowledge us.
Ronnie’s face was a blank slate as he looked up at his mother. His lips mouthed hello , but the actual sound didn’t come. Isabelle merely buried her face within her mother’s skirts, whimpering softly.
“Hello, sweet ones,” Mother said gently, patting them on their scuffed shoulders.
The children were barely past their third birth year, but a cloudy substance dripped from their lashes. It mingled with a thick, flesh-colored fixative that covered the upper half of their faces, forcing the skin to fracture in several places.
Darkness peeked up at us through the cracks.
“Beautiful, courageous children,” Mother said, bending at the waist so she was level with the twins. “Let’s make you better again, shall we? More concealment, perhaps?”
Concealment, because elixir would be futile. Corruption had no cure, just as the shadows on their faces couldn’t be scrubbed off.
Still, Mother guided the family into the apothecary and pulled several glass jars from the shelves. She worked quickly, mixing pigment from the jars with water and a touch of ointment. While I washed the children’s faces, Elliot entertained with a tale of Lelantos, the Air Weaver. It was a delightful story—one I knew well from the book of Weaver tales—but the twins seemed unfamiliar with it.
“An’ then, the mountain burst like an egg,” Elliot continued, throwing his arms open dramatically. “Lelantos flies from the rock, reborn with wings !”
Elliot jumped to his feet and pretended to soar around the room. Once he made a few passes, he knelt in front of the twins, an intense expression on his face.
The children broke into laughter. I struggled to focus on their smiles, not the shadows marking lines into their skin. They remained remarkably still as Mother finished her treatment, blending the thick concealment onto their skin until the shadows no longer showed.
Her concealment technique was a quick and inexpensive fix, but it would only last a few days at most. Just long enough to preserve the children’s dignity before the Light Legion came and took them away. And that was perhaps the cruelest part of all. Their souls would be saved by the Light Bringer, but their Corrupted bodies would still have to die.
Because once a demon claimed its victim, nothing could be done.
The demon would feed, slowly and delightfully , one dream after another, until the afflicted mind rotted and its body bore physical signs of its decay. It might take years if one was strong enough to resist, but few ever could. Demons preferred weak and wandering souls. The poor. The weary. Those without warm meals and shoes on their ruined feet. Those without parents who loved them.
Most fell into full Corruption within a month.
The tales told of a great ruler, one of Noctis’s ancient kings, who united the seven Weavers in battle against the demons. The Weavers fought valiantly, warring horrific fights that spanned both the mortal world and the Dream Realm, but they were vastly outnumbered. The king recognized the inevitability of their defeat; his strength was failing just as the Weavers began to fall. As a final gift before his death, the king created the elixir, a draught that buffered Noctis from the Realm. With the last of his strength, and the last of the remaining Weavers, he sentenced the Shadow Bringer to eternal damnation.
Some said the king went mad after creating the elixir and sealing away the Shadow Bringer’s body. They whispered that his queen lost herself to Corruption and his heir consorted with the very demons he sought to destroy.
I wasn’t sure. And I wasn’t sure that I cared, either—not when the elixir failed the ones who needed it the most. The king’s cure no longer protected the kingdom; it protected the wealthy. Few others could consistently afford its cost without sacrifice. As a result, there were always men and women with the beginnings of shadows leaking into their cheeks and fingernails. And children .
I shuddered.
It was a cruel mockery for children to be Corrupt.
I closed my eyes, momentarily losing myself. This was the reality of the world: mothers who couldn’t purchase the elixir for herself or her children. Even just a mouthful.
