With a final, knowing look at Malekith, she glided past them and disappeared around the corner.
Aric turned to Malekith, a hundred questions burning in his mind. But Malekith’s expression was closed off, his jaw clenched. He said nothing, but he didn’t have to; Aric knew what he was thinking. Whether it was Sylthris’s parting words, or the confrontation they’d just had in the war council chambers, or something else entirely, Aric was sure there were a dozen different thoughts and emotions churning inside Malekith’s head.
“Not here.” Malekith’s voice was a low rumble, and he took Aric’s arm in a firm grip. “These walls have ears, and Sylthris isn’t the only one who trades in secrets.”
Aric nodded, trying to push down the surge of questions and follow Malekith as he led them into a nearby parlor. The room was opulent, all velvet and gilt, a stark contrast to the sparse chambers Aric had been given. Malekith closed the door behind them, and with a few quick words of power, he sealed the room with a shimmering barrier.
“Who is she?” Aric asked, once Malekith had released him. “And what did she mean about your family’s history?”
Malekith’s eyes narrowed at the observation, but he didn’t deny it. He paced the room, his movements fluid and predatory. “Sylthris the Gravewhisper,” he began, his voice low and intense. “An old . . . friend, of sorts. We trained together under the same mage, long ago.” His lips twisted in a wry smile. “She was always more interested in gathering secrets than mastering spells.”
“Is that how you know her?” Aric asked. “From your training?”
Malekith’s look was long—haunted, even—yet it only served to spark a thousand more questions in Aric’s mind. “We were . . . close, once. But her loyalties have always been to herself above all else.”
“She seemed to know a lot about your family.” Aric hesitated, then added softly, “Why did she make you so . . . uncomfortable?”
Malekith’s steps faltered, and for a moment, Aric thought he might not answer. But then he sighed, a heavy, weary sound, and came to a stop in the center of the room.
“She knows things she shouldn’t,” Malekith said. “And she’s not afraid to use that knowledge as a weapon.”
“Is she working for Zaxos, then?” Aric asked, his earlier suspicions resurfacing.
“I doubt she answers to anyone but herself. But if Zaxos thinks she can be of use to him, then she’ll do what she must to stay in his good graces.”
“And your family? What secrets was she hinting at?” Aric asked.
Malekith’s expression darkened, shadows gathering around him, and Aric feared he’d pushed too far. But then Malekith sighed, and the shadows dissipated.
“House Ixion has a . . . complicated history,” he said carefully. “One that’s best left in the past.” His eyes met Aric’s, filled with an intensity that made Aric’s breath catch. “What matters is the present, and the future we’re fighting for.”
Aric nodded slowly, recognizing the deflection but choosing not to push further. Malekith had hinted at that complicated history before—a great-great-grandmother who once led the demon army, yet fought for peace above excess bloodshed. And then there was the question of just what had happened to prune the Ixion family tree down to nothing but Malekith and his stubborn roots. He’d once been intended to claim the title of Sovereign, Aric had heard, but now it seemed he had to fight and scrape and claw for every last bit of respect he could be afforded.
So instead, Aric asked, “Can we trust her?”
Malekith’s laugh was sharp and without humor. “Trust Sylthris? Never. But she can be useful, in her own way. Just remember, every word from her lips comes with a price.”
Aric nodded. He wished he could say he had never known such people in the human realms, but that, too, would be a lie.
“Come.” Malekith strode towards the door, his earlier tension seeming to fade away. “I believe we have much work to do, but you should rest first.”
Aric followed him, his mind still spinning from the encounter with Sylthris. And the secrets she had alluded to—the shadows of House Ixion, stretching out in all directions. What would it mean for their mission if those secrets came to light? What dangers might lie in wait for them?
With a shiver, Aric realized he wasn’t just thinking about the threats from the human realm.
As they prepared to leave the parlor, Malekith paused, his hand on the door.
“Aric,” he said, turning back with an uncharacteristic softness to his voice. “Be careful around Sylthris. She’s dangerous in ways you can’t imagine.”
