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.”
Aric turned back to him, the moonlight casting his features in sharp relief. There was a fierce yearning in his eyes, a desire for something more that echoed Aric’s own. He was so different from the cold, aloof demon prince Aric had first known, and that difference was what drew Aric to him, what made him believe, against all reason, that there might be a way for them to bridge the vast divide between their worlds.
“I want to believe you,” Aric said, and he meant it, with all his heart. “But it won’t be easy. You know that, don’t you?”
“Nothing worth having ever is.”
They stood like that for a long moment, the only sound the hushed rustle of their clothing and the distant cry of a twilight bird. Aric felt as if he were teetering on the edge of a precipice, the ground shifting beneath his feet, but as long as Malekith was there to anchor him, he was unafraid.
“Come,” Malekith said at last, his voice a low rumble. “Let’s take a walk in the gardens. I have a feeling you could use the fresh air.”
Aric smiled, grateful for the offer, and let Malekith lead him back through the corridors and out into the night.
The gardens were a shadow of what they must have been in their prime, the moonlight revealing the tangle of withered plants and overgrown pathways. Without the protective wards that once shielded the estate, the wilderness of the demon realm was quick to encroach, the trees stretching their gnarled limbs hungrily over the walls. But even in their neglected state, the gardens held a fragile beauty, and Aric felt a pang of regret that he’d been gone for so long.
Malekith led him through the overgrown paths, the crunch of dead leaves and brittle branches the only sound in the stillness. The guards maintained a watchful distance, but made no move to follow them as they wandered deeper into the gardens. Aric’s gaze was drawn to the skeletal trees, their twisted limbs silhouetted against the starry sky, and he couldn’t help but shiver.
“The demon realms are seeping in,” Malekith said, as if reading his thoughts. “This is what happens to your lands when the protective wards fall, I suppose.”
Malekith hesitated, then led Aric to a secluded corner of the gardens, a stone bench overlooking a moonlit fountain. The water had long since run dry, the basin caked with a layer of black mold, but it held a strange beauty, like a work of art in a modern gallery.
