Page 30 of Blood Court (Cursed Darkness #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LYSITHEA

The gate groans, a sound of ancient complaint, but it stays open. We wait. Nothing happens. No flash of light. No stomach-lurching teleportation. Just a gaping maw of darkness inviting us in.

Inside, the air is cold and still. It’s the Blood Court as I remember it. The circular chamber is vast, its walls carved with scenes of brutal justice, with the two thrones, now empty.

“Well,” Dathan mutters beside me. “What happened to the Arbiters?"

“No longer needed?” I mutter back. I take a step forward, leading my troops to whatever awaits us.

They follow without a word.

The iron gate slams shut behind us. The sound fractures reality like a soul being torn from its body. A final, definitive click that seals our fate. The chamber is plunged into near-darkness, the only light coming from the faint, malevolent glow of the runes etched into the walls.

A soft white light beams down from a hole in the ceiling, illuminating the Court.

Nothing else happens. No one else appears. I try to reach out with my shadow magic, but nothing happens. “We have no magic,” I murmur.

The guys try as well, but their magic flares up instantly in response to their calling.

“So just me then,” I say, my voice wavering slightly.

“This is not good,” Dathan says, moving closer. They all do, protecting me.

I take stock of myself as my head swims a little, my limbs feel heavy, and my hands go numb. My breathing is laboured, and I know exactly what this is.

“I’m mortal,” I say. “I’ve been stripped of my power.”

“No, it’s just dampened, somehow,” Verik says.

I shake my head, turning to stare into his eyes, letting him see my fear. “It’s gone.”

“Impossible,” he says, not willing to believe it. “The corruption retreated. It hasn’t returned.”

“I can’t feel it,” I whisper, pressing my hand to my chest where the song has always lived. “It’s quiet.” The ever-present hum of my magic is gone. There’s just the dull, rhythmic thud of a heart that suddenly feels far too fragile.

“The room is dampening it,” Dathan insists.

“No.” I meet his gaze, letting him see the stark terror I can’t hide. “It’s gone. I’m… empty.”

A low scraping sound echoes through the chamber, the sound of stone grinding against stone. The two thrones are no longer empty.

The Arbiter of Bonds and The Keeper of Trials.

Their voices are a chorus of shattered law, a thousand verdicts delivered at once. “The Nox Siren stands trial.”

“What for?” Verik demands.

“For her role in the death of her once beloved.”

I gulp. Jensen.

“He wasn’t her beloved,” Verik snarls. “He was just some guy.”

“Is that what she told you?”

The Arbiters lean forward eagerly. Too eagerly. They are already judging, and it’s not looking good for me.

“I liked him. He was nice to me when I was alone, new to DarkHallow and desperate for some kind of bond,” I stammer. “We forged something, and it went further than I expected. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“In the throes of passion, you melted his brain with your scream,” The Keeper of Trials says.

“Yes, well…” I’ve got nothing. It happened. “Yes.”

“You stand trial for your role in the death of your once beloved,” The Arbiter of Bonds repeats.

“Fuck,” Verik snarls. “She didn’t do anything wrong!”

“The accused will speak for herself,” the Keeper of Trials booms, its voice scraping against my mortal ears.

Verik takes a step forward, but an invisible force shoves him back. He stumbles, his face a mask of pure fury. Dathan and Evren move to steady him, their own magic useless against the court’s power.

I’m alone.

“Sit.” The Keeper of Trials says.

A light flashes onto another throne, this one smaller but clearly the seat of judgement.

I glance at my guys, but I have no choice.

I move forward, slowly, but steadily. Stopping in front of the throne, I swallow and sit.

The cold stone seeps through my dress into my bones.

I look over to the guys again, but they have vanished.

I make a noise that sounds somewhere between a whimper and a croak of pure fear.

“State your case,” The Keeper intones.

I lick my lips. “I just did.”

Silence.

The kind that is incredulous that I dared to talk back and not immediately do as they say.

The silence stretches, heavy and judgemental. I clasp my hands tightly together, my palms sweating.

“Again.” The Arbiter’s voice is like the crack of a whip.

I swallow the lump of fear in my throat.

“I was new to DarkHallow after suffering a life of abuse,” I whisper.

“I was alone. Jensen saw me. He was the first person who wanted to touch me without wanting to hurt me.” The memory rises, sharp and painful.

