Sundered by Fate: Dark M/M Demon Fantasy Romance, page 9
The dark energy crashed against his shield like a tidal wave, but the golden light held strong. Aric's teeth ground together as he focused all his strength and willpower into maintaining the barrier.
When the barrage finally ceased, Aric unfolded his wings and glared down at the demon. His aura burned brighter than ever, and the fire in his eyes was a reflection of the golden flame that raged within him.
Aric tightened his control on his magic to wrangle it into one final, devastating attack. Golden energy coalesced around his hands, forming a brilliant sphere of pure magical force.
"Enough," Aric growled, and the word reverberated with power, echoing across the battlefield.
With a cry of exertion, he hurled the sphere at the demon. The impact was catastrophic, engulfing the demon in golden light. It shrieked in agony, its monstrous form twisting and writhing as the magic seared through it.
The demon lord's form disintegrated, breaking into motes of dark energy that quickly dissipated into the night. The remaining demons, witnessing the destruction of their leader, turned and fled in terror, their once-unified assault now a chaotic rout.
Aric stood alone on the battlefield, his golden aura slowly fading. The strength that had filled him only moments before now left him feeling drained and hollowed out. But a fierce sense of triumph burned in his chest, the knowledge that he'd protected Thornhaven, at least for now.
The townsfolk began to emerge from their homes, wide-eyed and murmuring in awe. Aric's heart sank as he noticed the way they looked at him—an unspoken question hanging in the air.
He didn't have an answer for them; didn't even know how to begin explaining what had happened. And yet there was still so much more he needed to understand.
As the demon army retreated into the night, Aric slumped against the town's walls, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The golden aura around him flickered and died, leaving only a faint shimmer in its wake.
The townsfolk gathered around him, their eyes wide with awe and fear. But Aric couldn't bring himself to meet their gazes; he was too drained, too weary.
He'd done it. He'd saved Thornhaven from the demons' attack, contained the anomaly before it could cause further damage. But at what cost?
As the adrenaline faded, questions began to flood his mind. Where had this incredible power come from? Why had he been able to access it now? And what was the truth about the anomaly?
The sealed rift still pulsed faintly in the town square, a reminder of the threat that lingered even now. And they were no closer to understanding its origins or purpose.
Olaya rushed forward to check on Aric, her hands fluttering over him like she wanted to help but didn't know how. "Aric—are you all right?"
He tried to brush her off, but he could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, the lingering aftereffects of the magic he'd drawn upon. He sagged, weary, but forced himself to stay upright.
"I'm fine," he said, though it sounded more like a gasp than anything else.
"You're not fine," Davin said, coming up beside them. He slipped an arm around Aric's waist, steadying him when his legs threatened to give out.
Aric clung to them both, grateful for their support even as he resented needing it. His pride stung at the thought of appearing weak, but he knew the dangers of pushing himself too far.
"The anomaly's even stronger than I thought," Aric said, his voice hoarse. "And the things I glimpsed in it . . ."
A shiver ran through him as he remembered the visions that had assaulted him during the battle. Flashes of other worlds and timelines, memories that weren't his own. A terrible sense of wrongness that threatened to consume him.
"We have to warn the Silver Tower," he said. "The king's court, too. They need to know what's happening."
He looked up at Olaya and Davin, their expressions grim but resolute.
"Pureblades be damned. We have no choice."
They exchanged a glance, then nodded in unison.
"Then we go back to Astaria."
Seven
Aric stood at the prow of the river barge as it glided through the thick morning mist, revealing the city of Astaria's sprawling silhouette. Even from a distance, the sight of it set his heart pounding—a chaotic clash of emotions. The gnawing guilt of all that had transpired during his absence. The treacherous hope that perhaps, just perhaps, he could set things right.
But mostly, there was the sheer, paralyzing terror of what awaited him.
He gripped the railing tight, his knuckles white as the memories came flooding back—the heavy scrape of iron gates, the sharp tang of wards thick in the air. How he'd begged for an assignment, any assignment that would get him to the front lines where he could make a difference. How naively he'd believed he could fix everything with sheer force of will.
That certainty seemed laughable now. Astaria had endured while he was away, adapting and surviving without him. New fortifications rose along the skyline, strange silhouettes disrupting its familiar lines. Thick, shimmering wards, rough and scattered without the larger wards to shelter them, encased entire districts like freshly laid scabs.
How much had changed? Within himself, a great deal, certainly. But in this world he once called home—
Well. It was time he found out.
The ship nudged against the dock, ropes thrown and secured with brisk efficiency. Aric followed Olaya, Ruta, and Davin down the gangplank, his legs uncertain after the days spent on the river.
The port swarmed with life, yet every sound and scent scraped across Aric's senses, raw and jagged. Too much, too soon. Dockworkers called to one another in harsh cadences as they heaved crates from cargo holds. Merchants hollered prices in voices like rusted iron, scents of fish and spices mingling around them.
All around him, people eyed him furtively before quickly looking away. Some whispered to their neighbors; others hurried past, hands clenched into fists. And above it all came the faint thrum of distant wards. Barely audible now, but still enough to raise the fine hairs on the back of his neck.
