Aric squared his shoulders and turned back to face the demons, doing his best to ignore the way they eyed him like a juicy slab of meat. “I’m ready.”

The smaller demons exchanged a look, then one of them picked up the vial of black ink and stepped forward. With a few deft strokes, he painted a series of sigils on Aric’s bare chest, the cool substance sending a shiver through him. The other demon unraveled the bundle of cords and began to braid them together, his claws clicking against the beads. Once the vial was empty and the braid complete, they stepped back and bowed.

“The ceremony is concluded. You are prepared for the first trial.”

Aric turned back to Malekith, forcing a confidence he didn’t feel. “Then let’s get on with it.”

Malekith’s expression was inscrutable as he nodded, but his eyes . . . There was a storm in their depths, a roiling darkness that made Aric’s breath catch. Malekith reached out, his fingers grazing the cords that bound Aric’s chest.

“Remember what I taught you,” Malekith said under his breath. “Your mind is your greatest weapon and your strongest shield.”

Aric nodded, his throat too tight for words. Malekith’s fingers lingered on the cords for a moment longer, and then he cupped Aric’s face in his hands, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“I have every confidence in you,” Malekith said, and then he was kissing Aric, a fierce, searing promise that left Aric’s head spinning.

When Malekith finally pulled away, Aric’s head was spinning, his skin on fire. “I won’t let you down,” he said, the words a soft prayer.

Malekith’s gaze held his for a heartbeat longer, then he stepped back, his mask of indifference firmly in place once more. “I know you won’t.”

The guards unlocked the massive doors to the trial chamber, the metal groaning in protest as they pulled the heavy slabs open. The air inside the chamber stank of molten fire, and the room was shrouded in shadows, the only light coming from the pools of lava that dotted the space. As Aric’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out the hulking forms of the demon court gathered in a semicircle before him, their eyes glowing with curiosity.

Aric stepped forward, trying his damnedest to keep his breathing steady, his mind a blank slate. He was ready for whatever test awaited him, ready to prove himself to the demon court and, more importantly, to Malekith.

Tiered seating rose up on all sides of the arena, the shadows playing tricks on Aric’s eyes as he tried to make out the figures that filled them. Demons of all shapes and sizes clustered together, watching him with undisguised avarice, with hunger that made Aric’s head swim.

At the highest point of the arena, a temporary throne had been erected, its obsidian frame jutting out against the roiling lava flows. Sovereign Zaxos sat upon it, his blackened skin gleaming in the eerie light. His eyes, like molten gold, fixed on Aric with a predatory interest that made his skin crawl.

Sylthris stood at Zaxos’s right hand, her silver hair shimmering in the harsh light. She met Aric’s gaze with a small, secret smile, and a shiver raced through him. What game was she playing, and whose side was she truly on?

A hush fell over the crowd as Malekith led Aric into the arena’s heart, the stone floor cool and smooth beneath Aric’s bare feet. The cords bound around his chest tugged at his skin, and he fought to keep his posture rigid, his expression blank. He was a mage, a warrior, a protector of his people. He would not show them the fear constricting all around him, though he knew it would be all too easy to fail.

At the center of the arena stood a shimmering, semi-transparent structure, its walls twisting and shifting. The magical maze. Aric’s pulse quickened as he caught sight of it, a surge of raw power radiating from the arcane construct. Surrounding the maze were a circle of demon sorcerers, their hands already weaving complex patterns in the air, their voices a low, guttural chant that set Aric’s teeth on edge.

Malekith led Aric to the entrance of the maze, the cords bound around Aric’s chest tugging at his skin with each step. The stone floor of the arena was cool beneath his bare feet, but the heat of the demons’ stares made his skin prickle. A demon official, his skin a mottled red, stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with malice.

“Human,” the demon said, his voice a harsh rasp. “You will enter the maze and navigate its twists and turns. The sorcerers will attempt to cloud your mind, to lead you astray with illusions and false paths. You must resist their manipulations and find your way to the maze’s center. If you succeed, then perhaps you can earn your freedom amongst us yet. If you fail . . .”

The demon’s lips curled in a cruel smile. “Well. Let us hope for your sake you do not fail.”

As Aric stepped through the shimmering barrier, the demons’ screeching and jeering fell silent, the air around him thick with magic. The whispers of the demon audience faded away, replaced by an oppressive silence. The only sound was the thud of his own heart in his ears, the only movement the shifting of the maze’s walls.

Aric forced himself to take a deep breath, the cool, sulfur-tinged air stinging his lungs. Center himself, as Malekith had taught him. Reach out with his senses, but be wary of what he found. The sorcerers surrounding the maze were already weaving their spells, the air around them shimmering with power. Illusions. Tricks to cloud his mind, to lead him astray.