The feeling of Jensen’s tentative hand in mine, the warmth of it a shocking contrast to the cold I had lived with for so long.

The desperation for that simple connection.

For a moment, it had felt like salvation.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him. The pleasure was overwhelming.

It triggered my power. I never meant to hurt him. It was an accident.”

“An accident is not a defence,” the Arbiter of Bonds states, its voice a cascade of falling stone. “You took a life. A bond was broken by your hand.”

“It was an accident!” The words are a raw plea, stripped of all power, all authority. I’m just a girl, begging for her life.

“An accident born of uncontrolled power,” the Keeper of Trials counters. “A power you now wield as a weapon.”

“I have to, to get through this hell you are putting us through!” I snap, suddenly feeling picked on and pissed off. Why did I get the short straw? I mean, I know the answer to that, but it’s still unfair. “Do you expect me to just die? To let the men I actually love die?”

“Love?” The Arbiter of Bonds jumps on this, leaning so far forward, its arse is hovering over the seat of its throne.

“Yes, love,” I say, the word a sudden shield in this hostile environment. My voice is small in the vast chamber, but it doesn’t waver. “Is that a crime now, too?”

The Arbiter of Bonds settles back into its throne, a slow, deliberate movement that grates on my nerves. “You forge bonds of great power, Nox Siren. Yet the first you made ended in death. How is this court to believe these new affections are any less destructive?”

“What I had with Jensen wasn’t a bond,” I snap, my fear hardening into defiance. “It was desperation. He was kind, and I was starving for it. It was a mistake.”

“A fatal one,” the Keeper of Trials intones. “And now you are bound to three of the most volatile beings in this realm. A curse of shared pain and coerced loyalty.”

“No.” The word is quiet, but it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said. “It’s a choice. One we all made. The Soul Scar doesn’t share feelings. It shares power. What we feel is ours. We chose it.”

I stand, my mortal legs trembling, but my will is iron. “What happened to Jensen was a tragedy born of loneliness. What I have now is a foundation. Judge me on that.”

The Arbiters are silent. They stare at me, giving nothing away. The weight of their judgement hangs in the air, a blade poised over my neck.

“Sit, we are not done with you yet,” the Keeper says.

I sit. The cold of the throne is a constant reminder of the cold in my veins where my magic used to be. My heart thuds, a frantic, mortal drum against my ribs.

“You speak of choice,” the Arbiter of Bonds intones, its voice echoing in the vast chamber. “But what choice did they have? You are the last of your kind. A living artefact.”

The air in the centre of the court shimmers, coalescing into images.

Verik stands over the smouldering ruins of a city, his eyes blazing with hellfire.

Dathan, a sovereign of nightmares, feeds on the terror of a thousand screaming souls.

Evren, a silent king of a legion of the dead, his power a creeping frost that kills everything it touches.

The images are exaggerated, twisted into their worst possible forms. My monsters, painted as apocalyptic threats.

“You do not build a foundation,” the Keeper of Trials booms. “You build an arsenal. You collect monsters, Nox Siren, and you will unleash them upon this realm, just as you unleashed your power on the man who trusted you.”

The accusation hangs in the air, a poisoned dart aimed at the heart of everything we’ve built. They see my saviours as weapons. They see our bond as a prelude to war.

I find my voice, a thin thread of sound in the oppressive silence. “They were monsters long before they met me.” The words are quiet, but they are the absolute truth. “And they are the only reason I’m still alive.”

“A falsehood,” the Arbiter of Bonds hisses.

Falsehood.

The word rings through my head like a bell. The Tenebris Vinculum is a god of Absolute Truth. I am created by that god. The word echoes. A key turning in a lock deep inside me.

It isn’t that Jensen’s death was an accident. It isn’t that I love my monsters.

The falsehood is that I need them to survive. That I am nothing without them. A living artefact, a collector of weapons. A weak thing to be protected.

The song starts, building in my soul. A low, resonant hum that vibrates through the cold stone of the throne.

I survived the orphanage alone. I survived the silence alone. I survived the cruelty alone. I survived Clara alone. I am not weak. I do not need anyone.

The truth is, they are the only reason I learned to live , not just survive.

The power floods back. A tidal wave against the dam of this court’s magic. The cold in my veins is replaced by a familiar, humming warmth. My shadows bleed from the edges of the throne, hungry and alive.

“You wanted a truth,” I say, my voice rising, the song building with it. “Here I am.”