Page 23 of Blood Court (Cursed Darkness #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

VERIK

The problem with being an architect is that you notice when someone’s been fucking with your blueprints.

After reluctantly leaving Lysithea to go about our normal days like we aren’t waiting for the guillotine blade to drop, I stand in the corridor outside Advanced Infernal Engineering, watching a third-year student I’ve never seen before loiter near the gargoyle alcoves.

He’s pretending to read a book, but his eyes keep flicking toward the stairwell that leads down to the lower levels.

New faces shouldn’t exist in the third year. DarkHallow’s student body doesn’t usually change mid-term.

But here he is. Badly fitted clothes, nervous energy, and a magical signature that tastes wrong. Like someone wearing a mask made of borrowed power.

I memorise his face before ducking into the lecture hall. The heating enchantments are working overtime, pushing back against the perpetual chill that seeps through DarkHallow’s ancient stones. My hellfire responds to the artificial warmth, a low simmer of approval that settles in my chest.

“Ah, Mr Verik,” Professor Hacier’s voice cuts through my observations. “How generous of you to grace us with your presence.”

I slide into my usual seat near the back. “Traffic was murder, sir.”

A few snorts of laughter from my classmates. Hacier’s scarred face twists into what might charitably be called a smile. “Indeed. Now, as I was saying before we were so delightfully interrupted, the structural integrity of interdimensional portals relies heavily on...”

His words fade into background noise as I scan the lecture hall. Twenty-three students, same as always. But something’s off. The shadows in the corners seem deeper, more attentive. The carved demons that decorate the walls appear to be listening with more interest than usual.

Paranoia, maybe. Or maybe the trials have sharpened my senses beyond the normal range.

Halfway through Hacier’s explanation of portal anchor points, a sharp pain lances through the Soul Scar on my arm. Not my pain. Hers. I grip the edge of my desk, forcing my expression to remain neutral as Lysithea’s distress floods through our connection.

She’s in Advanced Vocal Magic class right now.

The pain intensifies, a white-hot flare that makes my vision blur at the edges. Fuck this.

I rise and stride out of the lecture hall without a word.

Weirdly, Hacier lets me go.

The third year from before is still lurking in the corridor when I emerge, now pretending to examine a tapestry depicting the Great Cleansing of 1847.

But I can’t stop to interrogate him. I need to get to her.

I head toward Lysithea’s class, the hallways giving me the most direct route. DarkHallow understands my urgency, my intent.

As I walk, I notice someone’s been rearranging the bones of this academy. Subtly. Annoyingly.

The gargoyle perched above the entrance to the hallway where her lecture is, isn’t the same one that was there yesterday. Similar design, same general proportions, but the details are wrong. The original had scars across its left wing. This one’s wings are intact.

Small change. Subtle. But I notice.

I stride down the hallway to Lysithea’s lecture hall. The door is slightly ajar, which is unusual due to the nature of this class.

Through the gap, I can see Lysithea slumped in her chair, one hand pressed to her temple. The Soul Scar’s dark veins are visible, creeping up her neck like invasive vines. The corruption is spreading faster than before.

Professor Morgan is still lecturing, his back to the class as he writes formulae on the blackboard. But his posture is tense, alert. He knows something’s wrong, too.

“The resonance frequency of a Siren’s call,” he’s saying, “depends largely on the emotional state of the vocalist. Fear, for instance, tends to produce higher frequencies, while rage...”

Lysithea makes a small, choked sound. Several students turn to look at her, expressions ranging from curiosity to alarm. She’s going pale, her breathing shallow and rapid.

Three students, sitting in strategic positions around the classroom, two near the exits, one with a clear line of sight to Lysithea, have their attention too focused on her.

The Soul Scar flares again, and this time, Lysithea can’t suppress the gasp of pain. Her hand flies to her back, pressing against the brand through her dress. A few more students turn to stare.

“Miss Lysithea,” Morgan says without turning around. “Perhaps you’d care to demonstrate the principle we’ve been discussing?”

“I don’t think that’s wise, sir,” Lysithea manages, her voice strained. “I’m not feeling entirely well.”

“Nonsense. A bit of practical application will clear your head. Please, stand and give us a simple resonance call. Nothing too ambitious.”

