Sundered by Fate: Dark M/M Demon Fantasy Romance, page 11
"The usual." Aric looked out over the city, the lights blurring in his vision. "Just trying to process everything."
They stood in silence for a long moment, shoulders almost touching. The air between them felt charged, heavy with all the things they weren't saying.
Aric had moved on from Davin, from whatever feelings they'd once shared were buried under the ashes of their broken friendship that had never been given the air to stoke into anything more. But now, standing so close to him, all those old memories came rushing back—the late-night study sessions in the Silver Tower library, the stolen glances and shared laughter, the way he'd once wondered if Davin's skin might set his own alight.
He'd known Davin felt something for him then, too. It had frightened Aric then.
And now? Aric asked himself.
And now . . . they felt like memories that belonged to someone else.
Davin broke the silence first, his voice soft but laden with emotion. "Aric . . . about the demon realm. About what happened to you there."
Aric tensed, the golden fire within him flaring in response. "What about it?"
"I know it's not something you can just talk about," Davin continued, choosing his words carefully. "And I don't expect you to tell me everything. But if there's anything I can do . . . any way I can help you—"
"You can't," Aric said, sharper than he intended. "It's something I have to deal with on my own."
Davin’s disappointment stung, to be sure. But how could he explain? How could he tell Davin that his time in the demon realm had changed him, that the things he'd seen and done had marked him indelibly? That the part of himself he'd once kept hidden—the part that had always been drawn to the shadows, to forbidden knowledge—had now fully embraced its new nature?
How could he explain the bond he'd formed with Malekith—a bond forged in blood and magic and a shared sense of being outsiders in their respective worlds? A bond that both thrilled and terrified him, for it threatened to unravel everything he thought he knew about himself and his loyalties?
Davin couldn't understand. No one from his old life could.
Perhaps because if they did, Aric feared they'd see him for the monster he truly was.
Davin stepped closer, his voice low and intense. "I should have paid more attention. Seen what you were involved with. I should have been there when you needed me most." His words caught in his throat. "I'm sorry, Aric. I'm so sorry."
The raw emotion in Davin's voice pierced through Aric's defenses, stirring up feelings he'd tried so hard to bury. He turned to face Davin, their eyes meeting in the twilight. The city seemed to fall away around them, leaving only the two of them and the unspoken bond that had always tethered their souls.
"Davin, I—"
Aric's breath caught in his throat, the confession he needed to make refusing to come. Because what if he did tell Davin? What if he told him everything—about Malekith, about the blood pact that burned like molten chains around his chest, about the things he'd done and felt? What if he revealed the darkness that had taken root in his heart?
Would Davin still look at him with such softness? Or would he see only the monster he'd become?
Their proximity was intoxicating, Davin's scent wrapping around Aric like a garden at dawn. Part of him longed to close the distance between them—to lose himself in the familiar warmth that once called to him, long ago. But even as he yearned for it, he knew it was a cruel illusion.
There was no going back to the life he once knew.
Aric tore his gaze away, staring out over the city. "I'm not who you think I am," he said, voice rough.
But Davin reached out, his fingers brushing against Aric's chin and forcing him to look back. "You're exactly who I think you are. And nothing will ever change that."
Just as Aric was about to respond, a flood of images and emotions overwhelmed him. Fear. Pain. A desperate warning. A sense of something vast and ancient looming in the shadows.
Beware the shadow in the court.
Aric gasped, stumbling back, and Davin reacted instantly, catching him before he fell. Fleeting, their bodies were pressed close, faces inches apart. Davin's breath gusted against his cheek, hear the thrum of his heart racing in time with Aric's own.
"Davin—" Aric started, but the connection was too intense, too all-consuming. He was being drawn into it, like a current pulling him under.
And then he was drowning in it—visions flashing before his eyes, memories and images colliding with no rhyme or reason. He saw the Silver Tower's gleaming turrets shrouded in darkness, heard the anguished cries of voices he recognized but couldn't place.
The shadow has eyes.
