Malekith reached the center of the chamber, and with a simple gesture, a map of the human realm sprang into being, hovering in the air. Malekith traced the borders with his clawed fingertips, his nails leaving smoking trails against the glamor in their wake.
“Our intelligence has confirmed the placement of the human wards, as the mage indicated. The northwestern wards are maintained from three towns in quick succession as they lead into the Kingdom of Astaria: the town of Drindal, the city of Brenville, and the duchy of Wythe.” The glamor illuminated the three towns, strung like a constellation leading toward Astaria. “With this knowledge, we have devised a three-pronged approach to shatter their defenses and strike at the heart of their realm.”
Aric’s stomach churned. He’d given them everything they needed, all to save himself and Malekith from Zaxos’s wrath. But at what cost? His people’s safety was the reason he’d sought out the demon prince in the first place, but this—it was a death sentence for countless innocents.
Malekith turned toward him. “You have proven your worth to this council a thousand times over. Now let us finish what we have begun.”
A hush fell over the chamber, and for a moment, the only sound Aric heard was the pounding of his heart; he felt nothing but the raw, exposed flesh of his palms where he’d dug his nails in. He braced himself, waiting for the storm to break, for the accusations and recriminations to come crashing down.
Vizra was the first to speak, her words barbed. “Is this the best you could do, my prince? A mere mortal to do the work that you and your lackeys could not?”
Aric winced, but he kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Vizra was there when Malekith killed Darioth. She’d been part of Darioth’s schemes to lure Aric into their confidence, all so Darioth could steal Aric’s human magic for himself. Only by bringing the knowledge of the human wards to Sovereign Zaxos first were Malekith and Aric able to spare themselves from Zaxos’s wrath, and even then, Vizra had gained control of Darioth’s forces, placing her house on equal footing with House Ixion as one of the vanguards of the demons’ new war campaign.
“Vizra, you forget yourself,” Malekith said, his tone smooth, but with a dangerous undercurrent. “You are speaking to your prince.”
Vizra’s lip curled, a sneer of molten gold. “I am speaking to the one who claimed he would be sovereign one day, and see how that worked out for you, Malekith. Iff you cannot deliver the human realm into our grasp, then perhaps you are not fit to rule at all.”
The other demon lords exchanged furtive glances, their expressions hidden in the shifting shadows. Vizra was not alone in her dissent, that much was clear, and Aric’s stomach twisted with unease.
“You question my loyalty to our kind?”
“I question your competence.” Vizra’s words were like acid, eating away at the fragile bonds that held the court together. “For centuries, your house has coveted the Onyx Throne, but what have you to show for it? Endless war, and for what? Stalemates? Constantly beaten back from the humans’ borders as they devise new magic to repel us? If you cannot claim victory now, then perhaps it is time for a new dynasty to rise.”
The chamber was filled with the rustle of wings, the scrape of talons on obsidian. The demon lords were taking sides, their alliances shifting and reforming before Aric’s eyes. He had no place here, no voice in this deadly dance, but he couldn’t bear to look away.
On the Onyx Throne, Zaxos was watching them, his molten gold eyes burning with an intensity that seared Aric to the core. He was a predator, too, in his own way, and Aric was all too aware of the vast power that lay coiled within the ancient demon lord.
But if Zaxos was troubled by Vizra’s challenge, he gave no sign. He merely inclined his head, and the air in the chamber seemed to shift, the balance of power realigning. Neither conceding Vizra her point, nor disagreeing with it.
“Continue,” Zaxos said, and Malekith’s shoulders slumped, the tension bleeding out of him.
“Very well.” Malekith’s voice was a low, gravelly sound. “As I have said, we will use the human mage’s information to bypass their wards and strike at their realm. The first phase of the operation will—”
—And then Malekith was speaking, his words a tide that swept Aric away. He listened, dazed, as the demon prince outlined his plan, each word carefully chosen, each detail honed to a razor’s edge. It was brilliant, in its own terrible way, a masterpiece of deception and destruction.
And all of it designed to puncture the human realms—Aric’s realms—with a wound that could never heal.
