Sundered by Fate: Dark M/M Demon Fantasy Romance, page 25
Valerian reached for a long staff with a crystalline head, currently dark but thrumming with energy. He twisted a series of rings on its shaft, and the crystal flared to life, a violet glow suffusing the workshop. The air grew thick with static, and a high-pitched whine filled Aric's ears.
"What have you done?" Aric shouted, but his words were lost in the rising cacophony.
The crystal's glow intensified, the violet energy arcing around the workshop in a web of crackling lines. The air rippled like water, and pressure built beneath the surface, threatening to tear him apart.
Valerian turned toward him, a mad gleam in his eyes. "This is the culmination of our work. The Silver Tower's weapon, perfected."
He slammed the staff's butt into the stone floor, and the world exploded in a burst of violet light.
The world skidded sideways. Equipment twisted and melted, the walls of the workshop rippling like they'd turned to liquid. The air itself roared with energy, and the sound was deafening, a keening wail that drove into Aric's skull like an icepick.
"Valerian!" Aric shouted, but the air tore the name away.
The rift was shredding the demons with brutal efficiency, the violet energy ripping them apart, but it was also warping space, reality itself folding in on itself. A surge of panic clutched at Aric's chest as he watched the soldiers' armor twisting and mutating, their limbs elongating, bones cracking as they cried out in agony.
The workshop's stone walls shuddered, and the air was a rainbow of shifting colors, the ground bucking and heaving beneath Aric's feet. He stumbled, his vision blurring as the world lurched around him.
Valerian let out a triumphant cry and struck the tip of the blade against the ground. The energy surged again, the rift widening, the fabric of reality tearing with a sound like paper shredding.
A section of the ceiling began to collapse, and Aric tackled Valerian out of the way. They tumbled to the ground, the energy ribbons swirling around them in a dizzying array of colors.
"Valerian!" Aric shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar of the rift. "You have to stop this—we can't control it!"
Valerian's eyes were wild, his pupils black pinpricks in a sea of white. "No, you don't understand! This is it—this is what we were searching for all along!"
The workshop's fabric buckled around them, the air vibrating with an awful tension. But while Valerian saw only the power at his disposal, Aric felt the rift's resonance with the other anomalies throughout the city. The Silver Tower's weapon, the breach at Thornhaven, the ley line surges they'd encountered on the way here—each one a node in a vast, interconnected network of unstable energy.
A weapon, yes, and a terribly tempting one at that. But it was a blade with no edge, no point; only a chaotic, destructive force that would tear apart anything it touched. The thought of tapping into that network, of using it against their enemies, sent a shiver down Aric's spine. But the destruction it would unleash—he couldn't even begin to fathom it.
No, they had to find another way.
Aric gritted his teeth and struggled against the inhibitor cuffs. If he could just get free, then maybe, just maybe—
But before he could act, a wave of raw energy slammed into him, hurling him across the workshop floor. He skidded to a stop against one of the racks of weapons, the metal digging into his back.
Aric spotted the replica of the divine sword, the Blade of Sun's Dawn, in the corner of the workshop. With all the movement and chaos, it had fallen off its rack, the intricate sigils carved into its head glinting in the violet energy suffusing the air. And despite the pure chaos happening all around, the hammer seemed to be glowing with a soft golden light. It called to Aric, almost magnetic in its pull. Aric's heart twisted in his chest. A weapon of unimaginable power, Valerian said, and he'd taken great pains to try to infuse it with some of the power of the original—power, Aric suspected, that could close the rift, or destroy everything it touched.
Without thinking, Aric surged forward, his hand outstretched, the inhibitor cuffs searing at his flesh. The demons snarled and lunged at him, their claws raking against his armor, but he ignored the pain, the chaos, the threat of the rift.
He just had to reach it.
The world narrowed to the point of the hammer as he dove through the demons, ignoring the shouts and cries of the soldiers, the churn of the rift behind him. The air rippled and tore around him, the violet energy lashing at his skin, but he commanded himself to keep moving, to keep reaching.
