“You’re nothing but a weak human.” The illusion solidified before him, a sneer curling the Illusion’s lips. It looked just like Malekith, but the real Malekith would never speak with such contempt, such disappointment. It was enough to shatter Aric’s carefully composed shield, and his knees buckled from the weight of it. Callously, he tossed Olaya aside, and her body crumpled. “Did you really think you could ever be worthy of me?”
He was losing himself in the illusion’s words, the taunts shredding his resolve. He was a failure, a broken promise, a disgrace to his people. The tears were streaking down his face now, the raw, painful sobs ripping from his throat. He’d tried so hard—sacrificed so much—and it still wasn’t enough.
A wave of darkness threatened to swallow him whole, the bitter taste of his own failure. He was exhausted, his body aching and spent. And he knew he was only at the beginning of the trials Malekith had set for him.
How could he possibly continue, when he could barely stand to face himself?
Aric’s hands shook as he pressed them to the cool stone floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The tears were still flowing, a steady stream of salt and shame. He was exhausted, drained, and this time, he wasn’t sure he had the will to fight it back.
The Illusions had known exactly where to strike, their words like poison in his veins. His bond with Malekith, his desire to protect his people—it was all a lie, a delusion. He was nothing but a broken man, a puppet pulled in a thousand different directions. And in the end, he would only disappoint them all.
Aric crumpled to the ground, the stone cold and unforgiving beneath him. He was so tired of fighting, of holding himself apart. A part of him longed to surrender, to let the darkness claim him and be done with it.
But then he would be proving the Illusions right. He would be proving Cyrus right.
With a shuddering breath, Aric closed his eyes and reached for the calm center he had cultivated with Malekith’s help. It felt like a lifetime ago, the night they had spent at the abandoned estate, wrapped in each other’s arms. Malekith had shown him a side of himself he had long kept hidden, a softer, more vulnerable self. And for a brief, beautiful moment, he had been able to set his fears and doubts aside.
He had believed, with all his heart, that he could be the man Malekith saw in him. A protector, a warrior, a lover. A man worthy of the demon prince’s regard.
But the Illusions had torn that belief to shreds, leaving him raw and exposed. They struck straight at the doubts that still lingered in the darkest corners of his heart. And now, as he reached for that calm center, all he felt was a vast, empty void.
No. He couldn’t give in to the darkness. He had come too far, fought too hard. He had to believe that the real Malekith was still out there, somewhere, waiting for him to succeed. He had to push past the Illusions, find his way to the maze’s center, and prove himself worthy.
Aric’s eyes snapped open, and they blazed with golden fire.
Aric pushed himself to his feet, the golden fire still burning in his eyes. He was tired of the Illusions, their lies and taunts. He was tired of doubting himself, of fearing his own power.
With a renewed sense of determination, Aric pressed forward, the golden fire in his eyes casting a harsh, flickering light over the stone walls. He used his bond with Malekith as an anchor, a lifeline to hold onto in the sea of illusions. It was the one thing he knew was real, the one thing he could trust.
The path unfolded before him, the shimmering walls guiding his way. He ignored the illusions that writhed and shifted in the darkness, the taunts that echoed in the cold air. He was getting closer, he could feel it in his bones.
The demon sorcerers redoubled their efforts, their magic crackling in the air. The darkness thickened, a noxious miasma that clung to his skin. The voices in his head swelled, a chorus of doubts and fears. But he pushed them all aside, his focus unwavering.
He would not be swayed. He would reach the maze’s center, and he would emerge from this trial whole.
And then the maze around him began to shift.
The stone walls rippled like water, the air filling with a high-pitched keening that set his teeth on edge. The sorcerers were changing the rules of the trial, he realized with a jolt of fear. They were not going to make it easy for him to reach the center.
The path before him crumbled, the stone turning to dust beneath his feet. He leapt forward, his heart pounding in his ears as the ground fell away. The darkness swirled around him, thick and cloying, as he struggled to find his footing. He was so close, he couldn’t fail now.
With a final leap, he landed on solid ground, the darkness parting before him. He had made it to the center of the maze.
But there was no time to savor his victory. The darkness coalesced before him, taking on a familiar form. Malekith’s illusion sneered at him, the real demon’s amber eyes burning with malice.
“You thought it would be that easy?” the Illusion said, and the world exploded.
The stone walls shattered, the shards raining down around him. The ground heaved, and Aric was thrown off his feet. He tumbled through the darkness, the howl of the wind and the stench of the Illusions filling his senses. He had to get up, he had to fight. With a cry of effort, he forced himself to stand, his muscles aching, his head swimming. The golden flames still burned in his eyes, they were flickering, fading.
The Illusion raised a hand, and the darkness gathered, coiling around him. Aric tried to summon his own magic, but he was drained, his well of power running dry. He had pushed himself too far, held on for too long. The darkness lashed at him, a thousand icy tendrils tearing at his skin.
You are nothing. A failure.
The Illusion’s words were a knife to his heart, and Aric stumbled back, his vision swimming. He couldn’t give in, he couldn’t let the Illusion break him. But the darkness was seeping into his bones, a cold, numbing poison. He was so tired, so weary of the fight.
Just let go. Let the darkness claim you.
Aric’s breath shuddered in his lungs as he fought to hold on. The bond between them was the one true thing in this sea of illusions, and he clung to it with all his strength.
The darkness surged, threatening to overwhelm him. But then, in the distance, he heard a voice. A whisper in the darkness, but it was real. It was his anchor, his lifeline.
With a cry of defiance, Aric reached for the golden thread of the bond, and he wove it into his magic. The flames surged to life once more, a brilliant, blinding light that cut through the darkness. The Illusion snarled, and the darkness recoiled, black smoke roiling in the air.
Aric’s hands shook, his vision swimming, but he held on to the magic, the flames burning white-hot. He would not be broken. He would not let the Illusion win.
The darkness lunged, and with a scream, Aric unleashed the flames.
The golden fire exploded from his hands, a torrent of heat and light that consumed the darkness. The flames roared, a cleansing inferno that devoured the Illusion, the maze, everything in its path. Aric’s vision went white, the heat searing his skin, but he held on, pouring every last bit of his strength into the magic.
The flames burned on, a beacon in the darkness, and Aric let himself be consumed.
Fourteen
The walls of the maze crumbled all around him, stone blocks toppling, and dust and debris raining down, thick and acrid in the air. The ground tilted, pitching him sideways, and the sky overhead spun in a dizzying spiral. He was falling, or maybe he was still—never had been—standing. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t think.
Instinct guided his hands—he’d been here before, lost in the searing currents of his magic, and he knew what he had to do. His hands were on fire, the flames golden and wild, and he shaped them into a shield as he tumbled, a barrier of blistering heat that the shadows howled against. He huddled behind it, the flames searing his skin through his robes, and drew his magic close, a tether to anchor himself against the storm.
The storm raged on, the howls of the sorcerers echoing through the darkness, but he held fast. The flames burned brighter, a corona of searing white, and he pushed back against the shadows that pressed in around him. He was a furnace, a beacon of blinding light, and he refused to be extinguished.
