Sundered by Fate: Dark M/M Demon Fantasy Romance, page 2
But still: Together, they were unstoppable.
And fleetingly—just for a heartbeat or two—Aric felt as if he truly belonged here once more.
The tide of battle was shifting now; even Aric felt it as the demons began to retreat under their onslaught. Though his mind still buzzed with magic's song, his limbs weighed him down like leaden weights, his muscles screaming for rest. But he couldn't let up yet. Not when they were so close.
The guards were fighting with renewed fervor now—Aric's presence seeming to bolster their spirits, even as the townsfolk watched from a safe distance. And as he glanced around at the defenders, Aric saw expressions ranging from awe to fear to confusion.
They didn't know what to make of him—this stranger who wielded magic like a weapon and fought by their side without hesitation. He didn't know what to make of himself, either.
But he couldn't stop now; not when there was still work to be done.
With one final surge of power, Aric unleashed a torrent of gold across the battlefield, consuming the last of the demons in its searing heat. Their cries echoed in the night air before being abruptly cut off as they were banished back to whatever dark realm had spawned them.
Aric sagged forward, one hand braced on his knees as he gasped for breath. The world spun dizzily around him—but he forced himself upright, blinking back the sweat and tears stinging his eyes. He couldn't afford to show any weakness now, with all eyes on him.
The square fell silent, save for the defenders' heavy breathing and the wounded's groans. Aric stood in the center, acutely aware of all eyes upon him. The magic sigils on his skin, usually hidden, glowed faintly in the aftermath of the battle. He drew in air, preparing to speak, to explain, to beg for understanding if necessary.
Before he could, the young defender approached, her hand extended in gratitude.
"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling with emotion.
Hope bloomed in Aric's chest, a fragile thing made all the more precious by its rarity.
But as she drew closer, her eyes widened in shock and then horror. Her gaze fixed on the fading sigils on Aric's skin, unmistakably demonic in origin. Her outstretched hand faltered, then dropped. She took one step back, then another. Around them, the other townspeople picked up on her reaction, murmurs of unease spreading through the crowd.
Aric stood frozen, the elation of victory crumbling into ash.
"Demon magic," someone hissed.
Another voice, rough with fear: "He's one of them."
Aric opened his mouth to protest, to explain—but his words died unspoken as the defenders closed ranks around him, weapons drawn once more.
"Stand down," a voice ordered, and Aric found himself on his knees before he even realized he'd moved.
The guards encircled him, their spears and swords leveled at his heart.
"Who are you?" one demanded. "What are you?"
Aric swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He could taste the acrid tang of magic still lingering in the air, and beneath it all—underneath even that—a dark, insidious whisper in the back of his mind:
You were never meant to come home.
Aric squeezed his eyes shut against it—against the sight of their anger and fear twisting toward hatred; against the knowledge that once again everything had changed between himself and those he'd fought so hard to protect.
"I was trying to help," he managed at last—a pitifully small response compared with what these people deserved from him after everything.
Laughter erupted from within their ranks—a harsh sound that burned like acid in Aric's ears. But before he could muster any response, another voice cut through:
"Enough."
It was a woman's voice; soft yet fierce enough that it left no room for argument—and it sent chills skittering along Aric's spine despite himself.
The guards parted for her, revealing a woman in her forties with a commanding presence. She wore the insignia of Thornhaven's townmaster, but there was an unfamiliarity to her that told Aric she must be new to the position since he'd left. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her eyes were cold and assessing as they raked over him.
"Who are you?" she asked again, though it was clear from the steel in her voice that she was not in the mood for games.
Aric took a deep breath, willing his magic to subside. The shadows around him faded, leaving only the faint glow of his sigils.
"My name is Aric Solarian," he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. "I was once of the Silver Tower."
The woman's eyes narrowed at that, but she didn't interrupt him.
"I know what I look like," Aric continued, glancing down at himself—at the once-fine silks and velvets Malekith once dressed him, now soiled and torn and bloodied from his frantic escape. "And I know what you must be thinking. But I'm here to help." He hesitated, then added, "I need to speak with the Silver Tower as soon as possible."
The woman's expression was impossible to read.
Aric's heart sank. He'd known this was a long shot—knew that no one in their right mind would trust someone like him after everything he'd done—but he couldn't give up now. Not when he was so close.
"Please," he breathed. "I can explain everything."
The woman studied him for a long moment, then nodded to the guards.
"Take him to my office," she said. "We'll get to the bottom of this."
Aric allowed himself to be cuffed with shackles that glowed with anti-magic wards. He should have been terrified; instead, he felt only a weary resignation. There would be no easy path to redemption for him—not after all he'd done—but he'd face whatever trials lay ahead if it meant keeping this town safe.
He followed them willingly, even as he couldn't keep from thinking of another pair of arms that had once felt like home.
Two
Aric fidgeted with the cuffs as the councilors arranged themselves in the town hall, a jury judging him from behind a thick mahogany dais. Gilt-edged candelabras filled the room with a glow he found insipid compared to the flickering of hellfire. When Malekith stepped through the crimson portal, his very essence demanded attention. Here, surrounded by reminders of the life he'd left behind, Aric was only an intruder once more.
