Aric’s fingers twitched, the memory of his powers bound and useless still too fresh in his mind.

“And the third trial will test your loyalty,” Zaxos said. “A choice that will determine the fate of both our kind and yours.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and portentous. Aric knew he was being given a chance, a slim hope of redemption in the face of his betrayal. But the price of failure would be steep, and he had no illusions about the consequences. Death would be a mercy compared to what Zaxos had in store for him.

Vizra surged forward like a viper striking, her honey-colored skin flushed with anger. “This is an outrage, Sovereign!” she hissed, her eyes flashing like molten gold. “The human has consorted with our enemies, and even now, a spy in our midst seeks to undermine our cause. His fate is already sealed, and yet you would reward his treachery with such leniency?”

A hushed silence fell over the chamber, the other demons shrinking back, unwilling to be caught in the crossfire. Zaxos’s gaze never left Malekith’s, his eyes burning with silent challenge.

“Vizra speaks true, my Sovereign,” Sylthris said. “The human has committed a grave crime, one that cannot go unpunished. But perhaps in his trials, we will discover whether his treachery is a stain that can be cleansed, or a disease that must be excised.”

The demon lords shifted uneasily, torn between their allegiance to Zaxos and the sense that Vizra was the one speaking their true desires. Malekith’s jaw clenched, his fingers white-knuckled where they rested on the arm of Aric’s chair.

Vizra, however, was not so easily cowed. Her eyes blazed with fury, the air around her crackling with power. “Sovereign, you cannot be serious. To grant such leniency to an enemy of our kind⁠—”

“Sovereign Zaxos’s word is absolute.” The words were soft, but they silenced Vizra instantly. Zaxos rose to his full height, a mountain of shadow and flame, and towered over Aric and the other demons gathered. “The trials will commence in three days. This is the sovereign’s will.”

Vizra’s jaw clenched, her entire body trembling with suppressed rage. But after a long moment, she bowed low. “As you command, my Sovereign.”

Zaxos’s gaze swept over the chamber once more, and the other demon lords quickly followed Vizra’s lead, bowing before their sovereign. The guards dragged Aric to his feet, and he stumbled forward in a clumsy attempt at a bow, his mind reeling. He had known Zaxos’s trials would be no easy path, but this—this was a death sentence, a slow and agonizing torment designed to break him, body and soul.

“Then it is settled,” Zaxos said. “May the trials reveal the truth of the human’s heart, and guide us in the path that is right.”

As Zaxos seated himself once more, the guards yanked Aric back, binding his hands and shoving him forward. Malekith’s eyes burned with a fierce light as he watched Aric go, and though he was silent, it was as if Aric could still hear Malekith’s voice echoing in his head, a balm to his bruised and battered spirit.

Aric, I swear to you, I will protect you. No matter the cost.

Sovereign Zaxos eyed the human with unreadable eyes, seeing him only as a piece to be moved, unknowing, in a greater game.

Aric’s entire being felt shredded, broken, raw. Malekith had vouched for him in the face of certain destruction. And for what? Aric had led the demons to two critical defeats in the human territories. The Sovereign had every right to execute him for his incompetence.

But as Aric scanned the assembly’s faces, he did not see disappointment or malice. He saw hunger, curiosity, a few shreds of disbelief. The gathered demons were practically salivating at the prospect of the trials, at the chance to witness whatever gruesome fate awaited him.

He straightened his back, refusing to be cowed, and met Zaxos’s gaze head-on.

“I accept,” he said, his voice miraculously steady. The guards pushed him forward, and as he passed Zaxos, the ancient demon grinned at him, rows of jagged teeth glinting in the firelight.

A ripple of whispered shock followed him as he was dragged from the throne room. The demon guards threw him back in his cell, and the heavy iron door clanged shut, sealing him once more in darkness.

But it was a different kind of darkness that haunted Aric as he sat on the stone floor, his thoughts a turbulent maelstrom. A darkness that lingered in the touch of Malekith’s hands, and the heat of his body, and the promise in his eyes.

Dawn broke over the mountains in a wash of golden light, but Aric still felt as if he was falling, endlessly falling, into the depths of those shadows, unable and unwilling to find his way back to the surface.

It was done. His fate was sealed, bound up in the enigma of the stone and the trials that awaited him. If he wanted to survive—and, he had to admit, if he wanted to keep the demons from gaining the weapon he carried within him—then he had no choice but to face whatever horrors Zaxos had in store.

And to trust, however hesitantly, in Malekith’s assurance that he would not face them alone.

Twelve

The abandoned estate sat perched on a low rise, over the lush valley of the Burning River below, and once it must have been a stately manor house, boasting countless rooms and wings and balconies from which to admire the view. The road that wound up to its entrance had long since been swallowed by encroaching wilderness, but the demon guardsmen led the way without hesitation, their steeds picking a sinuous path between the gnarled trees and overgrown brush.

