Page 15 of Infernal Crown (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #3)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DATHAN

The Crown hovers between Lysithea’s hands like a captured star, its surface reflecting light that doesn’t exist in this realm. Simple in design but impossible in execution, forged from divine will and mortal sacrifice into something that could reshape the foundations of reality.

Aeliana lies crumpled against the far wall, broken, gone. Her defeat should feel like victory, but watching Lysithea examine the Crown fills me with a terror I can’t name. The woman I love stands on the edge of becoming something I might not recognise.

“Put it on,” the grimoire urges, its shadow-bound pages fluttering with eager anticipation. “Claim what you have earned.”

Lysithea looks at the Crown, then at us. The divine power awakened during the forging still crackles around her in visible waves, but her violet eyes remain hers. Uncertain. She’s asking permission with a glance, seeking approval for a choice that will change everything.

“Do it,” I say. “We’ve come this far.”

She nods once, raises the Crown, and places it upon her head.

The transformation hits her like lightning striking in reverse.

Divine power floods through her, rewriting everything the forging process left incomplete.

Her skin takes on a luminescent quality, as if starlight flows beneath the surface.

Her hair shifts from white-blonde to pure silver, each strand gleaming like spun moonbeams.

But it’s her eyes that destroy me. The violet deepens until it’s almost black, shot through with veins of silver fire that see too much, understand too much. When she looks at me, I feel exposed down to my soul. Not judged, exactly, but measured against scales I can’t comprehend.

“Fucking hell,” I breathe, and immediately regret speaking. My voice sounds crude next to the divine presence radiating from her.

She smiles, and even that simple expression carries harmonics that make my bones vibrate. “I’m still me, Dathan. Still yours.”

The words should comfort me, but they don’t.

The woman who spoke them is Lysithea, but she’s also something vast and alien wearing Lysithea’s form.

Divine power changes everything it touches, and watching it remake the person I love is like watching her die and be reborn as something beyond my reach.

“Magnificent,” the grimoire whispers, its eyes blazing with satisfaction. “Truly magnificent. You are everything I hoped you would become.”

Lysithea turns to face it, the Crown’s light casting strange shadows that seem to move independently of her form. “Show me what comes next.”

The grimoire’s pages flip open, revealing text in a language I can’t read. The symbols burn themselves into my retinas, conveying meaning through pure concept rather than words.

“The final working,” the grimoire announces. “The spell of pure creation. With this, you will unmake the flaws in existence and rebuild everything in perfect truth.”

The spell unfolds across multiple pages, each symbol representing forces that could crack the foundations of reality. I can’t read it the way Lysithea seems able to, but my nightmare magic recognises destruction when it sees it. This isn’t creation at all.

It’s universal annihilation dressed up in pretty words.

“The process requires three phases,” the grimoire explains, its voice taking on the cadence of a lecture.

“First, the unmaking. Every realm, every dimension, every possibility must be reduced to its essential components. Only by stripping away the accumulated lies and deceptions can we build something pure.”

The scale of it crashes over me like ice water. They’re talking about killing everything. Every person, every world, every dream and hope and small joy that makes existence worth living. All of it ground down to cosmic dust so this mad god can rebuild according to its twisted vision.

“Second, the sorting. From the essential components, we extract what serves truth and discard what perpetuates falsehood. No capacity for deception, no ability to create beautiful lies, no art or poetry or metaphor that obscures reality.”

Lysithea nods as if this makes perfect sense, but I catch the tightness around her eyes. She’s listening, learning, but part of her recoils from what she’s hearing. The part that still exists beneath the divine transformation.

“Third, the remaking. New realms, new beings, new possibilities, all built upon the foundation of absolute truth. No more wars based on misunderstanding, no more suffering caused by lies, no more confusion between what is real and what is merely wished for.”

“And no more love,” I say, the words torn from my throat. “Because love is the biggest lie of all, isn’t it? Convincing ourselves someone else matters more than survival.”

“Love is... imprecise. The chemical reactions and evolutionary impulses that you call love will be refined into something more honest. Partnerships based on practical compatibility rather than emotional delusion.”

Every word drives spikes of rage through my chest. This thing wants to murder love itself, reduce it to a fucking business arrangement between compatible breeding units. The thought of Lysithea’s passionate fire cooled into polite cooperation makes me want to tear the book apart with my bare hands.

But she’s nodding along. The Crown’s influence, perhaps, or her new divine perspective, makes these concerns seem trivial.

“The spell requires a focal point,” the grimoire continues. “A realm where the process can build and stabilise before expanding outward. Your realm will serve this purpose, becoming the template for all that follows.”

“Our realm first,” Lysithea says. “Then the barriers fall and truth spreads to every corner of existence.”

“Precisely. With the Crown’s power, you can breach any dimensional boundary, carry the spell to every realm that exists or could exist. A gift of perfection to all of creation.”

I watch her face as she processes this, searching for any sign of the woman beneath the goddess. The slight tightening of her jaw gives me hope. She’s horrified by what she’s hearing, even if she can’t show it openly.

“I understand,” she says finally. “Universal truth. No more lies, no more deception, no more unnecessary complexity.”

“You accept this purpose?” the grimoire asks, its pages rustling with anticipation.

The pause stretches long enough for my heart to skip several beats. This is the moment where everything hinges. If Lysithea truly accepts the grimoire’s vision, if the divine transformation has burned away her morality, then we’ve lost everything.

“I accept,” she says, and my world crumbles.

But then she looks at me, and for just an instant, I see past the divine radiance to the woman beneath. Her eyes carry a message I can barely decode: trust me.

She’s playing a part that she has no choice in.

If she refuses, we are all dead before we can get into a position to kill this megalomanic fucker.

The crowned goddess, agreeing to universal destruction, is an act —a necessary deception to get close enough to strike.

The irony would be funny if everything didn’t depend on our ability to destroy a god.

“Excellent,” the grimoire purrs. “We will need time to prepare the working. The spell must be perfect, as must the realm we use as our foundation. Return to your academy, gather your strength, and ready yourself for the greatest work in the history of existence.”

“How long?” Lysithea asks.

“Three days should suffice. Long enough to refine the final details and ensure nothing goes wrong.”

Three days to find a way to kill an immortal book and stop the end of everything. No pressure at all.

Lysithea inclines her head in agreement, every inch the divine ruler accepting her cosmic responsibility. “As you wish.”

The grimoire vanishes, satisfied with her compliance.

Lysithea sags slightly, the divine composure slipping to reveal exhaustion beneath. But she’s still wearing the Crown, still radiating power that makes my head hurt. The woman I love is in there somewhere, but she’s wrapped in so many layers of godhood I’m not sure how to reach her.

“Thea?” I say carefully.

“Still me,” she replies, but her voice carries echoes that sound like distant thunder. “Just... more than I was.”

“Are we fucked?”

She considers the question with divine patience that sets my nerves on edge. “Probably. But we have the Crown, we know the grimoire’s true plan, and we have three days to figure out how to stop the end of existence.”

“And if we can’t?”

Her smile carries notes that make reality shiver. “Then we’ll die knowing we tried to save everyone.”

It’s not the reassurance I was hoping for, but it’s honest. And honesty, ironically, might be the only weapon we have against a god obsessed with absolute truth.

Time to see if love really is stronger than divine purpose.