"Is that truly necessary?" Aric asked the guards, looking down at his manacles.
"Yes," another shot back. Bastian Held, he thought he'd heard another call the man. Too harsh, though, like gnashing iron. "Until we determine if this is a trap."
The acting townmaster—she'd introduced herself as Virida—stood before him, arms crossed tightly over her chest. In another place and time, she could have worn the armor of the defenders, and may well have, before her promotion. Acting. The very title implied something abrupt, unplanned had befallen the previous townmaster. Thornhaven, too, had endured much. They were all of them out of their depth, stepping into roles they'd never intended.
The part of Aric's mind that had spent too long studying demonic histories and listening to Malekith's stories late at night wondered if he could use that to his advantage.
"You asked to speak with us," she said coolly. "And now you will."
Her dark eyes searched his.
Aric drew a deep breath. "I know my appearance is . . . unexpected." His throat felt too dry, all the earnest speeches he'd rehearsed in those first few weeks under Malekith's rule vanished from his head. "My name is Aric Solarian. I'm—I was—a member of the Silver Tower."
The councilors exchanged glances. Their heads had all turned toward Virida, but she betrayed nothing.
"I realize this must sound like a trick of the demons. But I've been held prisoner in their realm for months—years, maybe. I’m not actually sure how long it's been." His voice cracked on the last words; he hadn't meant to sound so raw.
Virida frowned, arms still crossed. She didn't look away from him as she asked, "And why should we trust you?"
"Because I have a message for the Silver Tower mages," Aric said simply. "A warning."
She pursed her lips, studying him.
"Please. Just listen. The demons are planning something big—"
"And why would you know that?" Bastian asked.
The room fell silent at once. Everyone's stares dug into Aric like shards of ice, and he had to fight not to squirm.
"Because they let it slip," Aric said finally. "While I was their prisoner."
They seemed to be waiting for more. He rubbed the backs of his hands over the cuffs, trying to scratch an itch at his wrists. It wasn't quite a lie, not entirely.
"I heard them talking about dismantling the wards all the way to Astaria. I know the path they're taking on their current campaign—the one that felled Drindal. I imagine they'll be striking here first before moving east."
Their faces remained blank.
"It's true," he insisted.
"And yet you knew when to arrive to scare off that patrol," Virida said softly.
Aric hesitated, then said, "I can't explain that. I only ran from Drindal when I—ah, managed to escape them. Yours is the first town I came across." His words tumbled over themselves. "I didn't have a plan. I only knew I had to run, and bring the Silver Tower a warning."
Virida was silent, hand cupped around her chin. The chamber was so still that the guttering of flames in their sconces echoed around them.
"You say you are a mage of the Silver Tower," Virida finally said. "And yet your spells . . ."
Aric exhaled. "I know. Yes, I learned some of their magics while I was their prisoner. I won't deny that. But you saw for yourself how effective they were at destroying their ranks."
"Have you mastered demonic magic, then?" Bastian asked.
It wasn't entirely unexpected; his skin prickled with unease.
"I did what I had to do to survive," Aric said slowly.
"And what if you lie?" Virida pressed further. "What if you're still under their control?"
The question hung heavy between them all before slowly dissipating like fog burned away by dawn.
Then she added, coldly: "Or what if you're a traitor?"
"I know you don't have any reason to believe me," Aric said slowly. "But I'm asking you to trust me. Let me stay here a while longer. I'll help out with whatever you need, earn my keep, prove I'm not a threat. All I ask is that you send word to the Silver Tower. They'll be able to vouch for my identity, at least."
So Aric hoped, in any case.
Virida's frown deepened, but she didn't interrupt.
"I want to help you prepare," Aric went on. "If the demons are planning an attack here, I want to give you a fighting chance. I saw the state your town is in. I know you're short on helping hands. Please, let me prove myself to you. You can watch me day and night, have guards on me at all times—I don't care. After months in the demon realm, under constant surveillance, I'm used to it." His throat tightened; he pushed the thought aside.
Virida glanced over her shoulder at the other councilors.
"It could be a trick," Bastian said.
"It could." Virida's expression was unreadable.
Aric watched her closely. A demonic torturer's smile from his past nipped at his heels; he pushed it away and faced her with open palms upraised.
She studied him for what felt like an eternity. Aric fought not to squirm under her stare.
Finally, she nodded. "Very well."
"Virida, this is madness," Bastian said, speaking quickly. "We can't just let him walk free."
"If he's truly from the Silver Tower, then he deserves a chance to prove it." Virida turned back to Aric, expression hardening once more. "You say you're willing to earn your place here. I'll hold you to that."
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping. "But make no mistake, mage: if I find out you've lied to us, if I find even one shred of proof that you're working with the demons, I'll put you down myself."
Aric nodded slowly, trying to appear cowed. Inside, he felt only numbness. Virida didn't trust him, and he didn't blame her for that.
He'd just have to prove himself to them all.
Virida straightened, folding her hands in front of her. "You've asked for a chance to earn our trust," she said. "Very well. I've got just the task in mind."