Aric's sigil pulsed hot beneath his shirt like a brand. How had he ever believed he could simply slip back into this life? Into this skin that felt more and more like an ill-fitting mask with each step he took.
"Easy, dear one," Olaya said, her hand a firm weight on his shoulder.
He turned to find her watching him, a soft look of understanding in her eyes that only sharpened his awareness of everything he'd lost.
Yet he drew comfort from her presence all the same. From all of theirs. Together they could face whatever awaited them. They had to.
"Let's go," Aric said roughly, forcing his feet to move again.
Their boots clattered on the cobblestones as they pressed through the bustling market crowds toward the towers of the mage enclave rising on the horizon, calling them home at last.
Aric couldn't help but stare as the streets of Astaria opened up around them. Here was where he'd spent his childhood—learning to read, write, and wield magic. The Silver Tower had been his sanctuary, its grand halls a safe haven from the chaos outside.
He'd never imagined it would be so foreign now.
Olaya's voice brought him back to the present. "I should warn you, the political situation's only gotten worse in your absence."
Aric arched an eyebrow as they turned down a narrow lane flanked by alchemy shops and talisman vendors, the street made hazy by the acrid smoke of a blacksmith's forge. "It was teetering on the brink when I left."
"Perhaps. But at least King Aster still held things together, as weak-willed as he could be. Since he fell ill nearly a year ago, though . . . Well. Things have changed."
The words scraped against old wounds. Aric had always resented the king's readiness to cede power to the Pureblade Order when their goals aligned, which was all too often for Aric's liking. But now?
"The king's nephew, Valerian, has been the de facto ruler in Aster's absence, but Aster has yet to make any formal decree regarding succession." Olaya's tone was pained, something else Aric couldn't ignore.
“Can’t say as I’ve ever met the man,” Aric said. “What is he like?”
Olaya pressed her lips together. "Astute. But he's younger, inexperienced. More focused on consolidating his own power than providing stability to the kingdom."
"And the Pureblade Order is more than happy to fill that void," Aric said bitterly.
Olaya gave him a measuring look as they wove through the thickening crowds in the main plaza. "There's more to it than that. Their priestly allies, the Disciples of the Holy Flame, have gained a foothold in court. Spreading their harsh dogma and inciting fear."
Aric clenched his jaw tight, fire sparking through him at the thought of Cyrus Revenant and his fanatical ilk. "I take it this means they've strengthened their hold over Astaria itself."
"For the most part." Olaya grimaced as they passed a group of Pureblade knights marching toward the palace's gates. "There are some, at least, who think Revenant is growing too extreme in his methods. They're still willing to work with us rather than blame us for the demons."
Aric suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. And yet, if the Silver Tower's new weapons were responsible for the anomalies, then maybe they were to bear some blame. Just not in the way the Pureblades thought.
As they moved through the city, the contrasts were stark.
The outer districts bore the marks of recent military activity—troops mustering in courtyards, running drills that rattled the windows of nearby shops. Workers scrambled to construct siege weaponry, and an air of vigilance hung heavy over the citizens who hurried past with clenched jaws and furrowed brows.
Aric's pulse quickened. Here was the reality of the demon threat he'd tried so desperately to combat. But then he noticed something else—the scars left on buildings, the charred timbers and shattered glass that had yet to be mended. It didn’t make sense. What could have caused that kind of destruction within the safety of Astaria?
"Have there been attacks on the city itself?" he asked Olaya in a low voice.
Her eyes hardened, and she shook her head quickly before nodding toward the Silver Tower looming ever closer. "It’s . . . hard to explain. Later."
As they moved inward, the air of tension shifted to one of luxury. The wide avenues that approached the palace were pristine, lined with manicured hedges and opulent mansions guarded by retinues of well-armed sentries. The citizens here strode with an air of confidence, their clothes rich with embroidery and precious metals glinting in the sun.
The disparity set Aric's teeth on edge. He'd known Astaria held its share of haves and have-nots, but seeing them juxtaposed so starkly was unsettling. It was an inequality that echoed uncomfortably close to what he'd witnessed in the demon realm.
Ruta caught his eye from the other side of Davin, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She too understood how fragile this veneer of civilization really was. How little it took for it to crumble away.
Aric reached out and touched her arm briefly, offering silent acknowledgment. They'd seen the truth behind masks like these. But if there was one thing Aric had learned in his time away, it was that he could no longer accept those falsehoods as immutable.
As they approached the palace gates, Aric's vision blurred, and the world tilted on its axis. For a breathless instant, Malekith's face loomed before him, superimposed over the ornate facade. The demon's dark eyes were filled with an unspoken warning that speared through Aric's mind.
Aric staggered, the ground rushing up to meet him, but Davin's hands were suddenly on him, solid and strong. "Aric! What's wrong?" Davin's voice was urgent, and the warmth of his body pressed against Aric's as he steadied him.
The contact sent a jolt through Aric's senses, stirring up a complex tangle of emotions and half-remembered flashes from their past. As the vision faded, he found himself staring into Davin's concerned eyes, their faces mere inches apart.
