Page 19 of Infernal Crown (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #3)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EVREN
We make our way to the Ossuary Tower, climbing the spiral stairs in silence.
Each step echoes with finality, the sound of people walking toward either salvation or damnation.
The stones beneath our feet warm slightly from Lysithea’s proximity, her energy bleeding through her attempts at containment to leave permanent marks in the ancient masonry.
I count the stairs as we climb, a habit developed during those silent years when numbers provided structure that words couldn’t offer.
Forty-seven steps to the first landing. Thirty-three more to the second.
Eighteen to reach the chamber where Verik’s portal waits.
Each number carries meaning now, part of the countdown to either triumph or universal catastrophe.
At the top, Verik opens the portal to his false realm with movements that appear confident, but the slight shake of his hands is a giveaway.
Even in crisis, he can’t resist checking the structural integrity of his creation, running his hands along the dimensional framework to ensure the gateway will hold under the immense pressure we’re about to put it under.
The paradise he created spreads before us, beautiful enough to make my chest tighten with something almost like longing.
Rolling hills of perfect grass where each blade grows to precisely optimal height.
Crystal streams flowing in gracious curves that please the eye while serving no practical purpose.
Trees are positioned according to geometric principles that create visual harmony at the expense of natural growth patterns.
A template for remaking existence that looks so appealing, I understand why the grimoire’s vision might seem reasonable to someone wielding the power to make it real.
“It’s coming,” Lysithea whispers.
“Are we ready?” Dathan asks.
“Always,” I reply.
The grimoire arrives like a storm front made of concepts rather than weather.
Reality bends around its manifestation, space twisting to accommodate something that exists beyond normal physical laws.
I feel its presence as pressure against my death magic, two forms of negation recognising each other across the gap between creation and entropy.
It fully materialises in front of Lysithea. It appears as it did in the forge, a massive tome bound in materials that predate conventional matter, but here its presence carries additional weight.
“Magnificent,” it breathes, examining Verik’s construction with approval that radiates through dimensional barriers. “You have created exactly what I envisioned. A realm worthy of serving as the template for all existence.”
Lysithea inclines her head gracefully, every inch the goddess of creation accepting cosmic responsibility. The Crown’s light intensifies as she draws upon its full power, silver fire tracing patterns across her skin that mirror the grimoire’s own energy signature.
“I have embraced the truth of your vision. This existence, flawed as it is, must be perfected.”
Her delivery is perfect, carrying exactly the right balance of reluctant acceptance and growing conviction. She sounds like someone who has wrestled with the moral implications of universal transformation and emerged convinced of its necessity. The performance would fool me if I didn’t know better.
“And you are prepared to begin the great working?”
“I am.”
The words ring with an authority that makes the false realm’s crystalline foundation resonate in harmony. Power flows between them in visible streams, two cosmic forces aligning for the purpose of remaking everything that has ever existed or ever could exist.
The grimoire’s attention shifts to us, its gaze carrying weight that makes my bones ache. When it looks at me, I feel examined down to the cellular level, analysed according to standards that have nothing to do with biology and everything to do with my utility to its grand design.
“Your companions will serve as witnesses to the birth of perfect truth.”
“As you wish,” Lysithea agrees, though I catch the tightness around her eyes that suggests the Crown’s influence wars with her protective instincts.
We follow them into the false realm, stepping through the portal into paradise built on the foundations of calculated destruction. The transition feels like walking from one dream into another, reality shifting around us as we enter a space that exists more as a concept than a location.
The moment my feet touch Verik’s crystalline grass, I feel the subtle wrongness he’s woven into every aspect of the construction.
Beautiful lies wrapped around cores of structural failure, architectural perfection that will collapse the instant the wrong pressure is applied.
The grass beneath my boots feels real enough, but my death magic recognises the entropy hidden in its roots.
Everything here will die beautifully when the time comes.