Her smile was cold enough to make Aric's blood run chill.
The tang of sweat on his brow and the bitter sludge caking his gloves made it hard to remember he'd once wielded the fate of worlds in his hands. But now, as Aric toiled in the sewage tunnels beneath Thornhaven, ankle-deep in muck and stifled by the stench, it was all too easy to forget who he'd been. The rhythmic scrape of his shovel on stone, the dribble of sludge underfoot—these things were real. Grounding.
At least this was a problem he could tackle with brute force alone.
The dampness and the dark closed in around him, claustrophobic but somehow comforting, reminding him of the shadowy tunnels under the demon realm. But here there were no sinister echoes or malicious whispers carried on the damp winds. Only silence, broken by his own labored breathing and the occasional drip-drip-drip of water seeping through ancient stonework.
Aric leaned into the mindlessness of it, let the hours dissolve into a blur of exertion. No thoughts, no regrets; only the twist of the shovel in his hands and the rough abrasion of rock on leather gloves.
But as dusk fell and he staggered back to ground level, filth staining every inch of him, he knew he'd done good work. Repaired breach after breach; strengthened stone seams; stabilized sections near collapse.
And for now, at least, this exhausting monotony was enough.
Over the next week, Aric threw himself into any task he could find. He shored up breaches in the town's defenses, dug out trenches, and helped with repairs to the main gates. The townspeople were wary at first, but as he worked tirelessly alongside them, some of the suspicion began to fade from their eyes.
He helped reinforce a pig pen where a boar had broken free, and laughed with the children who rushed to round up the escaped pigs. He moved lumber and hoisted frames, and shared meals by the fires in the evening. It was far from the life he once knew, but it was honest work, and for now, that was enough.
But even as he integrated himself into Thornhaven's routines, Aric couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. There were too many hushed conversations when he entered a room, too many wary glances cast in his direction.
He dismissed it as paranoia until the night he awoke with a searing pain in his back.
The mark left by Malekith's sigil burned through his thin tunic like white-hot iron, and Aric curled into himself, stifling a cry. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision, whispering seductions and mockeries that he couldn't understand.
We should have just cut him down—
Shh, you know it's not that simple. He's—
Aric squeezed his eyes shut tighter, as if that would banish them.
Then a new voice cut through the noise—not a voice so much as a presence—and everything fell away. The sigil flared to life, illuminating the darkness around him.
And for just an instant, Aric saw through Malekith's eyes.
All was shadow and stone: thick chains binding wrists and ankles; scars crisscrossing over alabaster skin; violet eyes wide with fear—no, defiance. Faint torches cast the barest glow over it all, turning the chamber into a sea of muted shadows and painful screams that echoed off ancient stone walls.
Then Malekith turned his head slightly, as if sensing Aric's presence within his mind. Their eyes locked—and in those depths, Aric saw not just pain or rage or hatred . . .
But also a fragile flicker of hope.
The vision faded suddenly, leaving Aric breathless and disoriented on his bedroll once more.
What did this mean? Was Malekith trying to reach him somehow? Or was it merely wishful thinking on Aric's part?
He clenched his fists against that thought. He'd made his choice; he'd fled for a reason. But now an unwelcome sense of guilt clawed at him nonetheless: what if Malekith truly was in danger? Just how much damage had Sylthris really inflicted?
It didn't matter, he told himself. Malekith wasn't his problem any longer. Thornhaven—Astaria—were his priorities now. It was the only way to help them both.
Still, he couldn't forget the look in the demon prince's eyes.
"Oi!" An elderly farmer waved at him from across the town's main square. "Could use another pair of hands over here."
Aric finished setting the last shingle in place on the healer's shop roof and hurried down. The farmer had the kind of squat, solid frame that spoke of a lifetime of hard labor, but his age was catching up to him. As he approached, Aric saw the sweat glistening on the farmer's brow, his face creased with lines of worry.
"What do you need?" Aric asked.
"I'm tryin' to figure out what's been messin' with my crops," the farmer said. "Somethin' strange out in the woods. Thought I saw movement last night, but when I went to check it out, it was gone."
Aric felt a chill race through him. "And you want me to investigate?"
The farmer hesitated, then nodded. "Figure someone with your . . . experience might be better equipped to handle it than us plainfolk."
Aric's mind immediately leapt to the idea of a demon out there causing mischief. But it wouldn't make sense for a demon raiding party to settle in at the edge of town without launching an attack.
Unless they were waiting for something.
"I'll take care of it," Aric promised. "You have my word."
The farmer wiped his forehead with a grimy cloth and glanced around nervously. "I won't deny I'm concerned 'bout having a demon-bound mage pokin' around our woods," he said gruffly.
"Then I'll take someone with me," Aric offered quickly, hoping to ease the man's doubts.
The farmer studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "All right then. I'll send my boy Tomas with you." He jabbed his chin toward a gangly young man stacking wood nearby.
Aric suppressed a wince as he spotted the kid staring up at him with wide-eyed fear. Hardly ideal conditions for tracking a potentially dangerous threat. But if that was what it took to prove himself . . .
