Sundered by Fate: Dark M/M Demon Fantasy Romance, page 6
Cyrus.
The name alone sent a fresh wave of anger coursing through Aric's veins. The memory of Cyrus's words back at the outpost—all but condemning him to execution for merely daring to study demon magic—was one of the last things he'd expected to have to remember from his old life. It made him wonder if he truly had any place left in this world at all.
"I know," Aric said, struggling to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I'll stay out of his way as much as I can. But this anomaly—it poses a threat far greater than him, greater than anything we might face from demonkind. I'll do whatever it takes to stop it." He swallowed hard. "Cyrus be damned."
Olaya hesitated, then squeezed his shoulder. "Take care, Aric. We'll speak more tomorrow. There may be more danger ahead."
Aric nodded. "I will."
With that, she turned and headed for the door, and Aric felt the ache of their parting more acutely than he'd expected. He'd missed her—missed all of them—more than he could put into words.
He lingered in the workshop, suddenly aware of Davin's presence at his side. He wanted to say something, anything to fill the awkward silence stretching between them. But no words came, and after a moment Davin turned away with a quiet sigh.
"Take care of yourself, Aric," Davin said quietly before following Olaya outside.
Aric's heart clenched at the concern in Davin's voice—a whisper of something soft and tender beneath the sarcasm and banter that was all too familiar to him. A part of him longed to reach out, to tell Davin everything, but he couldn't risk it.
Not yet.
Not ever.
Instead, he watched as Davin disappeared into the night, leaving Aric feeling even more alone than before.
He trudged up the stairs to the room Virida had offered him again for the time being and sank heavily into bed. His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind was racing too fast for sleep to come. So many questions swirled through his thoughts—about the anomaly, about Malekith and the demon realm—but one question loomed above all others: What was he willing to sacrifice in order to stop it?
The dreamscape was a world of shadows and mist, a formless void that seemed to stretch on forever. Aric drifted through it, his body weightless, his thoughts sluggish and disoriented. He had the sense still as if someone was watching, but he couldn't see anything through the swirling fog.
And then, suddenly, Malekith was there, emerging from the darkness with a grace and fluidity that sent a shiver down Aric's spine.
"Aric," Malekith's voice was a low rush, dark and swift as a moonlit stream.
Aric's heart raced as Malekith approached him, his movements fluid and predatory. There was an air of menace about him, but also something else—something softer, more vulnerable. Aric couldn't tear his eyes away from him, even as every instinct screamed at him to flee.
But he couldn't move; the dream held him captive.
"Malekith," Aric breathed. "What are you—?"
Malekith silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips, and the touch ignited a fire within Aric that sent heat flooding through his veins.
"Shh," Malekith murmured. "No words. Not now."
Aric swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "Why are you here? How did you find me?"
But Malekith didn't answer. Instead, he moved closer, one hand reaching up to caress Aric's face with a gentleness that belied the fierce hunger in his eyes. His thumb brushed over Aric's cheekbone, and Aric's breath caught in his throat.
"You're not real," Aric said, though he wasn't sure if it was meant as a question or a statement. "I saw flashes—images of you imprisoned, you were—No. This isn't real."
Malekith smiled—a slow, wicked smile that sent a thrill of fear and desire racing through Aric's blood.
"Oh, I'm real enough," he said. "Real enough for this."
And then he kissed Aric—a hard, demanding kiss that left no room for protest or denial. Aric's knees went weak as Malekith pulled him closer, wrapping one arm around his waist to hold him up.
The dreamscape shifted around them, roiling like the sea; shadows coiling around them like smoke and flame licking at the edges of their consciousness. But all Aric could feel was Malekith's lips on his own—hot and insistent—and the way his body responded to every touch.
He kissed back with everything he had; pouring all of his fear and longing into that single moment until there was nothing left but raw need. Malekith groaned against his mouth—a low rumble that reverberated through Aric's chest—and deepened the kiss even further.