He clawed his way through the demons, boots skidding on the glass shards and energy residue.
With fingers slicked with demon blood, Aric grasped the sword's hilt.
Power surged through him like a dam breaking, divine energy flowing through his veins in a golden rush.
A crunch.
A blinding, searing pain as if Aric had plunged his hands into open flame.
And then the inhibitor cuffs shattered, the metal disintegrating into motes of light. The golden radiance poured out of him, illuminating the workshop with withering light.
Aric roared as pain lanced through his back, the force of the magic tearing through him. A moment later, golden wings burst forth, unfurling with a mighty flap. He rose into the air, the sword blazing with holy fire, as the demons scattered before him.
Their cries were drowned out by the thundering of his heart, the wild rush of energy singing in his ears. Aric felt the divine power coursing through every fiber of his being, a force of nature made manifest.
He turned his new eyes to the rift, and saw the threads of magic that wove through it, the currents that fed its violent expansion. He could feel the resonance of the anomalies scattered across the city, a web of unstable energy that threatened to tear their world asunder.
Aric soared into the air, wings beating with divine fire. The inhibitor cuffs fell away, clattering to the ground. With each swing of the sword, he sealed another tear in reality, cutting off the demonic reinforcements before they could pour through.
He tore through the workshop's ruins and hurtled into the sky over the palace. Below, the courtyard roiled with chaos, soldiers and demons locked in battle. Aric's heart twisted at the sight, but he had to focus on the larger threat—the rifts themselves.
He dove toward the rift in the courtyard, the sword's golden flame searing through the air. With a single swing, he sealed the tear, the demonic energy dissipating into nothingness. The demons' cries of rage and despair echoed in his ears, but he ignored them, his mind a singular focus.
Another rift beckoned, this time along the streets of Astaria. The demons were pouring out of the tear, clawing their way through stone and flesh alike. Aric banked hard, his wings straining as he tore through the air, and brought the sword down in a sweeping arc.
The rift snapped shut with a howl of displaced air, the demons caught on this side of the tear screaming in despair. Aric didn't stop to watch their fates; there were too many more rifts to close.
He soared through the city, sealing rift after rift. The sword felt right in his hand, as if it had been waiting for him all this time. And as he fought, he felt something stirring inside him, like a long-dormant part of himself awakening.
As the last rift sealed shut, the remaining demons fell back in disarray, leaving only Malekith and his personal guard. Aric descended to face them, his angelic wings shedding feathers of golden light. The sword in his hand—no, a hammer, now—thrummed with power, begging to be unleashed.
But seeing Malekith here, now—after all they had been through, all the memories that had haunted Aric's dreams—he faltered. The words he had sworn to Malekith all those months ago burned in his mind; the promise of vengeance, of retribution, that he had made so long ago.
And yet, looking into those dark eyes now, Aric felt none of it. Only a raw wound, a dull ache that he longed to soothe.
"Malekith," he said. The name was a benediction, a curse, a plea. "Why are you here?"
Malekith raised his spear, the weapon's blade glinting in the moonlight. "For you, Aric."
Aric's wings sagged, his heart thundering in his chest. "And if I won't go?"
"Then I have no choice." Malekith's voice was a razor, each word slicing into Aric's heart. "This ends here, one way or another."
Aric nodded, his vision blurring with tears. "Then let it be so."
He surged into the air once more on a blazing gale. The courtyard was a darkened tomb beneath him, his city a distant memory. Only the rift remained, an open wound in the heart of the capital city, and Malekith was its keening wail.
Aric dove for it head-on, the sword's radiance shielding him from the rift's pull. The portal was jagged, chaotic; the edges shifting and undulating like molten glass.
The demons howled and surged toward him, but he was not afraid. The sword's power coursed through him, and he knew that he was invincible.
Only Malekith could stop him now.
Twenty-Three
Aric alighted on the courtyard stones, golden wings spread around him like rays of the sun. The dim glow of the rift outlined Malekith's form in the distance, but the poison of the anomalies gnawed at Aric's senses, the air thick with its corruption.