And then he was gone, leaving Aric alone in the corridor, the cool words echoing in his ears.
A warning, or a confession of vulnerability? Aric chewed on his lower lip as he headed back to his chambers, his mind racing with thoughts of shadowy demons and unspeakable secrets. He’d had his suspicions that there was more to the Malekith than met the eye, but the truth was turning out to be far more complicated than he could have ever imagined.
As he reached his chambers, the faint moonlight filtering in through the narrow window, Aric paused, the last echoes of the encounter with Sylthris still lingering. Malekith’s warning to be careful around her—he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued by her, by the possibilities of the secrets she alluded to. But he had already seen the danger of the demon realm’s political games, the treacherous line Malekith had to walk between loyalty and survival.
He wasn’t sure he was cut out for that kind of life, and even if he was, the last thing he wanted was to become like the demons who had ravaged his home. But finding the right path, the one that let him be true to himself, while also protecting his people, felt like an impossible riddle.
With a sigh, he pushed the thoughts aside and set about his nighttime routine. He didn’t have the luxury of getting lost in the labyrinth of demon politics, not when the fate of both realms might hang in the balance. Malekith needed his help, his insight and knowledge, and Aric was determined to give it to him.
But as he settled into bed, sleep proving elusive, Aric couldn’t dispel the unsettling feeling that he was being watched. Shadows gathered in the corners of his room, and he was almost certain he heard a soft, taunting whisper on the night breeze. He sat up, heart pounding, but when he glanced out the window, there was nothing there.
Nothing but the darkness, stretching out into the night.
Three
Aric shifted from one boot-encased foot to the other, adjusting the high neckline of the dark, gossamer tunic Malekith had sent for him. The thin, filmy fabric rippled with the movement of his arms, and the strange sensation of bare, chilled flesh on those parts not covered by the tunic’s generous folds was as disconcerting as it was alluring. He’d rarely worn anything but his mage robes and armor before he came here, and the dense weave of cotton and silk designed for comfort and protection, so to don such an intimate garment was . . . a lot.
He picked at the intricate clasp cinching the tunic closed, its curved design too alien for him to grasp at first. But with a muted huff to steady his hands, Aric carefully slipped the clasp into place, the circular piece clicking shut.
Straightening, Aric smoothed down the tunic’s front—though given the filmy fabric’s cling, it was a largely unnecessary gesture. Or perhaps all the more necessary. Aric’s mouth went dry as he took in his reflection. Was he supposed to be so plainly visible beneath the gauzy layers?
A deep breath filled Aric’s chest, the cologne Malekith had gifted him for the occasion—something dark and spicy and far more exotic than his usual concoctions—steaming his nostrils. His skin was flushed, and his eyes were far too wide, the icy, heart-thudding realization of just where he was and what the coming days called for leaving him light-headed.
He was getting ahead of himself, he knew. This was just a celebration, as Malekith had promised, a final send-off before their army’s departure. But even so, his thoughts insisted on pulling him back to the memory of the few fleeting nights he and Malekith had managed to spend together amidst all the turmoil. Recollections fluttered around him like moths: Malekith’s thick arousal against his leg, the prince’s urgent cries as they’d both spilled over in the privacy of his chambers, the whispered assurances that maybe, just maybe, Aric’s hopes and dreams weren’t so impossible . . .
Perhaps Aric was a fool to indulge Malekith’s suggestions of what this might mean between them, but what was he to do? As a prisoner, he’d had no choice but to endure whatever torment was visited upon him. But Malekith, he’d chosen for himself. Malekith, he wanted, despite who he was, what he was. This might be their last night together before the ravages of war made everything so much worse.
And then there was the matter of his own traitorous body. Whether Aric wanted it or not, his thoughts raced back to the heat of Malekith’s skin, the lean cords of muscle shifting with each of Malekith’s moves. The way he’d growled Aric’s name, a dangerous and seductive promise. The scorching heat of his breath and the slide of his tongue as he tasted Aric, claiming him—
