Bethany 
The magical realm of Edward Crowley was no longer just a boy dabbling in the occult. By the time he turned eighteen, he had surpassed the books, outgrown the whispers, and mastered the symbols that had once been mysteries. By the time he turned eighteen, he had surpassed the books, outgrown them. The whispers developed his power of dark arts. He was He was becoming By the time he turned sixteen, he had surpassed the books, outgrown the whispers, and mastered the symbols that had once been mysteries.
But it wasn’t enough. He had spent years summoning knowledge from unseen forces, testing the boundaries between this world and the next. But the more he learned, the more he realized the fundamental truth- he was meant to create, not just follow.
The old orders, the ancient texts, and the rituals written by men long dead-they were fragments
The old orders, the ancient texts, the rituals written by men long dead—they were fragments of something greater. Their power was diluted, their wisdom incomplete. If he wanted true mastery, he could not be a disciple.
He had to be the architect of something new.
His first act of defiance was to break away from tradition. He would not follow the paths laid by those before him. He would carve his own.
On the night of the autumn equinox, he retreated to the hills beyond town, a place untouched by church bells or fearful prayers. The wind howled through the barren trees, the moon hung swollen in the sky, and the stars—watching, waiting—felt closer than ever before.
In the dirt, he drew not the borrowed sigils of past magicians, but symbols of his own design—lines and curves that had come to him in dreams, meanings he understood without learning.
Power surged through his fingertips as he traced the last mark.
He placed three objects at the circle’s center:
- A feather—taken from a raven that had landed on his windowsill that morning, staring at him as if in recognition.
- A drop of his own blood—because creation required sacrifice.
- A mirror—to reflect not just his image, but his will.
He knelt, steadying his breath. Then, he spoke—not the incantations of the ancients, but words of his own making.
A new language. A new doctrine.
As the final syllable left his lips, the earth beneath him trembled. The wind died as if holding its breath. The candle at his feet did not flicker—it burned with an unnatural stillness.
And then, something answered.
Not a whisper. Not a shadow.
A presence.
Not looming or threatening, but expectant.
It did not speak. It did not need to. He felt its understanding, its acknowledgment.
Edward smiled.
He had done it.
The bond had been severed. He no longer belonged to the old ways.
He was free.
And with that freedom came the first true revelation of his design:
“Will is the only law.”
Power was not granted by deities or spirits. It was not hidden in ancient texts. It was not something to be begged for.
It was taken. Commanded.
He was not a servant of the occult. He was its master.
The First Followers
At seventeen, Edward Crowley began to attract attention—not just from those who feared him, but from those who were drawn to his aura of power. Other boys at school whispered about him and saw a terror. They had seen the way candles flared when he entered a room, how the wind stilled when he spoke.
Under a sky heavy with clouds, Edward led them to the chapel ruins. he performed the ritual again calling, not pleading, but commanding. This time, the presence came not as a test, but as an answer.
Other boys at school whispered about him in awe and terror. They had seen the way candles flared when he entered a room, how the wind stilled when he spoke. Under a sky heavy with clouds, Edward led them to the chapel ruins. He performed the ritual again—not calling, not pleading, but commanding. This time, the presence came not as a test, but as an answer. The symbols he had created glowed faintly in the dirt. William gasped. James took a step back. Neither ran. Turning to them, Edward’s eyes burned with something beyond human understanding. This was only the beginning.
Within months, the Order of the Silver Eye had formed. Only those who truly sought power came—those willing to abandon the gods and teachers who had lied to them. Edward called them initiates. Unlike the secret societies of old, theirs had no masters, no false deities—only will. In hidden places, they refined their rituals and tested their power. Fire could be conjured with thought, shadows bent to their command. Fear became a tool, not a weakness. One by one, they shed the chains of the past, growing stronger with each new member.
But the power did not go unnoticed.
One evening, as Edward and three initiates crossed the market square, a priest stepped forward. He had known Edward’s father. There was disgust in his eyes as he spoke, condemning their path, calling it wickedness. Edward was amused. Wickedness? No—this was simply what others feared to embrace. The priest demanded repentance. Edward challenged him to make him.
The wind died. Streetlamps flickered out. The square fell into suffocating darkness. The priest trembled. Edward stepped closer. Fear was control. With a flick of his fingers, the flames returned, roaring to life. The priest stumbled, his prayers faltering. Edward laughed, leading the Order into the night. The faith of old had no place in what was to come. Keep Reading Dip Dives to know the occultry of Edward Crowley.
About The Author
