Page 46 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Verik

T he structure is a masterpiece of flawed design. A beautiful, suicidal piece of architecture woven from chaos itself. I feel the loose threads of reality, the raw, untamed power holding it together. It sings to me, a challenge I have no intention of refusing.

“Stand back,” I say, the words a low rumble of command. Hellfire blooms in my palms. A forge. I reach out with my will, grabbing the frayed ends of shadow and nothingness. They writhe in my mental grasp like snakes, fighting the order I intend to impose.

I feed the fire into the gaps, the flames licking at the shimmering void, cauterising the wounds in reality. The bridge shrieks, a high, metallic sound that grates on the nerves. It doesn’t want to be tamed. It wants to collapse and drag us all into the abyss.

“Not today,” I grunt, pouring more of myself into the design.

I anchor the structure to the stone beneath my feet, creating a foundation where none existed.

I see the blueprint in my mind, a perfect, stable arch.

I force the chaos to conform, twisting and welding the strands of un-reality until they obey.

The shimmering stops. The bridge settles, a solid, seamless ribbon of black stone spanning the chasm. I lower my hands, the echo of creation still thrumming in my bones.

I glance back at Lysithea, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Told you. Good design.”

Evren holds up the grimoire. The map has sketched another piece into existence.

“Let’s go,” Dathan says, his voice tight with impatience.

I ignore him. My gaze is on Lysithea. I hold out my hand. A silent offer. A demand. She takes it without hesitation. Her fingers are cold, but they fit perfectly in mine. The foundation holds. For now.

We step onto the bridge. The stone beneath my boots is solid, humming with the controlled chaos I just tamed. My design. Perfect.

The chasm below breathes a cold, ancient air. It smells of forgotten things and bad endings. I glance down. The darkness is absolute, a void that swallows light. A flawed design element, but not one I’m here to fix.

Lysithea’s grip on my hand tightens. I squeeze back, a silent assertion of control. I built this path. It will not fail.

Dathan and Evren follow a few steps behind, their footsteps echoing in the vast chamber. The silence is thick with expectation. The book is leading us somewhere, and for the first time, I have a feeling we’re on the right path.

We reach the other side. A massive, circular door of tarnished silver blocks the way, etched with runes that twist like snakes. There’s no handle, no lock, no visible mechanism. A seal, not a door.

Evren steps forward, holding the grimoire out. The eye on its cover snaps open, fixing on the silver door. The runes glow faintly.

“Right,” Dathan mutters, cracking his knuckles. “This one’s not for you, architect.” He grins, a feral flash of teeth. “This one needs a different kind of key.”

He looks at Lysithea. The runes pulse in time with the faint throb of the corruption on her chest. Of course. The seal is vocal. It needs a song. Or a scream.

“No pressure,” I murmur, my hand still tingling from where she held it.

She shoots me a glare that could peel paint. “Shut up.”

She steps forward. The air crackles, the ambient magic in the chamber drawn to her like a magnet. She takes a breath. The runes on the door flare with a soft, hungry light, anticipating the sound. They know their master. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t sing.

Lysithea opens her mouth, and a single, perfect note of pure, unadulterated power resonates through the chamber.

It’s not a weapon. It’s a key. The note sinks into the silver, the runes flaring so brightly I have to squint.

The intricate carvings twist and realign, the sound of grinding metal echoing in the vast space.

The seal is unlocking, designed for her voice or that of her species, of which she is the last.

The note fades, and with a deep groan, the silver door slides open. A wave of cold, dead air rushes out, smelling of ancient stone and forgotten sacrifices.

“Is this it?” Lysithea asks. “The Blood Court?”

Evren shakes his head and holds up the map. Another small piece is appearing on the page, a long tunnel that is probably the one we just opened up.

“This is going to take us forever,” I grumble.

“Doesn’t matter how long it takes,” she says. “We have to complete the grimoire.”

“We really should talk about what happens when we do,” Dathan says.

“Probably what we wanted all along,” I point out. “God-like power.”

“Makes sense. You don’t just get to be a god,” Lysithea murmurs. “You need to prove your worth.”

“So, let’s prove to this book and whoever its master is, that we are worthy,” I say, retaking her hand and moving into the stinky tunnel.

The tunnel is a structural nightmare. The stones are uneven, the mortar crumbling.

A lazy architect designed this, someone with no respect for the fundamentals.

The stench of decay is a functional flaw, a sign of poor drainage and even poorer planning.

I tighten my grip on Lysithea’s hand. Her warmth is the only part of this design that makes any sense.

We emerge into a cavern so vast the light from my hellfire orb barely touches the ceiling.

It’s a boneyard. Skeletons are fused into the walls, piles of skulls form miniature mountains on the floor.

A river of sluggish, black liquid cuts the chamber in two, its surface swirling with silent, screaming faces. There’s no bridge.

“Right,” Dathan says, his gaze sweeping over the skeletal landscape. “This one’s got your name all over it, bone man.”

I glance at Evren. He’s already preparing, his eyes fixed on the river, his expression one of distaste. “Souls,” he whispers, and I shudder. Some things you just don’t want to see.

He holds the grimoire, its pages still open to the incomplete map.

He doesn’t look at us. He doesn’t need to.

He knows what the design requires. He lifts a hand, and the bones scattered across the floor stir, rattling with an ancient, borrowed life.

A low scraping sound echoes through the vast chamber as they rise, drawn to their new master’s will.

This is his construction site. His materials. His test.

The materials are suboptimal. Brittle. Prone to stress fractures.

But Evren is a craftsman in his own right.

He doesn’t build with stone and mortar. He builds with death.

He raises a hand. The bones rise, a clattering wave of ivory.

They knit together over the river of souls, vertebrae locking into ribs, femurs forming supports.

It’s a grotesque, beautiful piece of engineering.

A bridge built from endings. The screaming faces in the black river reach up, their silent mouths stretching towards the structure, but they can’t touch it.

It’s anchored by a power older than theirs.

Lysithea’s hand tightens in mine. I glance at her.

Her face is pale, but her eyes are wide with a kind of morbid fascination.

She isn’t weak. She’s adapting to the new design parameters.

The final skull clicks into place at the apex of the arch.

Solid. Functional. The grimoire in Evren’s other hand glows.

The map fills in another section. One more down, who knows how many to go?

He gestures for us to cross. His bridge.

His design. His victory. I lead Lysithea onto the bone-white path.

It doesn’t creak. It doesn’t shift. It’s as solid as the foundations of DarkHallow itself.

Impressive for our resident Bone Harbinger.

We step off the bone bridge onto solid ground.

The skeletal structure behind us remains silent, a monument to Evren’s grim efficiency.

The passage ahead is carved from the same black stone, but the workmanship is better.

Cleaner lines, a stable arch. The design is evolving.

That’s not a good sign. It implies a conscious, learning intelligence behind this gauntlet.

The tunnel opens into a perfect sphere of a chamber. The walls are seamless, polished obsidian that reflect nothing. It’s a sensory deprivation tank the size of a lecture hall. A void designed to unnerve. At the far side is a simple, black rectangle. A door with no handle, no hinges, no seams.

I release Lysithea’s hand and approach it, running my palm over the surface. It’s not stone. It’s not cold. It has no temperature, no texture. It’s like touching a hole in reality.

“It’s a psychic construct,” Dathan says, his voice a low rumble.

He moves to stand beside me, his eyes glowing faintly.

“Made of pure, undiluted terror.” He grins, a feral flash of teeth in the gloom.

The air around the door ripples, the ambient fear thickening like smoke.

“Finally,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “Something to eat.”