"I—I'm fine," Aric muttered, hastily straightening up and stepping back. "Just a little . . . disoriented."
Olaya watched them with a calculating look, one eyebrow raised. But Ruta seemed oblivious to the undercurrents of tension rippling through the group.
Even now, as his vision cleared, the memory of Malekith, bound and tortured, burned in Aric's mind. He'd been so certain it was real at the time, but now he couldn't shake the nagging doubt. Was it some kind of trick, a manipulation by the anomaly? Or worse, was it an actual glimpse into what Malekith was suffering right now?
Aric shuddered. He didn't have answers to those questions—only a dark certainty that whatever it was, he had to face it head-on.
But he couldn't share his fears with the others. Not yet. They already looked at him with suspicion in their eyes, waiting for him to slip up. Aric couldn't afford to give them any more reason to question him.
So he clenched his jaw and forced himself to smile at Davin's concerned face.
The palace gates swung open at their approach, and a young aide in flowing Astarian livery hurried to meet them. Her smile seemed strained, her eyes flicking from Aric to Olaya to Ruta and back again with barely concealed wariness.
"Archmage Olaya." She offered a shallow curtsey. "We've been expecting you. If you'll follow me, please, the council is eager to hear your report."
Olaya nodded, falling into step beside the aide as they moved down the polished marble corridors. But Aric noticed how her shoulders tensed, the way her hand never strayed far from the dagger sheathed at her belt.
"The situation is delicate," the aide continued in a low voice, glancing around as if fearing their every word might be overheard. "The regent is eager for any news that might help him maintain order."
"Of course," Olaya said smoothly. "We'll do our best to provide him with the information he seeks."
But there was something in the aide's tone that set Aric's instincts prickling. An undertone of fear and desperation. As if she were trying to convey more than her words allowed.
He could feel Davin watching him, as if sensing his unease. But there was no time to address it now. Not when the aide was leading them deeper and deeper into the palace's labyrinthine halls.
"I'm afraid the regent is occupied at this moment," the aide went on. "But he will be with you at his earliest possible convenience."
Aric exchanged a look with Ruta and Davin. Was this some kind of power play by Valerian?
The antechamber to the Lord Regent's office was already crowded when they arrived—courtiers, petitioners, and assorted hangers-on all jostling for position. The air was thick with incense and tension as the palace staff moved between them, offering refreshments with practiced smiles.
Aric tried to avoid the curious stares directed their way. He was far from the only returning veteran of the demon wars, but the Mage Circle's delegation seemed to draw particular scrutiny. Some nodded respectfully to Olaya; others eyed Aric with undisguised suspicion.
"It's not every day the heroes of the Battle of Brenville grace these halls," a courtier in elaborate silks said, sidling up to them. "You're not here to demand more gold for your services, I hope?"
"We're here to offer what assistance we can," Olaya replied smoothly. "In whatever manner best serves His Majesty."
Aric bit back a smart rejoinder. It would take more than polite platitudes to smooth over the looming political storm.
As they waited, snatches of conversation reached Aric's ears—whispers of factions jockeying for power in the regent's absence, alliances forming and crumbling overnight. There were rumors of secret negotiations with foreign powers, of escalating tensions on other borders.
Names floated past him like specters from another life—lords and ladies he'd known or heard of during his time in the capital. But their faces had aged, their voices grown harsher and more brittle.
They dressed themselves in genteelness and polity, but now, when Aric looked at him, all he saw was the same claws and fangs lurking beneath that he'd faced in the Sovereign’s court.
The sigil burned against his back, an almost physical sensation. But the magic here was different—less restrained than he remembered. As if the currents themselves had grown unruly during his absence.
He could only hope that was not a portent of things to come.
After what felt like an eternity, they were finally ushered into Valerian's private chambers. Heavy silk drapes hung over tall, mullioned windows, a tapestry depicting Astarian victories past. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface littered with maps and reports. Stacks of books teetered precariously on side tables, and strange magical artifacts hummed softly in corners.
And there, behind the desk, stood Lord Regent Valerian himself.
Aric almost didn't recognize him at first. He'd grown up around the same time as Aric, perhaps a few years younger, such that Aric always found it slightly strange to encounter broadsheets and illustrations concerning the king's nephew, the man most likely to succeed the childless king, and see someone roughly Aric's own age. But now Valerian was every inch the Astarian prince, with sharp eyes and a strong face that seemed carved from alabaster. Yet beneath the polish was an aura of barely contained impatience and dissatisfaction.
"Archmage Olaya." Valerian's voice was smooth as velvet, but carried an edge like a honed blade. "You've been gone far too long. I trust that you bring me news of the utmost importance?"
Olaya gave a shallow bow. "Lord Regent. We've uncovered much that I believe will be of interest to you."
"And who is this?" Valerian's gaze fell on Aric for the first time, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the wild tangle of Aric's sandy hair and his weather-beaten face.
"Forgive me," Aric said, dropping into a perfunctory bow. He should have prepared a better story—yet he still had only frayed threads to work from. "I am Aric Solarian, a mage of the Silver Tower."
Instantly, Valerian's entire demeanor shifted. The impatience melted away, replaced by something colder and more calculating.