Malekith stood before the tear in reality, the violet energy illuminating an eerily empty battlefield. The soldiers and demon forces had shifted to other fronts, leaving the space wide open, deserted. Aric took a cautious step forward, and Malekith turned toward him, his eyes gleaming with a violet hue.
"Solarian." Malekith's voice was low, almost pained.
Aric's heart ached at the familiarity of that voice, the cadence he had once cherished, coupled with the cold unfamiliarity that rimed it like frost. But this—this nightmare of a man—was not the Malekith he had known. The energy of the rift twisted around him like a malevolent storm, and the shape of his demonic form seemed distorted, enhanced by the Void.
"Malekith," Aric said, his voice rough. He tightened his grip on the sword in his hand, the blade's glow pulsing in time with his racing heart. "Please. Whatever you've become—whatever Sylthris and the Sovereign have done to you—it's not too late."
Malekith laughed, a sound that sent a twisting knife of pain through Aric's heart. "Not too late? Oh, little mage, you have it all wrong."
His form shifted, the demonic armor re-forming around him. The rift’s energy reached for Malekith like lover’s arms, the shadows stretching and bending as he approached. Aric made himself stay still, the sword an anchor against the madness threatening to overwhelm him.
"Malekith. Please. I know you're still in there." He took a step forward, the courtyard stones cold against his feet. "I know you can fight this."
Malekith's eyes didn't waver, the violet gleam strong, unyielding. "There is nothing to fight, Aric. This is what I've always been. What I was always meant to be." He tilted his head, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "You should really be thanking me. I was holding back, when we were together. For you."
Aric's chest felt tight, the breath coming in ragged gasps. "You don't mean that. Whatever Sylthris has done to you, we can fix this." He raised the sword, the golden fire dancing along the blade. "I can help you, if you'll let me."
Malekith took another step, shadows clinging to him like a second skin. "I don't want your help."
They began to circle each other, their feet crunching on the charred remains of the courtyard. Aric's heart ached with the familiar dance—the way Malekith moved, the deadly grace of him. But there was a new weight to his steps, a heaviness that spoke of power beyond anything Aric had seen before.
And then he saw it—the corruption spreading through Malekith's veins, the darkness pooling beneath his skin. His once-glossy horns were dull and ashy, and his eyes . . . The violet glow had spread, devouring the whites, the irises, until they were nothing but pits of shadow.
Aric's fingers tightened around the sword. Whatever had happened to Malekith, it was nothing he could fix with words. Not this time.
Malekith moved first, his blade a streak of black as he lunged at Aric with a snarl. Aric's reactions took over, his sword meeting Malekith's with a clang that shuddered up his arm.
"Please, stop," Aric pleaded, trying to reach the part of Malekith that was still his. But the only answer he got was another vicious strike, driving Aric backward, the dance of their blades a relentless assault.
Parry, deflect—the familiar rhythm of their sparring sessions, turned deadly. Aric's heart thudded with each remembered step, each turn of wrist—
A delicate waltz in the sparring room of the Ixion stronghold, Malekith prodding Aric’s leg with a training blade and caressing each spell Aric cast with his own, until they knotted and swirled together in a tapestry of dark and light . . .
He couldn't think about that now. He had to focus on getting past Malekith. But the longer this went on, the more he felt himself slipping, the sigil on his chest burning with dark power. But Aric couldn’t lose control.
Aric spun, feinting to the right before darting left. Malekith's sword raised to intercept, and Aric brought his own around, the golden fire surging down the length of it. Malekith's blade caught the flames, but they twisted and writhed, trying to engulf him.
Aric's muscles burned as he parried Malekith's relentless assault, the demon prince's weapon a typhoon of shadow and steel. The courtyard stones were slick with Aric's own blood now, the coppery scent mingling with the acrid tang of brimstone from the rift.
