Page 2 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Dathan

T he taste of her fear at being singled out lingers on my tongue as I leave the dining hall, sweeter than anything the kitchen has ever served.

Lysithea’s unease is complex, layered with isolation and defiance in ways that make my mouth water.

Most students radiate simple anxieties—failure, rejection, pain—but hers carries notes of existential dread that speak to something far more sophisticated.

I follow the winding corridors toward the nightmare gardens, my footsteps echoing against stone walls that bleed with accumulated fear from centuries of students.

The academy’s architecture responds to my approach, doorways stretching taller to accommodate my presence, shadows deepening in corners where my power pools like dark water.

A first-year stumbles past me in the opposite direction, arms clutched around her books, blood trickling from her ears, nose and eyes.

The metallic scent mingles with her residual terror, creating a bouquet that makes my eyes dilate with hunger.

The fear radiating from her is fresh and sharp, but it lacks the sophisticated undertones that make the Nox Siren so compelling.

Still, waste not.

I allow my presence to wash over the girl as she passes, drinking in her spike of recognition and renewed terror.

She knows what I am, knows that proximity to a Nightmare Sovereign is dangerous for someone already psychologically wounded.

Her steps quicken until she’s practically running, leaving a trail of delicious panic in her wake.

The nightmare gardens sprawl across the eastern wing’s lower level, a twisted maze of topiary that shifts and writhes based on the viewer’s deepest terrors.

As I step through the wrought-iron gates, the plants immediately sense my approach.

Thorned roses bloom with faces of screaming children.

Weeping willows drip tears of blood. Hedge mazes rearrange themselves to trap visitors in corridors lined with their worst memories.

It’s beautiful.

The terror-fruit hanging from the malformed apple trees ripens under my attention, swelling with concentrated fear until the branches sag under their weight.

I pluck one and bite into it, savouring the essence of a third-year’s recurring nightmare about drowning in his own blood.

The sweetness explodes across my palate, but the satisfaction is fleeting.

Everything tastes stale compared to what I’ve just experienced.

I remember the first time I heard her voice during combat class six months ago.

Professor Grimlock had paired her with a banshee-blooded student for harmonic resonance practice, and when their voices merged, the resulting scream contained such pure, distilled terror that I nearly came on the spot.

The banshee collapsed immediately, blood streaming from every orifice, but the sound itself. ..

That sound haunts my dreams in the hottest way imaginable.

The fear-sensing orchids turn toward me as I pass deeper into the gardens, their petals unfurling to reveal centres that look disturbingly like human eyes.

They recognise me as a kindred spirit, another creature that feeds on terror.

Their leaves rustle with anticipation as I brush past, hoping I’ll share some of the rich fear I carry with me.

But I’m selfish with this particular harvest. Lysithea’s self-terror is too precious to waste on mere plants.

The garden paths wind between sculptures of crystallised screams and fountains that bubble with liquid nightmares.

Each installation represents a different category of fear.

The maze of mirrors reflects viewers’ terror of their true selves, whilst the bone chimes produce melodies that resonate with ancestral dread passed down through bloodlines.

I pause beside the pool of drowned dreams, its surface showing glimpses of students’ abandoned aspirations.

A third-year had once hoped to become a healer before discovering her touch brought decay instead of recovery.

Another dreamed of teaching young supernaturals control over their abilities, until his own power consumed his empathy entirely.

Their broken hopes float like oil slicks across the dark water, beautiful in their tragedy.

But even these concentrated essences of despair pale beside what I’ve experienced this morning.

Turning back, I make my way back to the main building of the academy.

The hallways grow longer as my hunger builds, the academy responding to my emotional state by stretching distances until what should be a five-minute walk becomes twenty.

The walls lean in, eager to absorb whatever fear I might generate through proximity alone.

Students press themselves against doorframes as I pass, their unconscious fear of me feeding me in small, unsatisfying sips.

A group of second-years studying for their Dark Magic practical examinations cluster around a table in one of the study alcoves.

Their fear is ambient but potent, the worry about failing grades mixing with deeper anxieties about losing control of their powers.

I pause in the doorway, allowing my presence to wash over them without fully entering their space.

All of them have perfectly ordinary supernatural anxieties covered up in arrogance. All tediously predictable compared to Lysithea’s sophisticated dread.

I continue through the academy’s twisted passages, following routes that exist only when approached with sufficient darkness of intent.

The doors I encounter recognise my nature, swinging open without resistance to reveal rooms most students never see.

These spaces house the academy’s true treasures.

Books bound in human skin, artefacts that glow with malevolent energy, preserved specimens of extinct supernatural species floating in jars of luminescent fluid.

The windows I pass show not the garden courtyards or training grounds visible from normal vantage points, but glimpses of viewers’ deepest fears projected onto the glass.

Most display relatively mundane terrors of abandonment, failure, and physical pain.

But occasionally, I catch sight of something more interesting.

A fourth-year’s window shows her fear of becoming like her cannibal mother, whilst another reveals a student’s terror of the thing growing inside his chest cavity, fed by his uncontrolled magic.

Still nothing approaching the beautiful complexity of what I sensed from Lysithea.

I’ve been watching her for months, studying her patterns, learning her habits.

She thinks she’s invisible, that her careful isolation protects her from notice.

But her attempts at anonymity make her stand out to someone who understands predator behaviour.

Prey that tries too hard to hide inevitably draws attention from those patient enough to observe their routines.

She eats alone, studies alone, and practises her voice magic in her room, where she thinks the protective wards muffle the sound.