Aric and Malekith stripped each other down, leaving them bare and exposed to one another, their skin brushing as they moved against each other. Aric's hands roamed over Malekith's body, tracing the contours of his muscles, the scars that told a story of battles fought and survived. Malekith's hands mirrored his movements, and Aric shivered at the touch, a hunger burning in his core.
They undressed each other methodically, their fingers fumbling with urgency as they revealed the flesh beneath. Malekith's hands were strong and commanding, guiding Aric's trembling fingers to unfasten his breeches. As the fabric fell away, Aric gasped at the sight of Malekith's demonic arousal—twisted, ridged, and terrifyingly large. And, oh, how Aric missed it painfully.
Without hesitation, Malekith took hold of both their erections, gripping firmly as he began to stroke them together. Aric moaned, his hips bucking involuntarily as the friction sent waves of pleasure coursing through him. Their bodies entwined, their chests collided with each heavy breath, echoing like distant thunder in the dreamscape.
The kiss turned feral, teeth clashing as Malekith bit down on Aric's lower lip, drawing blood. Aric tasted iron, the metallic tang mingling with the sweetness of their shared breath. It fueled his desire, pushing him further into the whirlpool of passion that threatened to consume him whole.
Malekith continued to frot them, the rhythm steady and relentless, driving Aric towards the precipice of release. Each stroke brought him closer, the pressure building inside him like a storm ready to break. Desperation clawed at him, his nails digging into Malekith's shoulders as he sought some form of relief.
But just when he thought he would finally succumb to the ecstasy that awaited him, Malekith stopped. Withdrawing his hands, he broke the kiss, leaving Aric panting and bewildered. The sudden cessation of stimulation was agonizing, a cruel reminder of how close he had been to satisfaction.
And then the dream shifted again.
The shadows receded, revealing a vast chamber of black marble, chains dangling from the ceiling like a forest of night. Malekith was bound in the center, arms spread wide, chains biting into his flesh as he struggled against them. His eyes met Aric's, a mixture of terror and defiance etched across his features.
"Aric," he gasped. "Help me."
Aric tried to run to him, but it was like wading through thick mud. The distance between them seemed impossibly vast, no matter how hard he tried to close it.
"Malekith," Aric called out, but the words were swallowed by the void. "Who did this to you?"
Malekith's lips moved, forming words that Aric couldn't hear.
The dreamscape fractured further, reality and fantasy blurring at the edges. Aric caught glimpses of unfamiliar landscapes—twisted forests, obsidian spires, rivers that flowed with molten silver. He heard whispers in languages he didn't understand, felt the brush of feathers and scales against his skin.
Through it all, Malekith's presence remained constant—a dark star, an anchor in the chaos. Aric reached for him, desperate to hold onto something solid as the dream threatened to pull him under.
"Aric," Malekith's voice caressed like velvet against his mind. "You must . . ."
But whatever he was trying to say was swallowed by the dreamscape's vortex, leaving only the echo of his voice. Aric strained to hear, but the words slipped through his fingers like smoke.
The dream began to fade, pulling away from him like a retreating tide. Aric reached out, trying to grasp hold of Malekith once more, but he was already vanishing into the shadows.
"Malekith," Aric whispered. "Wait."
But it was too late. The dream was gone, leaving Aric with a profound sense of unease—and a lingering warmth where Malekith had touched him.
Aric jolted awake, his body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. The room was shrouded in darkness, the only sound the pounding of his own heartbeat. But he felt it there, lurking just beneath the surface—the sigil on his back, pulsing with energy, a warm, almost painful sensation that refused to be ignored.
Disoriented, Aric stumbled to the mirror, his heart pounding in his chest. He examined his reflection in the dim light, the sigil on his back shifting slightly, the patterns more intricate and somehow more alive than before.