Aric and Malekith rode side by side at the center of their small convoy, their expressions carefully neutral, but there was no chance for them to speak privately. The Sovereign’s guards hemmed them in on all sides, their eyes watchful and weapons at the ready, a stark reminder of the precariousness of their position.

Not to mention the harsh and brutal reality of the power their captors still held over them, no matter the strange bond that had formed between Aric and Malekith. At a word from their sovereign, they could both be put to the sword—or worse. Aric had heard the stories of the demonic torture devices, the ones that didn’t kill, the ones that kept their victims in a state of constant agony, and he knew that Malekith and his guardsmen were no less skilled in the art of war and death.

But the eerie silence that enveloped them all was an even greater torment. He would have taken Malekith’s icy glares, Vizra’s haughty taunts, Karthax’s sadistic glee, or even Sylthris’s cryptic warnings right then, rather than this void.

The whole march, Malekith had kept his gaze fixed forward, his expression veiled and distant, giving Aric no clue as to what was running through his mind. Aric wished desperately for even a fleeting glance, a touch of reassurance, but it was too much to hope for—none more so than to dare reach for Malekith’s hand where it dangled by his thigh.

He held his own expression in a stony mask as they dismounted and made their way toward the manor entrance. The trials that awaited him at the Wrathgate would test him to his very limits, and there was no guarantee that he would emerge unscathed.

But it was a risk he had to take. For himself, for his people, and, most of all, for the fragile but stubborn bond that bound him inextricably to Malekith.

Aric’s heart ached as he took in the grandeur that had once been the estate. The sweeping marble floors, the intricate mosaics that told the story of the borderlands settlemnts, the lush gardens that surrounded the villa, all of it spoke to a life of luxury and power. But it was the small details that tugged at Aric’s memories, the things that spoke to the family that must have once called this place home. The well-worn path that led from the stables, where the children must have raced to greet their father after a long journey. The row of flowering bushes, carefully tended, that lined the terrace, surely a favorite of the lady of the house.

A name. What was their name?

The estate had been abandoned for some time, from the look of it, the grand furnishings covered in a thick layer of dust, the gardens gone wild from lack of care. Had it been this way since the end of the last war, the one that had claimed the rest of his family? Or had it been more recent, a casualty of the ongoing conflict? Aric tried not to dwell on the implications of either answer as they were shown to their rooms.

They were led through a maze of corridors, the guardsmen’s boots ringing on the marble floors. The portrait that hung in the entryway of the house’s lord and lady and children, their heads held high and proud. The suite of rooms that had once belonged to them, now stripped bare of any personal touches. The balcony that jutted out over the valley, offering a breathtaking view of the sunset, now tinged in too much red.

The Andriths, he remembered with a pang. That was their name.

He pushed the memories aside with a fierce scowl as they headed deeper into the estate. The guardsmen had cleared out the worst of the dust and cobwebs, but the air still held a stale, musty scent from years of disuse. The furnishings were sparse, but serviceable, and a banked fire in the hearth promised to chase away the chill. Aric’s belongings had been brought up from the demon camp, his spare robes and a few other essentials carefully arranged on the bed.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, my lord?” the guardsman asked, his expression carefully blank.

Aric glanced at Malekith, who was surveying the room with a similar look of detachment. “It will do,” he said, and the guardsman gave a quick bow before retreating, leaving them alone.

A heavy silence settled between them, and Aric’s skin prickled with the sense of unease that had been haunting him since their arrival. He moved to the balcony doors and slid them open, the cool evening air washing over him. The valley was shrouded in darkness, the only light the twinkling of the stars overhead and the distant glow of the Burning River. The river that had once marked the boundary between the demon realm and the human, a barrier that had done little to stop the ravages of war.

“Aric.” Malekith’s voice was a soft, velvety caress, and Aric turned to find him watching him from the center of the room. “You’re restless.”

“I—” Aric hesitated, then crossed the room to join him. “I was just thinking. About the family that used to live here.”

“You wonder what became of them.” It wasn’t a question. He reached out, his fingers grazing the bare skin of Aric’s arm, and Aric shivered at the touch.

“Yes.” Aric bit his lower lip. “It’s not important.”

“If it has you so restless, then it must be.” Malekith’s thumb traced over the inside of Aric’s wrist, and he fought to suppress a shiver. “I understand the urge to wonder.”

“I don’t know what to expect from these trials.” Aric’s voice was thick with emotion, and he had to look away, out into the darkness of the valley. “I appreciate the opportunity, honest, but I⁠—”

“But it’s not enough.” Malekith’s hand fell away, the loss of his touch like a physical ache. “It’s not enough, if the cost is too high. If the path leads only to more suffering and death.”

It sounded like Malekith was trying to convince himself, rather than Aric, but Aric didn’t push the point.

“I wish I could have seen this town as you did,” Malekith said. “Perhaps that world might come into being once again. A future that is not built on the bones of the dead.”