The council of demon lords hung on his every word, their doubts and dissension momentarily silenced. Malekith might give off the air of a spoiled, arrogant prince used to getting his way, but there was more to it than that, and Aric could feel it, sense it in the way the other demons watched him. There was a power in Malekith’s words, a dark, seductive magic that lured them in, and by the time he was finished, it had ensnared them, body and soul.
Vizra’s frown deepened, her lips pressed into a thin, angry line, but she said nothing.
“And there you have it.” Malekith surveyed the chamber, and for a brief, fleeting moment, his eyes locked with Aric’s. “With your approval, Sovereign, we shall bring this war to a swift and decisive end.”
Zaxos regarded him for a long moment, and Aric held his breath. The ancient demon lord was a mystery, a force of nature beyond Aric’s comprehension. If he was swayed by Malekith’s words, he gave no sign, and Aric was left to wonder what lay behind that molten gaze.
“You have my blessing.” Zaxos said at last. “May your victory be swift, and the blood of your enemies flow in rivers.”
And with that, the fate of two worlds was set in motion.
It was only after the council had dispersed, with a tentative approval of Malekith’s plans and Zaxos permitting Aric to be unshackled, that the true undercurrents began to make themselves known.
As the demon lords filed out of the chamber, there were hushed conversations, furtive glances, the occasional flash of bared teeth. Vizra in particular seemed to be at the center of it, her honeyed voice laced with poison as she spoke with one lord after another. Aric couldn’t make out their words, but he didn’t need to. The meaning was clear, the threat hanging in the air like a storm cloud.
Aric’s heart pounded in his ears, and he forced himself to take a slow, steadying breath. This was not his world, not his place. He was a pawn, nothing more, and whatever happened here was out of his hands.
But it did nothing to stop the feeling of unease that coiled deep in his soul.
Aric let out a long, slow breath as the last of the demon lords departed, leaving only Malekith and Aric himself in the council chamber. His muscles ached with the tension that had held him rigid throughout the meeting, and he longed to run his hands through his hair, to let out the breath he’d been holding. But he dared not move, not yet. Not while the demon prince’s gaze was fixed on him, those dark eyes giving nothing away.
A shiver ran down Aric’s spine. He should be relieved, he knew. The council had approved Malekith’s plan, and the threat of Zaxos’s wrath had been temporarily averted. But now he was alone with the demon prince, and that could only mean one thing.
Malekith’s long, slow smile sent a chill through Aric, and he fought to keep the panic at bay. He was overthinking it, he told himself. Malekith had gotten what he wanted. There was no need for further games, further manipulation. But Aric knew better than to let his guard down, even for a moment.
“Come, little mage,” Malekith said, his voice a velvet caress with steel at its core. “Our work here is done.”
A soft tug to the golden cord at Aric’s throat. Aric forced his legs to move, and with each step he took towards Malekith, a thousand wary eyes seemed to follow. He was a traitor now, in the eyes of his own people, and a pawn in Malekith’s game. He was alone, with no one left to trust, and the weight of it threatened to crush him.
Aric followed in Malekith’s wake as he swept out of the council chamber, the guards falling into step behind them. Malekith’s gait was long and sinuous, his movements a dark, sensual dance, and Aric couldn’t tear his eyes away, even as a shiver ran down his spine. There was a raw power to Malekith, an unstoppable magic that drew Aric in despite his better instincts. He moved through the world like he owned it, and in a way, he did.
They wound their way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Wrathforge, the air heavy with the acrid scent of brimstone and the distant clang of forges hard at work. Aric’s senses were hyper-focused, every sound, every scent, every flicker of movement registering with painful clarity. But it was Malekith who held his attention, the heat of his body, the rich, smoky scent of his skin, the low rumble of his voice echoing in Aric’s bones.
“Aric.” His name was a caress, a dark promise on Malekith’s lips, and Aric felt himself being drawn in, helpless to resist. “You did well in there.”
Did it matter that Malekith was lying? Aric was a pawn, a pawn who had served his purpose. He’d outlived his usefulness, and Malekith was merely biding his time, waiting for the right moment to make his move.
“Thank you, my prince.” Aric’s voice sounded thin, even to his own ears. He was trying to be brave, but he knew what awaited him, and the thought of it turned his blood to ice.