Unable to shake the lingering effects of the dream and disturbed by the changes to the sigil, Aric paced his room, mind racing. He considered seeking out Olaya but hesitated, unsure of how to explain the intensity of his connection with Malekith. The idea of confessing everything—the passion, the betrayal, the bond that had formed between them—felt like a weight pressing down on him.
Instead, he tried to make sense of the dream on his own, jotting down notes and sketching images in an attempt to decipher any hidden meanings. But it was like trying to hold water in his hands; everything slipped through his grasp, leaving him feeling more adrift than ever.
As dawn broke, a sharp pain stabbed through Aric, tracing the edges of the sigil on his back. He stumbled, hand gripping the doorway for support as his breath came in ragged gasps.
The pain intensified, spreading outwards from the sigil like molten metal being poured into his veins. He fell to his knees, vision swimming as his body was wracked with agony. And then, through the haze of pain, he saw her—a woman with silver hair and swirling lavender-blue eyes, an eerie smile playing at her lips.
Sylthris.
The vision was fleeting, but it left a cold weight in the pit of his stomach, the unsettling feeling that he was being watched from some unseen vantage point.
And worse still was the knowing look in Sylthris's eyes—the suggestion that she knew something he did not.
Five
Acold fog drifted through Thornhaven's streets as Aric and Davin set out for the surrounding forest, the chill clinging to their skin. The town's earlier energy was muted now, replaced by a tense anticipation that mirrored the weight pressing on Aric's chest. His conversation with Olaya had only deepened his sense of unease; there was something sinister lurking beneath the surface of recent events, and Aric couldn't help but wonder if it was all connected.
Their boots crunched over frosted leaves as they moved into the forest, the only sounds their breathing and the faint hum of Davin's magical devices. But even those fell silent as they crossed an invisible threshold into the deeper woods. The air here was thick with a sense of magic, almost like a physical presence that pressed down on them from all sides.
Aric's senses felt raw, exposed. It was an all-too-familiar sensation from his time in the Ebon Spire—a constant awareness of something watching, waiting. But this wasn't like the ominous presence of the demon realm. This was . . . different. Unsettling in its own way, but somehow more subtle.
Davin moved with purpose through the underbrush, his expression focused as he took readings from his devices. Every so often he would pause, consulting with the luminescent glyphs etched into his wrist or murmuring to himself in a language Aric didn't recognize.
But there was nothing definitive—no obvious threat to confront or anomaly to decipher. Just an unsettling tension in the air that made Aric's skin crawl.
As they reached a clearing, Davin stopped abruptly, his head tilting to one side as if listening to some unseen voice. Aric watched him closely; he'd seen mages go into trances before when communing with spirits or tapping into powerful sources of magic.
"It's stronger here," Davin said at last, though it seemed more directed at whatever entity he was speaking with than at Aric. "The resonance is almost overwhelming."
Aric moved to join him, feeling the hum of power that thrummed in the air. It resonated within him like a familiar melody—but one slightly off-key, dissonant notes threading through.
As they combed the area for clues, Aric found himself falling back into an easy rhythm with Davin, reminiscent of their days training at the Silver Tower. It was strange, the way their movements seemed to echo one another without conscious thought; the way they anticipated each other's needs with practiced ease. Even their silences felt companionable, rather than strained.
Davin's laugh startled him. "Remember that time in the ley line chambers?"
Aric groaned, but he couldn't stifle a grin. "Oh gods, don't remind me. I still have nightmares about that."
"You set the ley lines on fire," Davin said, shaking his head. "I didn't even know that was possible."
Aric shrugged, fighting back laughter. "I was trying to push my limits."
"You did that, all right. I'm pretty sure the entire tower was ready to murder you."
"I got a lot of practice at repair spells after that."
Davin gave him a playful shove. "It was an impressive spectacle, if nothing else."
Aric laughed, the sound echoing through the trees. It felt good to laugh like this again, even in the midst of such darkness. It reminded him of simpler times—of late nights in the library with Davin, poring over dusty tomes and ancient scrolls; of quiet conversations as they sat by the garden fountains, watching fireflies dance in the night air.
