Page 5 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Evren

T he silence in the crypt is a language I understand.

It speaks in dust and echoes. I trace the cracks in a forgotten tomb, my fingers absorbing the faint, residual life force left behind centuries ago.

A ghost of a memory. The spirits here are quiet today.

They sense the shift in the academy above. They sense the hunt.

Verik’s intent burns through the stone, a hot, architectural reordering of fate.

I felt him breach Lysithea’s wards, a subtle tear in reality that tasted of arrogance and hellfire.

Dathan’s hunger is a constant, gnawing emptiness in the emotional spectrum, a void that seeks to be filled with her terror. They are loud. Obvious.

When I look at Lysithea, I see a thousand deaths.

My Sight shatters against the potential in her, a nexus of violent ends that shift with every choice she makes.

Her life force is a blinding, white-hot star of pure chaos.

A power that could unmake things. A power that could unmake us.

The dead whisper her name with a reverence that borders on fear.

They know what she is, even if she does not. She is an ending.

Verik thinks he can build a cage for a hurricane.

Dathan thinks he can devour a star. They see a component, a meal.

I see the fulcrum upon which this realm will either balance or break.

My part in this is to hold her soul in the grey space between life and death.

I know that space. It is cold. It is infinite.

To survive it, one must already be broken.

I close my eyes. My soul feels the phantom pull of the void. A familiar ache. The ritual will work. But they have no idea what will be born from it.

My death was quiet. A wasting magical sickness that stole my harbinger’s breath. This second life is a cold echo, a constant state of being not-quite-here. I understand her isolation. We are both the last of something. She, the last of her blood. Me, the last of myself.

The spirits of her ancestors are restless. I can hear them, a faint, furious whisper on the edge of hearing. They are ancient, powerful, and they do not approve of Verik’s games. Or Dathan’s hunger.

I touch the arm of my throne of bones. A fine layer of frost spreads from my fingertips.

The ritual they plan is a delicate piece of necromancy.

They need me to anchor her soul while they tear it apart.

They see a bridge. I see a lever. One push, and everything could fall in a direction they have not anticipated.

Their plan is a masterpiece of arrogance. I will wait to see it break.

I make no sound on the cold stone as I leave the crypts. The academy above is a cacophony of loud intentions. They are noise. I am the silence that follows.

The floating candles gutter as I pass, their light recoiling from the chill of the grave that clings to me. The living gargoyles on the walls turn their stone heads, tracking my progress with a primal unease. They don’t see a student. They see a walking tomb.

An unseen force pulls me towards the library.

I follow. I know better than to dismiss the call of the ghosts that surround me.

They draw me towards one of the alcoves that hold the less pleasant texts.

With my eyes narrowed, I step inside, the protective ward sensing what I am—a void of complete darkness—lets me pass.

I look around, wondering what made the ghosts bring me here.

An untitled text flies out of the bookcase and lands with a thump on the pedestal, conveniently located for reading. I glare at it. The sentient books are another level of darkness. They give me a deep sense of the creeps, which is saying… a lot.

Inhaling slowly, I step towards it, hand outstretched to flick back the cover.

Then, I snatch my hand back as it snaps open for me. The pages are blank. Not even my death sight can see what is etched into the old parchment.

I wait. The silence stretches. This is a test. The book wants a sacrifice.

Knowledge always does. I extend my hand again, slowly this time.

The chill of the grave radiates from my skin.

My plague touch, the curse of my second life, is usually something I keep contained.

Now, I let it bleed from my fingertips. The moment my finger touches the parchment, the air freezes.

Frost spreads from the point of contact, racing across the page in intricate, crystalline patterns. Spikes shoot out, puncturing my skin.

Fuck. It hurts, but I hold my hand steady. Whatever this book wants with my rancid blood, I know it is testing me. Tasting me.

I let out a soft grunt as the book slams shut on my hand and the spikes protrude through my bones, through the cover of the book.

My blood, thin and cold, seeps into the pages of the book. The pain is a dull throb, a memory of a sensation I once felt more acutely. I don’t move. I let the book hold me, a predator that has finally caught its meal. It drinks my essence, the chill of the grave, the rot of my touch.

The spikes retract slowly, pulling from my flesh with a wet, tearing sound, but the book doesn’t release me, instead it whispers to me, words in a language I don’t understand. Then four words in a language I do, but they still make no sense.

The Tenebris Vinculum awaits.

The book opens with a soft sigh, like a sated predator. I pull my hand, still punctured from the pages. It snaps shut and flies back to its place on the shelf. I look down at my palm. The wounds are already knitting together, the skin icing over, leaving behind faint, white scars.

What is the Tenebris Vinculum?

I look around for the ghosts who brought me here, but they are gone. Whatever they wanted me to know, I have discovered, but I am still none the wiser.

The Tenebris Vinculum . The words echo in the silence of my mind, a cold stone dropped into a bottomless well.

I leave the library. My footsteps make no sound.

Students part before me, a tide of warm, fleeting life pulling away from the cold certainty of the grave.

Most aren’t afraid, they are curious, some more than others.

The necromancers give me stares that I can feel all the way in whatever ragged piece of filth is left as my soul.

But they should be afraid. I see the ends flickering in their auras.

A potions accident. A summoning gone wrong.

A fight to the death. Their lives are loud and ultimately meaningless to me. Their deaths, however, are not.

I don’t return to the Ossuary Tower. Dathan and Verik are a noise I cannot deal with right now. Instead, I descend. Deeper into the foundations of the academy, back to the silent kingdom of the dead, where I belong.