Lysithea struggles to her feet, swaying slightly. The dark veins beneath her skin are creeping upwards, covering her throat. If she tries to sing right now, in her condition, with that corruption spreading through her vocal cords...

I step into the lecture hall.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir.” My voice carries just the right amount of respectful urgency. “The Headmaster needs to see Lysithea immediately.”

Morgan turns, his expression carefully neutral. “Of course. Miss Lysithea, you’re dismissed. We’ll continue this demonstration another time.”

The three watchers tense. One of them starts to rise but catches himself when he realises how obvious it would look.

I move to Lysithea’s side, offering my arm for support. She takes it gratefully, leaning against me as we make our way to the door. Her skin is burning with fever, the Soul Scar radiating heat like a furnace.

“Steady,” I murmur as we exit the classroom. “I’ve got you.”

We make it halfway down the corridor before one of the watchers follows us out. I catch the sound of footsteps, carefully measured to seem casual. Definitely surveillance.

“Can you walk?” I ask Lysithea quietly.

“I can manage.” But her grip on my arm says otherwise.

I guide her toward the nearest stairwell. Our follower will have to choose between maintaining his cover and keeping us in sight. Most amateurs choose wrong.

Sure enough, the footsteps quicken as we start to climb. Too eager. Too obvious.

At the first landing, I stop abruptly and spin around. “Can I help you with something?”

The student freezes. He has soft features that suggest he’s never been in a real fight.

“I was just...” he stammers, clearly unprepared for direct confrontation.

“Just following us,” I finish. “Right. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn around, walk back to whatever hole you crawled out of, and if I see you lurking around my girl again, I’ll introduce you to some architectural principles that involve very high places and very sudden drops.”

The threat lands. His face goes white, and he backs down the stairs without another word.

“That was subtle,” Lysithea observes as we continue climbing.

“Subtlety is overrated. Sometimes you need to send a clear message.”

We reach the third-year common area, a spacious room with high vaulted ceilings and clusters of armchairs arranged around floating braziers. A handful of students are scattered about, reading or working on assignments. Normal academy life, seemingly undisturbed.

But I notice things others miss. The positioning of the chairs has been altered since this morning.

Someone’s created clear sightlines from the entrance to every corner of the room.

The floating braziers are burning brighter than usual, eliminating the shadowy alcoves where private conversations typically take place.

Even here, we’re being watched.

I guide Lysithea to a corner table, positioning myself so I can monitor the entrances. She slumps into a chair, exhaustion radiating from every line of her body.

“The corruption’s spreading faster,” she says quietly.

I examine the dark veins creeping up her neck.

They’re definitely advancing faster, forming new branches and connections like some malevolent root system.

Every second of her pain, every inch the corruption advances, it all matters.

But I can’t fix this with hellfire or clever construction.

This is beyond architecture, beyond anything I can build or destroy.

That’s the worst part. I’m used to having solutions, to seeing the structural problems and knowing exactly how to address them. But this isn’t a faulty foundation or a compromised beam. This is something eating her alive from the inside, and all I can do is watch.

“Verik.” Her voice pulls me back from the spiral of frustration. “What did you see in Morgan’s class?”

I force myself to focus on what I can control. Intel. Observation. Planning. “Three students I didn’t recognise. Positioned to monitor you specifically.”

“Oh? I didn’t see anyone unusual.”

I lean forward, lowering my voice. “The academy’s been compromised. Small changes, but they’re there. New faces, altered architecture, modified patrol routes. Someone’s been planning this for a while.”

She nods slowly. “Maybe the opposition is making their move.”

“About fucking time. I’m tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

A group of third-year students enters the common area, chattering about their upcoming Practical Demonology exam. Normal conversations, normal concerns. None of them seems to notice the subtle wrongness that’s infected the academy.

But I do. And now that I’m looking for it, I can see the full scope of the infiltration.

The portrait of Blackgrove near the fireplace has been replaced with a clever forgery.

The brushwork is excellent, but the subject’s eyes are positioned slightly differently, creating a wider field of observation.

The ornamental weapons mounted on the far wall have been rearranged to eliminate blind spots.

Even the carpet patterns have been modified to muffle footsteps approaching from specific directions.