Their friendship had always held an undercurrent of something more—a tension that sparked between them at odd moments, a longing that Aric felt in his bones. But circumstances and duty had always conspired to keep them apart; first Davin's duties at the Tower, then Aric's departure on his journey.
But now . . .
Davin caught Aric's eye and held it, his smile softening into something warmer, more inviting. For a heartbeat, they were two young mages again, caught up in dreams of what might be.
The warmth in Davin's face was enough to chase back the shadows, fleetingly, to soothe the ache of longing that had settled in Aric's chest. And that, in turn, set a guilty rhythm humming in his blood. Discordant. Dissonant. Yet somehow deliciously so.
But before he could fully savor it, the forest around them shifted.
A shimmer in the air, like heat haze rising from the ground. The trees began to warp, their trunks bending and twisting as if struggling to contain something immense. The very earth seemed to pulse beneath their feet.
"Do you feel that?" Davin asked, his voice tight.
Aric nodded, his own senses singing with it. A resonance that hummed through his bones, echoing back from somewhere deep within him.
From the sigil.
The glyph burned hot—hotter than it had since he'd left Drindal. It was a warning and a promise, the imprint of his bond with Malekith.
"I need to see what it is." Aric's voice was rougher than he'd intended, but he couldn't take it back now. The urge to reach out and touch this magic was too strong; he could no more deny it than he could deny breathing.
Before Davin could protest or offer any of his own readings or words of caution, Aric lifted his hand toward the center of the clearing. The air itself seemed to ripple around them as his own magic reached out in response to the tugging, casting golden light through the shadows like dawn breaking over a haunted land.
The anomaly surged in response.
With a deafening roar, the fabric of reality ripped open before them—spatial warping or disruption from whatever temporal instability fueled this place. Tendrils of raw energy lashed out wildly as it erupted into view, smashing into tree trunks and ripping open saplings as they grew up from the earth and disintegrated all within moments. One tendril came far too close for comfort—
Davin tackled Aric just in time to pull him clear, rolling them both into cover as another wave of distortion crashed over the clearing. Heat seared past their skin, singeing leaves and evaporating dew from morning's cold breath.
When they came to rest in the underbrush, neither man moved for several heartbeats—just lay panting together amid smoking foliage and singed earth while crimson light danced across the canopy above.
"Gods," Davin breathed after long seconds had passed. "That almost had us."
Aric didn't reply right away; just stared up at that churning sky beyond them—the storm they'd almost called down on themselves by touching what shouldn't be touched. Something deep within him felt called toward it still . . .
But instead of meeting whatever it sought there—the source of its strange resonance—he met Davin's worried stare instead; those gold-flecked eyes searching his face intently even as they remained wrapped tightly together amid crackling arcs above their heads.
"It—it's all right." The words came with difficulty—a truth dragged reluctantly into daylight—but once spoken seemed to echo down an endless corridor inside him somewhere, filling empty places long left hollowed out and aching dryly away from home. "I'll be fine."
He didn't know if that last part was true anymore than what lay ahead. Not really. Not when thoughts gnawed ceaselessly inside: secrets half-glimpsed, images that could be memories or nightmares or warnings. Even the Malekith of his dreams last night didn't seem to know which; didn't seem, clearly, to be real or imagined, or something else entirely.
Gods, what was wrong with Aric? What did he care what became of some hateful demon prince far away? He shouldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't pin humanity's hopes on a chance that their half-confessed dreams might be real, that there could be any kind of future for them.
But telling himself so did nothing to stop the acute yearning for it he felt all the same.
With Davin's readings and notes in hand, Aric followed him back through the woods to Thornhaven. The chill fog hadn't lifted, casting a gray pall over the town's thatched roofs and cobblestone streets. Even in daylight, Thornhaven felt insular, its high walls more of a mental barrier than a physical one.