The connection snapped like a taut cord, sending Aric reeling back. But Davin's grip on him remained firm, an anchor in the storm.
"Aric!" Davin's voice was a distant echo through the haze. "Aric, what's happening?"
"It's nothing," Aric insisted, pulling back despite the wrenching pain in his chest. "I just—I'm exhausted. I need to rest."
Davin's brow furrowed with concern, but he released his hold on Aric, stepping back to give him space. "Are you sure? If there's anything—"
"I promise, it's nothing." Aric made himself grin, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt. "I'm just . . . I'm still adjusting to being back, is all."
Davin studied him, as if trying to see past the facade. "All right. But if you need anything—anything at all—come to me, promise?"
"I will." Aric's voice was softer now, the steel gone from it. "Thank you, Davin."
With one last searching look, Davin turned and left, leaving Aric alone with the remnants of the vision still clinging to him like smoke.
Aric lay awake in the massive bed, staring at the canopy overhead. Outside, Astaria slept—an ocean of dreams shifting under the starlit sky. He longed to reach through the veil of sleep and touch the life he'd left behind, but it slipped through his fingers every time.
The sigil on his back pulsed with a dull ache. He ran his fingers over it, wishing he could will it into motion, call out to the bond between them. But no matter how hard he tried, the threads unraveled before he could grasp them.
Malekith's name hung on his lips. His laughter, his piercing stare, the way his voice wrapped around him like smoke. Aric closed his eyes, willing himself to remember every detail, every nuance. But they were fading fast, slipping away into the dark.
He thought of the visions he'd seen—the shadowed figures lurking at the edges of his mind. Were they memories? Portents? Or simply phantoms conjured by his own guilt and fear?
He needed to know Malekith was safe. That their bond remained unbroken, even across the realms that separated them.
"Please," Aric whispered into the night. "Please be all right."
Silence answered him back.
The sigil ached once more, a hollow echo through his bones. No visions or dreams; no sense of their bond pulling tight. Just an empty void where Malekith's presence used to be, and the faint, distant echo of the warnings he'd heard.
Beware the shadows in the court.
Nine
As the ornate doors to the tribunal chamber swung open, Aric was struck by the overwhelming sense of grandeur within. High vaulted ceilings soared overhead, tapestries adorned every wall, each one telling a story from Astaria's rich history. And everywhere he looked, rows of stern-faced observers sat in silence, staring intently at him.
At the far end of the chamber, elevated on a dais, sat Cyrus and other high-ranking members of the Pureblade Order. Their expressions ranged from suspicion to outright disdain, though Cyrus's face was predictably a mask of steely resolve. To one side were Olaya and the senior mages of the Silver Tower, including Davin. Opposite them sat Valerian and his courtiers, watching with inscrutable expressions.
Aric swallowed hard and stepped forward into the chamber. The eyes of the assembly bore into him, but he refused to avert his gaze. He would not flinch. He would not give them that satisfaction.
Once Aric took his place at the center of the chamber, Cyrus rose to formally open the proceedings.
"Aric Solarian, you stand accused of the most grievous charges imaginable for a member of our order," Cyrus intoned, his voice flat but resonant. "You have consorted with demons, betrayed your Pureblade oaths, and risked corrupting yourself and others with dark magics."
Aric's face was a careful mask of neutrality as he listened to the list of accusations. Inside, anger surged, but he quelled it down with practiced effort. He had to remain calm if he was to stand any chance of defending himself.
Amongst the observers, Aric saw Olaya's steely demeanor. Ruta's back straightened a little when he looked her way, and Aric could only nod faintly before the Lord Regent called him forth. Davin wore an implacable look Aric would recognize anywhere—a mask intended to keep the stares of other diplomats and negotiators from swaying him, Olaya had told them years before.
For better or worse, he was not entirely without allies in the tribunal.
Cyrus continued, unaware or uncaring of the whispered conversations amongst the mages or noblemen seated on either side of the dais. "You are accused of turning your magic against our own troops on the borders." It grated; what could he expect a coward like Tharivol to say? Cyrus stilled the truth from emerging with bared weapons and surety.