Power thrummed beneath his skin, the golden fire that had erupted from him unbidden, the wings, the energy to destroy the rifts, and now, the sigil searing his flesh with each passing second. It would be so easy to give in, to let the darkness consume him and unleash a torrent of destruction upon the demon realm.
Aric braced himself and spun out of the way of a vicious slash. Malekith's blade kissed the air an inch from his jaw, and Aric felt the chill of the Void's touch on his skin. He stumbled back, his boots skidding on the blood-slicked stones, and barely managed to bring his sword up in time to block the next strike.
The force of it sent a jagged bolt of pain up his arm, and Aric's fingers spasmed around the hilt. For a moment, he was terrified he would lose his grip, that Malekith would sense his weakness and strike the killing blow.
But Malekith merely smiled, a cruel twist of his lips, and stepped back. The violet glow in his eyes seemed to pulse with cruel amusement, as if he knew Aric's every thought, every fear. "You're holding back," he purred, his voice a low, seductive rasp. "Why is that, I wonder? Afraid to hurt me?"
Aric's heart clenched at the words, at the ghost of the Malekith he had known in that honeyed tone. No, he told himself fiercely. That's not him. Not anymore.
But even as the thought formed, Aric saw an opening. A bare second of hesitation in Malekith's next strike, a fraction of a heartbeat where his guard dropped and his throat was exposed. Aric could do it, could end this nightmare with a single, swift thrust of his blade.
And yet he hesitated. His arm trembled with the effort of holding back, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't strike down the man he loved, no matter what Sylthris and Zaxos had done to him.
Malekith's eyes narrowed, and then his lips curled in a sneer. "Fool," he hissed, and lashed out with his blade.
Aric tried to parry, but he was too slow, his movements sluggish from exhaustion and pain. The black steel bit deep into his arm, parting flesh like butter, and Aric shrieked in agony. Blood welled from the wound, hot and sticky against his skin, and for a moment the world swam around him in a dizzying spiral of color and sound.
The rift behind them pulsed, a sickly violet glow that seemed to mock him with its very existence. This was what he had come here to stop, what he had risked everything to prevent. And now, because of his own weakness, his own unwillingness to do what needed to be done, it might all be for nothing.
Aric gritted his teeth, his vision clearing as the pain in his arm sharpened into focus.
But Aric had seen where that path led, the twisted mockery of Malekith that stood before him now. He couldn't let that happen to him, couldn't become the monster that Malekith had become. No matter how much it cost him, no matter how much it hurt, he had to find another way.
Aric raised his sword, the golden flame dancing along the blade in time with the frantic pounding of his heart. Malekith's eyes glinted with cruel amusement, and he stepped forward, his own blade poised to strike.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance," Malekith seethed. "Now it's too late. Now, I'm going to make you pay for your foolishness."
Aric met his gaze, his own eyes hard and unyielding. "I won't let that happen," he said, his voice steady despite the fear that gripped his heart. "I won't let you become this monster. Not without a fight."
Aric changed tactics, his mind racing as he searched for anything that would stop Malekith without striking him down. He couldn't bring himself to end the life of the man he had once loved, no matter how much of a monster he had become.
Instead, Aric focused on his magic, the golden flames dancing along the length of his blade as he feinted and dodged, trying to create distance between them. He knew he couldn't match Malekith in a straight-up fight, not with the demon prince's newfound power and the advantage of the rift's energy.
Malekith anticipated each move, cutting off Aric's attempts to reach the tear in reality.
Aric's mind flashed back to the countless hours he had spent sparring with Malekith at the Ebon Spire. He remembered teaching the prince this very defensive pattern, Malekith's movements fluid and graceful as he mastered the technique. The memory hit Aric like a physical blow, throwing him off balance and leaving him vulnerable to Malekith's relentless assault.
Malekith's blade found its mark once more, the black steel slicing through Aric's tunic and biting deep into his side. Aric cried out in pain, the coppery scent of blood filling his nostrils as he stumbled backward, his vision blurring at the edges. The courtyard stones seemed to tilt and shift beneath his feet, and he feared he would collapse under the weight of his injuries.
