Page 22 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Verik

T he lecture on Sub-Dimensional Stress Fractures was a fucking drag until she used my magic.

My magic. My architectural power. Syphoned.

My gaze snaps to Dathan sitting next to me, a slow smile spreading across his face. He felt it too. Even Evren, a statue of stillness, has a flicker of something in his ice-blue eyes.

She’s using it. Using me.

The feeling is an invasive, intimate violation that makes my cock rock-hard.

It’s a collaboration. I feel her intent: a single, perfect rose forged from dust and sound.

My power gives it structure, Evren’s gives it a killing frost, Dathan’s sends it to the shadows.

She is a conductor, and we are her fucking orchestra.

Then it’s gone. A wave of her residual power crashes through the Midnight Soul Scar, and my arm burns like fuck.

“Well,” Dathan murmurs, his silver eyes gleaming. “She’s a fast learner.”

“She’s a fucking menace,” I growl, but there’s no heat in it.

Only a raw, possessive pride. The idea of what we could create together, a whole new reality forged from her voice and our power, is a far more intoxicating prospect than simple godhood.

It raises the possibilities tenfold. I look down at the Scar, the intricate black lines a living imprint on my skin. Our imprint.

“Mr Verik,” Professor Vectus calls my name. I tear my gaze away from the Scar on my arm. The old warlock is peering at me over his half-moon glasses, his expression one of academic irritation.

“Since you seem so… elsewhere,” he drones, “perhaps you could explain the primary risk of using organic matter as an anchor point in non-Euclidean construction?”

I smirk. Easy.

“The primary risk isn’t structural failure,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “It’s resonance. The organic anchor imprints its own biological chaos onto the structure. You don’t just get a doorway; you get a doorway that screams.”

A flicker of something that might be respect crosses Vectus’s face. Dathan snorts beside me. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. We all do now.

The bell rings, saving Vectus from having to admit I’m right.

I stand, the residual thrum of her power still a soft buzz under my skin.

Tonight, we’re not just going to find a court.

We’re going to find the foundations of her new throne, and I’m going to be the one to build it.

Brick by brick until she gets the recognition she deserves.

I shake my head when I realise how much has changed in such a short space of time.

Taunting her, knowing her a little bit through her sass and sarcasm, her defensive shields, has given me a new appreciation for her.

Before, she was a tool to elevate our power, something I desperately not only wanted but needed.

My realm is in chaos, rebels are overrunning the monarchy—my family.

I needed the power to return to Ignis and reclaim what is being systematically torn from us.

But now… now I picture her on that throne next to mine.

A throne of obsidian and hellfire in the heart of Ignis, my enemies kneeling at her feet before she turns them to ash with a single, perfectly aimed note.

“Lost in the design?” Dathan’s voice cuts through the fantasy. He claps a hand on my shoulder as we join the river of students flowing into the hallways.

“Just considering the load-bearing capacity of our new asset,” I reply, my gaze sweeping the shifting architecture of the hallway. The stone gargoyles sneer down at us.

Evren falls into step beside me, a silent patch of cold in the bustling crowd. I feel his focus through the brand, a single-minded intensity directed at the coming night. But first, we have to get through the day.

“I’ve got combat class. I’ll report back if anything seems… amiss… in the Blood Pit.”

Dathan chokes back a laugh. “Don’t envy you. Try not to get eaten by whatever that thing was.”

I give him the finger and head off to the locker rooms to change.

I pull on the standard combat uniform of a black tee and joggers, and stride into the Blood Pit, which has been all nicely tidied as if we weren’t even there last night.

The sound-dampening magic is restored. I can feel the pressure of it bearing down on me more so than usual.

I stare at the Soul Scar. It flickers with annoyance.

Just as Lysithea has fragments of our power, we have fragments of hers.

Not that I would have the faintest idea how to use her power.

Some things are outside of my experience, voice magic being one of them.

Professor Thrax, a seven-foot-tall werewolf, strides in and claps his dinner plate hands together. “Pair up. We are going head-to-head.”

I scan the room. A sea of eager faces. Predators in training. A hulking earth elemental cracks his stone knuckles and grins at me. Kael. All brawn, no fucking brain. Perfect.

We circle each other on the mats. He lunges, a clumsy roar tearing from his throat. I sidestep, the movement fluid, effortless. My mind isn’t on the fight. It’s on the feel of the stone beneath my mats.

Something is different.

There’s a hum. A low, sub-level vibration that wasn’t here before. It’s not the wards. It’s deeper. Older.

Kael swings a fist the size of a small boulder. I duck under it, a flicker of hellfire licking at my fingertips. The Scar on my arm throbs, a dull, insistent ache. A protest. The wards are pressing on her power inside me, and it’s fucking irritating.

I slam my palm against the mat. The floor ripples, rising in a solid wave that catches Kael behind the knees. He bellows as he goes down. I’m on him in a second, the heat of my hand hovering an inch from his throat.

“Yield,” I say, my voice flat.

“No chance,” he grits out and twists and somehow manages to kick me away before he’s on his feet again.

He’s faster than he looks, for a walking pile of rock. I roll to my feet, a low growl building in my chest.

Kael charges again, a predictable bull. I let him come.

My fingers brush the floor mats. I listen to the stone. I send a thread of my will downwards, a probe sinking through the foundations.

The hum is stronger now. A rhythmic, hungry pulse. Like a heartbeat.

Justice is buried there. It is hungry.

Kael’s shadow falls over me. I look up just as his fist descends.

Instead of dodging, I create a doorway. A small, instantaneous tear in reality, just big enough for his arm.

He yelps in surprise as his fist vanishes, reappearing from another portal I open a foot above his own head.

It connects with a satisfying, rocky crunch.

He staggers back, clutching his skull with his free hand, his expression one of pure, stupid confusion.

Professor Thrax blows a whistle. “Mr Verik, that’s enough dimensional fuckery for one day. You win.”

Kael glares at me, nursing his head. I ignore him. My focus is entirely on the floor, on the ancient, rhythmic thrumming deep below. It’s the forge. It has to be. I’ve stumbled upon it by pure chance, or maybe not. Maybe this is all part of the grand design.