Cyrus did not have his weapons now.
"The charge of forbidden magic alone would be enough to see you tried. Do you deny it?"
"I've already given my account, Lord Inquisitor," Aric said flatly. "I have no words prepared at this time."
Cyrus's eyes gleamed in the torchlight as he leaned forward. "Very well. Then perhaps you can explain to this tribunal your research into demon magic. You claimed it was in the service of our realm's defense, yet your methods and motives remain suspect."
"It is true that I was conducting research into methods of defeating the demons once and for all, and that included studying their own magic. An area of research that is sorely lacking, which never made sense to me. How can we possibly defeat an enemy whose abilities and powers we don't even understand?"
"There are good reasons we do not delve into such vile business," Cyrus said. "Its power to corrupt is too vast."
"There is nothing in it that is inherently corrupting," Aric snapped. "Which you would know, if I'd been allowed to conclude my research without interference."
One eyebrow arched over Cyrus's steely eyes. "I think what you mean to say is that without interference, you would have dared to unleash whatever monstrous concoction of demons and magic you devised upon your own people. And for what? To align yourself with the enemy so wholeheartedly? Your notes from the Silver Tower's research will be presented as evidence of your treachery and contempt."
A frisson of irritation pinched at Aric's scalp, and he realized with a start that he was digging his nails into his palms. A flush spread up over his neck, threatening to spill over his cheeks if he did not stand down, but dammit, it took every shred of willpower not to scream—
The sigil on his sternum buzzed threateningly, and he hastily moved to recenter himself before speaking again.
Aric took a measured breath. "My studies were driven by the need to understand the true nature of this threat facing both our worlds." He met Cyrus's stare evenly. "The anomaly is causing irreparable damage—not just to our realm, but the demon one as well. If we don't act soon, the fallout will be catastrophic."
"This imaginary 'anomaly' of yours is not on trial here," Cyrus snapped. "We are here to determine whether you have been compromised by your dealings with demons."
"I am not compromised." Aric kept his voice level. "I may have been their captive, but I never gave up on my duty to protect our people."
"And yet you embraced their foul magics." Cyrus's lip curled with distaste. "You even flaunted them in Thornhaven, if accounts are to be believed."
Aric's fingers curled at his sides. "It was a necessary risk. To combat the demons' incursion."
"Or to betray us and aid their cause."
A fierce spark flared within him, heating the sigil where it lay dormant against his chest. Aric drew a breath, forcing himself to stay calm. It was happening again: that frightening pull at his consciousness, at the core of who he was—
"You know that isn't true," he said softly.
Cyrus opened his mouth, but Aric cut him off.
"I could have used it then." Aric felt his control slipping; he leaned into the dangerous edge of fury igniting inside him. "The demons took me from them. And still I fought for us. I endured the worst the demon realm had to offer so I could bring knowledge and warning back with me. I sacrificed . . ." Aric suppressed a tremor coursing through him—an echo of Malekith's voice. Not now. Not now. "Myself. My soul. All for a chance at our collective salvation."
"The gods and their pure light did not ask you to—"
"Your gods and their pure light are not out here fighting for us," Aric said. "I am."
The room murmured, swirling around Aric like an unsettling gale. Cyrus again tried to find his footing, but then Valerian stood, raising a hand to silence the Inquisitor.
"Thank you, Inquisitor. Allow me."
Cyrus glared at the interruption, but Valerian pressed on.
"This anomaly you speak of—explain it to us."
Aric hesitated, sensing a trap. But he had nothing left to lose. "It's an imbalance in the magical currents that traverse our realms and the leylines that feed them, caused by . . ." He risked a glance toward Olaya, but there was no use in holding back. "By certain experiments I fear have been undertaken by the Silver Tower."
Olaya shifted on her seat, but Aric continued. "It's growing more unstable with each passing day. I've seen its effects firsthand—increasing demon incursions, erratic magic, corruption and destabilization."
