Aric drifted in and out of consciousness, the world around him a hazy blur. He was vaguely aware of the demon healers tending to his injuries, their dark magic hanging in the air, but their words were a jumble, the strange, lilting cadence of their language dancing just out of reach.
But then, in a rare moment of clarity, he heard them speaking in hushed tones, their voices tinged with a palpable sense of unease.
“. . . anomalies . . . both realms . . .”
Aric’s heart pounded in his ears as he strained to listen.
“. . . growing stronger . . . no explanation . . .”
He forced one eye open, the world swimming before him, but he couldn’t make out their faces. With a surge of panic, he feigned unconsciousness, but the healers paid him no mind, too engrossed in their conversation.
“. . . affecting the ley lines . . . the very fabric of . . .”
The flaws he’d noticed in the design of the human weapon, the same disturbances that had been wreaking havoc with the rifts as they tore open on the battlefield . . . Could it all be connected?
But before he could hear more, the darkness claimed him once more, and he was swallowed up in its icy embrace.
Aric awoke to a sense of unease, a nameless dread prickling at the back of his neck. The air in the infirmary had shifted, becoming charged with tension, but he couldn’t say why. He lay still, his senses on high alert, and scanned the room for any sign of what had roused him.
The other patients were sleeping, their forms shrouded in darkness, but the healers were nowhere to be seen. In fact, the infirmary appeared to be empty, the only light filtering in from the high windows, a pale wash in the pre-dawn sky.
And then he sensed it, a familiar presence moving down the hallway, gliding with the effortless grace of a hunting panther. Aric’s heart quickened, and he pushed himself up on one elbow, his eyes searching.
The figure materialized in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the soft light, and Aric’s breath caught in his throat. Malekith. His demon prince, his captor, his . . . what, exactly?
Aric’s mind shied away from the answer, the truth too raw, too painful to confront. He had no place feeling this way about a demon, least of all the one who had taken him from his home, who held his fate in his hands.
But the way Malekith’s eyes softened as they met his, the way his expression shifted, made Aric dare to hope. Maybe there was more between them than mere captivity. Maybe there could be.
Malekith moved to his side, his footsteps silent on the stone floor, and Aric’s pulse raced at the sight of him. With his pale skin and dark eyes, his beauty was the kind that could draw empires to ruin, and Aric was no exception. He let out a shuddering breath as Malekith’s fingers brushed a lock of sweat-damp hair from his forehead, the touch light, reverent.
“How do you feel?” Malekith asked, his voice a low rumble in the stillness of the infirmary.
Aric’s voice felt thick, uncooperative, but he managed a nod. “I’ve been better.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of Malekith’s mouth, and he sat on the edge of the narrow cot. “You did well in the trial. Better than I had dared to hope.”
Aric’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Then why the long face?”
Malekith’s smile faded, and he glanced around the infirmary, his eyes scanning the shadows. Aric forced himself to stay quiet, to let him speak when he was ready. After a long moment, Malekith leaned in.
“The healers are concerned. Your outburst, the way you shattered the sorcerers’ illusions . . . It is not like anything they have seen before.”
“I told you, my magic is different from yours.” Aric’s heart was still racing, the memory of the power surging through him, the flames dancing at his fingertips, making his pulse quicken for a whole other set of reasons. “I draw on the sun’s power, and I shape it with my will. It’s . . . intense.”
“Intense is an understatement.” Malekith’s expression softened, and he reached for Aric’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “But it is beautiful, in its own way. Like watching the sun rise, the way the flames dance and shift at your command.”
Aric’s cheeks flushed, and he looked away, the compliment too much to bear. “It’s a weapon. That’s all it’s ever been.”
“It is a part of you. A powerful, wondrous part.” Malekith brushed his thumb against the inside of Aric’s wrist. “And one that I am honored to have glimpsed.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the only sounds the steady rhythm of Aric’s heartbeat and the distant cries of the waking city. But Aric’s thoughts were spinning still, the healers’ words echoing in his ears.
“The healers are not the only ones who are curious about you,” Malekith said, his tone casual, but his eyes intense as they met Aric’s.
Aric looked away, the memories of the trial still too raw. “I’m sure the whole damn court is abuzz after that . . . spectacle.”
“They are not used to having their illusions challenged. It is a rare gift, to see through the deceptions that are woven around us.” Malekith’s thumb brushed Aric’s cheek, and he turned back, meeting those dark, fathomless eyes. “But it can also be a dangerous one.”
Aric’s pulse quickened at the warning in Malekith’s eyes, and he sat up straight, scanning the room. “What do you mean?”
“I have my suspicions, but nothing concrete.” Malekith’s tone was almost a caress, but it carried a sense of urgency. “Just be on your guard. There are those who will see your power as a threat.”
Before Aric could respond, a movement in the shadows caught the corner of his eye. He turned toward it, but whatever it was, it vanished, the darkness closing in once more.
“Aric . . .” Malekith stood, his body coiled with tension. “Stay still.”
The next few moments happened in a blur. The figure reappeared in the doorway, the hood of their cloak concealing their face. In one hand, they held a vial of dark liquid, the glass glinting in the dim light. But before Aric could so much as cry out, Malekith was moving, the shadows themselves coming to his aid.
With a flick of his fingers, Malekith wove a spell, and the darkness peeled away, revealing the would-be assassin. But before they could react, Malekith was on them, his movements a blur of speed and grace. He caught the assassin’s wrist, and with a twist, wrenched the vial from their hand.
It fell to the floor with a shatter, and a noxious vapor filled the air. Aric coughed, his eyes watering, as he caught a glimpse of the assassin—a demon, by the look of them, with mottled gray skin and a tangle of horns protruding from their hood. They struggled against Malekith’s grip, but it might as well have been iron for all the give it had.
“Who sent you?” Malekith’s voice was a low growl, his eyes burning with a harsh light.
The assassin spat in his face, their eyes full of venom. “Traitor.”
Malekith lurched for them, but the assassin brought their forearm up to block him this time, the sleeve of their robe falling away to reveal sickening blades. Forearm blades. Aric cried out as he recognized them to warn Malekith, but it was too late. They slashed across Malekith’s chest, knocking him back. Malekith recovered quickly, but the assassin was already moving, a dark blur in the dimly lit infirmary. With a powerful leap, they crashed through the high window, glass shattering like stars, and then they were gone, leaving only the stench of blood and smoke in their wake.
Aric’s hands were shaking as he pressed them to the gash in his chest, the heat of his blood searing against his skin. He looked up to see Malekith’s eyes blazing with barely contained fury as he stared after the assassin.
“Lord Karthax,” Malekith spat, his voice a low growl. “Vizra’s general.”
Aric’s head was spinning as he tried to make sense of the words. Vizra. Karthax. A sudden, sickening realization washed over him. They were all in danger, pawns in a deadly game of demon politics.
Malekith’s gaze met his, and Aric saw the same understanding in Malekith’s cold eyes. The same grim acceptance of the truth.
There was a promise of more blood to come.
Fifteen
Aric’s hands clenched at his sides as he stood before the demon court once more. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he fought to steady his breathing, forcing himself to stand straight and hold his head high.
LIttle had come of Karthax’s attack on Aric and Malekith. Zaxos had dismissed it outright, noting that plenty of brutes had the same style of forearm blades Karthax employed, and Karthax himself was allegedly back at Drindal maintaining the lines, so he couldn’t possibly be to blame. The slice to Malekith’s chest had healed fully in short order, diminishing the severity of the crime in Zaxos’s eyes. And above all else, Zaxos refused to allow for the trials to be delayed.