But I can taste the terror that escapes through cracks in her defences, seeping into the academy’s atmosphere like perfume.

Every time she hurts someone, the fear they experience becomes part of my daily sustenance.

But it’s no longer enough.

Normal fear has become like stale bread to my palate.

The simple anxieties of average students barely register.

I need something more substantial, more complex.

I need the kind of panic that only comes from someone who truly understands what they are and what they’re capable of.

Someone whose fear carries the weight of ancient bloodlines and powers that shouldn’t exist.

I need Lysithea’s fear, harvested properly and consumed in its entirety.

The academy’s upper levels house the more dangerous facilities, where students learn to wield powers that could level substantial parts of this realm if mishandled.

I climb the winding staircase toward the Ossuary Tower, passing alcoves lined with the skulls of previous students who attempted to access knowledge beyond their capacity to handle.

A cautionary tale that Blackgrove takes enjoyment from.

Their empty sockets track my movement, some still containing enough residual consciousness to recognise a fellow predator.

The fear that lingers in these bones adds depth to the ambient dread that follows me like a loyal hound.

Centuries of student anxiety have soaked into the stones, creating an atmosphere that feeds me with every breath.

But it’s background noise compared to the symphony of terror I experienced this morning.

When Lysithea noticed our attention in the dining hall, the spike of realisation that shot through her was like tasting lightning.

Pure, electric fear that spoke of intelligence sharp enough to recognise genuine danger.

Most students would have looked away, tried to pretend they hadn’t noticed our scrutiny.

But she met our gaze directly, even as her magic twisted with unconscious response to her emotional state.

That defiance only makes her more appealing as prey.

The Ossuary Tower rises before me, its bone-white stone a complete contrast to the black granite that comprises most of the academy.

This is where the dangerous students meet, where plans too risky for normal spaces are conceived and discussed.

The tower responds only to those with sufficient darkness in their souls, its doors remaining sealed to anyone lacking the necessary moral flexibility.

I place my palm against the door’s surface, feeling it evaluate my intent before granting access.

The recognition warms my skin like approval from an old friend.

Inside, the spiral staircase winds upward through rooms lined with preserved specimens and forbidden texts.

Each level holds greater secrets than the last, knowledge that would drive lesser minds to madness.

The top room awaits, its windows offering a panoramic view of the academy grounds and the twisted landscape beyond.

Verik stands silhouetted against one window, his red eyes reflecting the eternal starlight.

Evren occupies a chair near the cold fireplace, so still he might be mistaken for another piece of furniture if not for the way shadows bend toward him like iron filings drawn to a magnet.

“Gentlemen,” I say, settling into my usual spot where I can observe both of them simultaneously. The taste of Lysithea still lingers on my tongue, and I savour it. “I trust you felt it too.”

Verik turns from the window, a slight smile playing at his lips. “Absolutely exquisite. She tastes of ancient bloodlines and powers that shouldn’t exist.”

Evren doesn’t speak much in a general sense, but his ice-blue eyes narrow slightly in what I’ve learned to interpret as agreement.

He communicates more through subtle gestures and meaningful silences than most people manage with entire speeches.

The way his pale fingers drum once against the chair’s armrest tells me he’s as intrigued by this morning’s development as we are.

“The shadows responded to her emotional state,” I continue, remembering how the darkness around her feet had writhed like living things. “They recognised something in her that calls to forces best left sleeping.”

Verik’s eyes gleam with interest. “The academy records mention that Nox Sirens were once capable of shattering dimensional barriers with their screams. If she possesses even a fraction of that potential...”

He trails off, but it hangs in the air between us. Power of that magnitude could reshape entire realms if properly harnessed. Or it could destroy everything within a considerable radius if mishandled. Either outcome has its appeal.

Evren shifts slightly in his chair, drawing our attention. He raises an eyebrow.

“Soon,” I reply to his unspoken question. “She has noticed our attention. That will only make the fear more potent when we finally act. Terror shared knowingly has a different flavour than terror experienced in ignorance.”

The thought makes my mouth water. I’ve subsisted for too long on the weak offerings of ordinary students.

Lysithea represents something far more substantial.

Fear with depth and complexity that could sustain me for years.

But more than that, she represents a challenge.

Prey intelligent enough to fight back, powerful enough to potentially succeed.

The risk only makes the eventual victory more appealing.

Verik moves away from the window, his footsteps silent on the bone-inlaid floor. “The Midnight Soul Scar ritual hasn’t been performed in over a century. The last attempt resulted in the death of all participants.”

“Because they lacked proper preparation,” I counter. “We’ve spent months studying the theoretical framework, understanding the magical resonances required. We know what went wrong before.”

Evren’s fingers tap against his chair again. I know what it means. Dangerous assumption. He’s right to be cautious, but caution has never led to the kind of power we’re seeking.

“Risk is inevitable,” I continue. “But the potential rewards...” I pause, letting the taste of Lysithea wash over my palate again. “The potential rewards are worth any danger.”

The room falls quiet except for the soft whisper of wind through the tower’s upper reaches. We’ve discussed this possibility for weeks, but experiencing Lysithea’s reaction to our attention has crystallised our intent into something concrete and immediate.

She knows we’re hunting her now. The knowledge will flavour every interaction, every moment of solitude, every attempt at maintaining her carefully constructed isolation. Her fear will ripen like fruit on a vine, becoming sweeter and more complex with each passing day.

When we finally act, when the Midnight Soul Scar ritual binds her power to our will, the fear she experiences will be exquisite beyond anything I’ve ever tasted.

I can hardly wait.