"And you believe the demon realm is equally affected?"
"Yes." Aric met Valerian's stare evenly. "It is a risk to everyone, whether they understand it or not."
Valerian steepled his fingers, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "A compelling story. But tell us, Aric Solarian: why should we believe you?"
A challenge, but one Aric was prepared for. "Because I have no reason to lie. I've returned here at great personal risk, forsaking my own safety in order to warn my people."
"But what if it's all part of a greater plot? To sow discord and division among us?"
Aric stiffened, bracing for a renewed onslaught from Cyrus or the other Pureblade inquisitors. But Valerian held up a placating hand.
"No," he said, with a smile that might have been genuine—Aric wasn't sure yet. "I don't think that's it at all."
He shifted in his seat and leaned forward slightly as though confiding something personal to Aric.
"I think," he said softly enough only for Aric's ears—and perhaps those sitting nearby—to hear—"you've been through far more than any one man should have ever had to endure."
The nights of endless violence and indulgence in the Ebon Spire, the demons’ eyes raking over Aric like claws as they argued and boasted for the right to defile him. Offering himself up, debasing himself in Malekith’s cruel games, allowing himself to be pleasured and tortured equally before them, because it served a greater purpose—and because, deep down, he could deny Malekith nothing.
Fighting for his life—No. Fighting for the lives of the other humans as unlucky as him to find himself in their clutches. Forfeiting his safety so Tharivol could deliver warning back to Astaria, only for him to be killed before he reached the Borderlands. Incurring Lord Darioth’s hatred when he rescued Ruta from his vicious hunt, only to have Darioth nearly drain Aric of all of his power to try to usurp Malekith. Setting free human prisoners in Drindal and conspiring against Vizra, only for Karthax to try to assassinate him and Sylthris the Gravewhisper to set upon him for a purpose he still didn’t understand.
And through it all . . . Malekith.
Malekith, whose true aims, even unspoken, Aric was willing to defend and fight for against all odds. His kindness and compassion hidden beneath a battle-hardened, blood-tempered armor of cruelty and apathy. Malekith, who offered him the world, a world all their own.
A world Aric was still willing to fight for. For every person in this chamber, and this city, and this realm—and for Malekith, and for himself.
"I do not regret it," Aric said at last.
Valerian smiled and laced his fingers before him. "Then perhaps you can tell us more about your time among them."
Aric swallowed thickly, forcing himself to meet Valerian's unwavering stare. "What I witnessed . . . It was beyond anything I could have imagined. The demons' true nature. Their cunning, their endless ambition. Their society is not so different from our own, and yet—" He shook his head. "The savagery that lies beneath the surface . . . The cruelty they inflict upon each other."
He paused, remembering Ruta in that terrible game.
"I tried to save the other humans I encountered," he said softly. "Those unfortunate enough to find themselves in their clutches." He thought of Tharivol, the mage he let defeat him, costing Aric a deeply humiliating, degrading evening at the demons' clutches—only for Tharivol to be killed as he fled. "I even succeeded, on occasion." He glanced briefly toward Ruta. "But every time I thought I had devised a way out, every time I thought I had convinced my captors of my worth to them, the demons found some way to twist it, to use my compassion against me."
Aric clenched his hands into fists at his sides.
"It became clear to me that simply fighting them was not enough. That alone, they could crush me. That if I was going to survive, if I was going to stop them, then the only way was to try and understand them." He squared his shoulders. "To deceive them the way they had deceived us."
"You admit that you fought with their forces when they invaded the Borderlands," Valerian said. "With the knowledge of our wards—the knowledge you possessed as a member of the Silver Tower."
"It is true," Aric said. "They tricked me into giving up how we used our wards to fight off their attacks." He risked a look toward Olaya and Davin; Olaya's face was a mask of wry acknowledgment, but Davin glared with pure accusation. "But as they dragged me along on their march past the outer wards, I still did all I could to slow their progression. And ultimately, I was able to escape."