The grimoire moves to the realm’s centre, where ley lines converge in patterns that will channel unimaginable power. Its presence creates ripples in reality that spread outwards like stones dropped in still water, each wave carrying the potential to reshape whatever it touches.
“Here,” it announces, settling into position with the confidence of something that has planned this moment for longer than civilisations have existed. “From this focal point, we will expand outward to transform all existence into this very concept.”
Lysithea positions herself at the grimoire’s side, her power flowing between them in visible streams. The Crown’s light intensifies as she connects to forces that dwarf even her transformed abilities, her body serving as a conduit for energies that could crack the foundations of reality itself.
“The first phase,” the grimoire says, “requires the unmaking of current reality within this realm. Only by reducing everything to essential components can we rebuild according to the perfect truth.”
I brace myself for violent destruction, the kind of catastrophic unravelling that death magic employs when severing connections between life and flesh.
Instead, power explodes outward from their joined casting in waves that feel almost gentle, reality fracturing along lines that reveal the universe’s hidden architecture.
The process resembles dissection more than destruction. Existence simply dissolves, reduced to floating motes of pure possibility waiting to be reshaped according to new parameters.
The Soul Scar protects us, creating resonance patterns that resist the unmaking process through connections that transcend normal magical theory. Where everything else in the realm becomes component parts, we remain intact, whole, stubbornly complex in a space dedicated to essential simplicity.
It’s… wrong. We are wrong.
The grimoire’s attention fixes on us with sudden intensity, curiosity replacing the cosmic indifference that characterised its earlier observations. “Interesting. Your bonds to each other create resonance patterns that resist the unmaking process.”
“The Soul Scar,” Dathan explains, his voice carefully neutral despite the terror bleeding through our shared connection. “It links us in ways that transcend normal magical connections. You wouldn’t understand.”
I feel the grimoire’s analysis washing over us like invisible fingers, probing the nature of our bond with the same clinical detachment it applied to reality itself.
The Soul Scar responds to the examination by tightening our connections, drawing us closer together until we function as a single complex entity rather than four separate individuals.
“Useful,” the grimoire muses, its tone carrying the satisfaction of a craftsman discovering an unexpected tool. “You will serve as anchor points, maintaining stability while we reshape everything around you.”
Terror and relief war in my chest as I understand what’s happening.
We’re not prisoners in Verik’s trap—we’re integral components of it.
Our presence provides the stability the grimoire needs to channel its power safely through the unmaking process.
If we disappear, the entire working becomes unstable, potentially causing the kind of uncontrolled cascade that could damage the grimoire itself.
But it also means we’re trapped here while the grimoire transforms reality according to its vision, forced to watch as it commits the crimes we came here to prevent.
In the second phase, the grimoire sorts through the dissolved components of reality like a master craftsman selecting materials, separating what serves truth from what perpetuates deception.
Entire categories of existence simply vanish as if they never were.
The capacity for beautiful lies, the ability to find comfort in illusion, the small mercies that make life bearable even when brutal.
Each deletion feels like a small death, connections severing with the finality that only comes when something is removed from the fundamental level of reality itself.
Verik is getting more and more pissed off.
“Observe,” the grimoire says, its voice carrying satisfaction that radiates through dimensional barriers. “Already this realm approaches perfect truth. No deception can survive here. No comforting fictions. No lies told in kindness or cruelty.”
I watch the process with fascination that disturbs me more than revulsion would.
The grimoire’s work displays the same elegant efficiency that characterises the best death magic, precise cuts that separate necessary from unnecessary with minimal waste.
If I didn’t understand the larger implications, I might admire the technical perfection of what we’re witnessing.
Lysithea nods, her expression serene as a saint contemplating paradise, but it’s an act. I know her better than she knows herself.
“Beautiful,” she says, and means it on one level while rejecting it on another.
The dichotomy terrifies me more than outright conversion would. The Crown doesn’t corrupt her judgement so much as expand it, forcing her to see both the appeal and the cost of absolute truth.
The third phase is when everything goes wrong.