The first rule of the maze was simple. Nothing was as it seemed.

Aric closed his eyes, blocking out the distractions of the arena, and focused on the steady thrum of his magic. It was there, a flickering flame deep within him, waiting to be called forth. He drew on it, coaxing it to the surface, and felt the heat of it wash over his skin.

Let the magic guide you.

With another steadying breath, Aric opened his eyes and stepped forward into the maze.

The world around him wavered and shifted as soon as he crossed the threshold, the twisting corridors coming to life. Visions flickered at the corner of his vision—taunting shadows, fleeting glimpses of figures darting just out of sight. The air was thick with the scent of brimstone, the acrid taste of it burning the back of his throat.

He focused on the path unfolding before him, the cool stone beneath his feet, the walls of the maze as they shimmered and warped. The first turn came up quickly, a tangle of pathways stretching out before him. He used his dulled magical sense to search for the threads of magic that would point the way.

There. A faint shimmer in the air, a subtle distortion that marked the path’s true course. Aric fixed the image in his mind and stepped forward, ignoring the illusions that danced at the corner of his vision. The stone floor echoed hollowly with each step, and the labyrinth’s walls groaned as they shifted, but he forged ahead.

The first illusion hit Aric like a physical blow.

One moment, he was navigating a narrow corridor, the stone walls of the maze closing in around him. And then, with a sickening lurch, he was somewhere else entirely. The world around him rippled and shifted, and suddenly he was standing in the ruins of Drindal, the stench of smoke and blood thick in the air.

He stumbled back, his heart racing, as figures moved in the shadows, taunting him, beckoning to him. The dead walked the streets, their eyes empty, their flesh rotting away. Aric’s breath caught in his throat, a wave of nausea and dizziness washing over him.

“You’ve betrayed everything we stand for.” The dead figure in the distance resolved into Olaya, her face a mask of disappointment, disgust. “You’ve betrayed your people.”

“Please, Olaya.” Aric stood his ground, hands at his sides, though golden light danced at his fingertips. “Please see the purpose behind what I’m trying to do. You always understood me better than anyone.”

Her mouth opened, but only silence came out, the sorcerers unable to wrench a proper retort from Aric’s mind, no doubt.

And that was the key, wasn’t it? He wasn’t fighting against the illusions themselves, no. He only had to understand the limitations of the spells being woven around him, of the sorcerers weaving them. One by one, he quieted each illusion, with a flicker of flame or a few sharply placed words.

Once more he tore through the false images, the twisted corridors of the maze melting away. The demon howled in outrage, the sorcerers redoubling their efforts, their voices rising in a frantic chant. But he ignored it all, his focus singular, his purpose clear.

The first few turns were simple, the path yielding before him like a ribbon through the shifting stone. Aric’s confidence swelled with each step, his magic guiding him true. He ignored the whispers that echoed in the maze’s depths, the shadows churning around him like a gathering storm. They were only illusions, after all.

But as he delved deeper into the maze, the illusions became more intense, more personal. The shadows took on familiar shapes, the voices his own. They whispered taunts, his deepest insecurities laid bare.

You are betraying your people.

You are a fool to trust the demon.

You will fail, and all will be lost.

Aric grit his teeth and forced himself to move, to push through the illusion. It wasn’t real. It was just a trick of the sorcerers, a test of his resolve. With a cry, he lunged forward, and the illusion shattered.

But behind the lesser ones stood one more, looming larger than all the rest.

“Traitor.” The hiss came from around a corner, and Aric stumbled back, his heart lurching in his chest. “Demon’s whore.”

The Illusion solidified before him—a twisted, wicked mirror of Cyrus Revenant. His cold, dead eyes stared into Aric’s, and for a moment, Aric was sure he was looking at the real thing. The force of Cyrus’s judgment, his disgust at Aric’s betrayal, pressed against him, unyielding.

His hands shook with a surge of rage, the golden flames of his magic flickering to life. The Illusion sneered at him, a cruel, hateful grin. “Look at you. All it took was a taste of power, and you sold out your own kind. You’re a disgrace, Solarian. A stain on everything the mages are supposed to be.”

The words cut deeper than any blade, and Aric’s nails dug into his palms. He was trying so hard to hold onto himself, to remember that the Illusion wasn’t real. But the taunts, the doubts—they were.

A sign of weakness, Malekith had said. And Cyrus’s Illusion knew it. Knew Aric’s deepest fears, his most wrenching guilts. Lashing out now would only prove that the Illusion had power over him.

Aric’s jaw hardened, grinding his teeth together as the golden flames rose up his forearms. He’d always seen Cyrus as the enemy, the embodiment of everything wrong with his people’s doctrine. He was cruel and sadistic, his hatred so all-consuming that it left nothing but a withered husk of a man in its wake.