“Solarian,” he growled, each breath a struggle, a labor. “I am Aric Solarian.”
He didn’t know if the words made it past the storm. It didn’t matter. He was a warrior, a protector. He had faced down demons and mages and the deepest terrors of his own soul. He would not break now.
Not when he had come so close to the other side.
Then the storm answered him, the searing light of his magic surging outward.
The walls vaporized in rivers of gold. The stones crumbled to dust at his feet. The air trembled with the furious howl of his flames as he pushed himself to his feet, pressed his bound hands together, and gathered the magic that didn’t care about locks or scars or failure.
One of the sorcerers shouted something, his words lost in the roar of the flames. The other sorcerers struck out with their power, dark shadows and crackling energy lashing at him from all sides. Aric staggered, the force of their combined assault like a physical blow, but he refused to back down.
With a shout, he hurled a lance of white-hot fire at the nearest sorcerer, and the world condensed to the taste of smoke and salt and searing heat on his lips. He was heat and he was fire and he was a blade honed to a fine point, and nothing would stand in his way.
“Aric, no!” he thought he heard Malekith cry, but the words were distant, muffled, as he turned his focus inward. The golden flames roared in his ears, drowning out all other sounds, and he let them guide him, let them become his true north. The power was his, and he was its master, its vessel, its unyielding force.
Flames erupted at his fingertips, and he wrenched his hands apart, shattering the cuffs that bound him. The flames surged higher, hungry, and he drank in their heat, their raw power, until he thought he might burst.
He was a wildfire, an inferno, and he would burn everything in his path.
The blasts of shadow and flame crashed together like opposing waves, sending a shockwave through the air that flattened everyone within the circle. Stone shards, embers, and motes of pure darkness rained down around them, the acrid scent of magic and heat and power so thick it was a taste on the back of Aric’s tongue.
He struggled to his feet, every muscle aching, every breath a labor. He felt like he’d just run a hundred miles, but he forced himself to stand tall, refusing to show any weakness.
The demon sorcerers were in no better shape, their robes tattered, their pale skin marred with burns and soot. They exchanged a look, silent communication passing between them, before they turned as one to face the gathered crowd.
“Get him.”
A growl rippled through the onlookers, and then they were coming for him, a seething mass of scales and claws and bared teeth. Aric braced himself, the flames at his fingertips roaring to life once more.
This was what he’d been training for, what he’d been preparing for, whether he’d known it or not. His magic surged through him, and he welcomed it, drawing on the endless well of power that he’d spent his life honing and shaping.
He was a weapon, and he would not shatter.
The demon sovereign rose from his throne, his obsidian skin gleaming in the low light. His golden eyes bore into Aric, the entire arena heaving like a held breath.
“Satisfactory.”
The word hung in the air, laden with unspoken implications. Aric’s shoulders slumped as the guards moved in to unlock his restraints, and he struggled to catch his breath as the world around him slowly came back into focus.
Sylthris offered him a sly smile, her eyes glittering with something like approval. “Not bad for a human,” she said, her voice a soft, mocking slither. “You might just survive this after all.”
Aric wanted to respond, to wipe that condescending look off her face, but he was too exhausted to do anything but nod.
She had no idea what he was capable of. None of them did.
As the guards swarmed in to lock his restraints, Aric’s legs turned to water, and he crumpled to the ground. The world swam before his eyes, the afterimages of the sorcerers’ illusions still burned into his retinas. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and forced himself to take slow, steadying breaths. He couldn’t let them see how badly the trial had shaken him.
“Careful, little mage.” Strong arms encircled him, and the guards backed off as Malekith lifted Aric to his feet. “You did well.”
Aric’s heart stuttered in his chest at the rare praise, a fragile bloom of warmth in the icy night air. He leaned into Malekith’s solid frame, his exhaustion suddenly all-encompassing. “I . . . I didn’t break.”
“No. You did not.” Malekith’s breath hot against Aric’s ear. “But you need to rest now.”
Aric nodded, his eyes drifting closed. Malekith’s scent, like dark woods and incense, wrapped around him, anchoring him in the present. He was safe. The illusions, the doubts, they couldn’t touch him here.
“You won’t . . . leave me?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, a raw, aching admission of need.
Malekith’s arms tightened around him, a silent promise. “Never.”
Malekith escorted Aric from the center of the arena, leaving the demon courtiers to their whispered debates and frantic note-taking. Aric tried to ignore the calculating looks they cast his way, the hunger in their eyes, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d only raised more questions than he’d answered.
“You did well, little mage,” Malekith said, his voice low for Aric’s ears alone. “They will be . . . curious to see what you can do.”
Aric’s skin crawled, and not just from the residual magic still humming in the air. “I’m not a sideshow.”
“I know.” Malekith’s thumb stroked the back of Aric’s hand, and he shivered at the touch. “But you have given them a taste of your power. A glimpse of what you are capable of.”
Aric thought of the way the sorcerers had looked at him, their eyes hungry, and a chill ran down his spine. “I don’t like the way they’re looking at me.”
“It is the way of our kind. We are always seeking an advantage, a means of gaining the upper hand.” Malekith’s gaze swept over the demon courtiers, his expression unreadable. “You have upset the balance, and now they will be jockeying for position, trying to align themselves with you or against you.”
“And what about you?” Aric asked, his voice a thin, strained thread. “Which side are you on?”
He immediately regretted the question, but Malekith’s grip on his hand only tightened, his touch a steady anchor.
“I am on your side, Aric. Always.”
“The illusions . . .”
