Sundered by Fate (Shadowbound #3)

Chapter 4

Four

A ric approached the abandoned atelier with a mixture of dread and anticipation twisting in his stomach. The windows were shuttered, the paint on the door peeling away like a reptile shedding its skin. It was tucked down a narrow alleyway, the perfect place for a clandestine meeting. As he reached the threshold, he hesitated, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

It had been over two years since he'd last seen Olaya, his mentor. The one who had found him, a lonely orphan with untapped magical potential, and brought him to the Silver Tower. She'd been the closest thing he had to family for most of his life, before he'd become something else entirely.

When he'd last seen her, she'd been fighting demons at the Pureblade outpost where Aric's death sentence had been handed down—the outpost from which Malekith had abducted him, propelling him into an entirely different world.

Aric opened the door to the atelier and stepped inside. The air was heavy with dust and disuse, but there was an electric current in the air as well—a residue of magic still clinging to the walls. Aric scanned the dimly lit interior and spotted a group of figures gathered at the far end of the room.

Olaya stood at their head, her hair—even more silvery than when he'd seen her last—braided in tight rows that gleamed in the meager light. Her presence was regal as ever, her dark skin luminous in the half-light. Aric's chest tightened as they locked eyes—so full of understanding—and then her mouth fell open at whatever it was she saw within him.

The other mages were less familiar to Aric. One was stocky and broad-shouldered, with lines etched deep into his face that spoke of years spent battling demons in distant lands. Another was slender and sharp-featured, her midnight hair pulled back into a severe bun. But it was the third figure who made Aric stop in his tracks.

Davin Lyantros. Gods save him.

"Davin," he said, his voice softening as he took in Davin's familiar features. He looked just as he had when they'd last parted ways at the Tower—his copper-red hair artfully disheveled, freckles standing out against tanned skin. Bright green eyes met Aric's for a fraction of a second before Davin looked away, a flush spreading across his cheeks.

Davin's lips curved into a wry smile. "Hello, Aric."

A thousand memories flooded Aric's mind at once—shared late-night study sessions at the Silver Tower, magical duels where they'd pushed each other to their limits, and that one evening they'd stayed up talking till dawn, debating the philosophical implications of demonic magic over bottles of sweet feywine. The vague sense that they might have been something more than friends, if not for their stubbornness and pride.

And then there was the silver pendant that hung around Davin's neck—a blue stone catching the light like an unspoken secret between them. The sight of it twisted something deep inside Aric, summoning echoes of sentiments all too familiar.

But those were echoes from a life that seemed eons ago.

Aric forced himself to look away and focus on Olaya as he approached them. She turned to face him fully, hands clasped in front of her with the poise of someone who'd spent years commanding respect from even the most obstinate pupils.

"Aric," she said, voice achingly familiar despite their time apart.

Olaya held out one hand in greeting, and Aric moved to grasp it. But as their fingers brushed against each other—as her magic flared against his own like solar fire meeting starlight—he remembered too late all he'd done to betray that same goodwill.

Olaya drew Aric into a fierce embrace, and Aric allowed himself to melt into it, even as the fire roiled under his skin. It had been far too long since he'd let himself relax this way, felt something he didn't deserve but still craved. But the way Olaya's shoulders shuddered and tightened in the embrace told him she didn't care what he'd become.

"I've been so worried about you," she whispered against his shoulder. "For so long?—"

"Olaya—" There were so many things he wanted to say in return, and not a single one that would make any of this better. So Aric just hugged her tight, trying not to think of what he still had to do for them to have even this shred of a reunion together.

When they parted, though, Olaya offered him a smile far warmer than he'd ever thought to see again—and another woman stood at her side, dressed like a town defender rather than a Silver mage. One of those fiery twin daggers resting in her belt was far too familiar to Aric—and so was the woman's stubborn expression.

"Ruta?" he blurted out, placing her with a sudden flash of memory.

The woman he'd helped escape from the demon lord Darioth's hunt, what felt like half a lifetime ago.

Relief coursed through Aric, a flood of it, seeing Ruta alive and well. So much had been left unsaid in the demon realm, so much he'd worried over, prayed over, even when he told himself such things were pointless.

Malekith's face as he'd made Aric that promise to save her.

Aric hadn't known if he could believe it then. Had thought there was a good chance he'd seen Malekith's face for the last time.

But here she was, not only free but aiding the Silver Tower.

"F-forgive me," Ruta said, folding her arms over her chest. "I just . . . I never thought I'd see you again. And after everything . . ." She bit her lower lip.

Olaya laid a reassuring hand on Ruta's shoulder. "The demons left a trail of bloodshed and destruction on their way back from their latest campaign." Her eyes locked onto Aric's with an intensity that burned almost as much as his fire. "But your warning—sent back safely with Ruta—helped us prepare for an attack all the same."

Aric's heart sank at the thought of what had happened since he left the demon realm—but they did not yet know of the greater threat of the anomaly creeping in on the human lands, like the one he'd seen near Thornhaven. At least for now, he could hold on to this much: They were still fighting. They hadn't surrendered to despair or given up hope.

A distant sound rose from beyond the closed doors—the Pureblades, most likely taking a closer inspection of some disturbance elsewhere in Thornhaven—and Aric felt his spine stiffen as Olaya drew back.

"We have much to discuss," Olaya said quietly. "And little time to do it in."

Olaya's demeanor shifted, her tone businesslike. "Let's begin. Aric, tell us everything you know about the demons' plans."

"I will, in time. I promise. But there's something more pressing."

" More pressing? What could possibly be more important than that?"

Aric hesitated, unsure how much to say. "I've witnessed some . . . disturbing phenomena," Aric began. "Magic anomalies, powerful enough to rip up and distort the fabric of the leylines. I first saw them outside of Brenville, but there's a patch . . . an area outside of this town, too, that bears evidence of their damage."

Olaya's eyes narrowed. "Magic anomalies? This is what you're concerned with?"

"It is," Aric said, fighting to keep his tone even. "Because I believe it's the Silver Tower's new weaponry that's causing them. And if they don't rein it in carefully, it could bring far more devastation than any demon horde."

Olaya's expression shifted to one of shock, then anger. "What weapon are you talking about?"

Aric studied her face. The lines around her eyes betrayed her age, the weight of countless battles fought and lives saved. But there was something else there, too—a flicker of guilt, a shadow lurking behind her calm facade. He wondered if she was hiding something from him, if she'd been involved in whatever had caused the anomaly. He wanted to believe in her, trust in the woman who'd guided him through his early years as a mage. But so much had changed, and the world felt like it was teetering on the brink of chaos.

"Olaya." Aric's voice was quiet but firm. "You know what I'm talking about."

Her mouth twisted, and she shook her head. "Aric."

Aric's heart sank. She was lying to him. Whether it was out of loyalty to the Silver Tower, or to shield the other mages here from it, or some other motive, he couldn't say. But it hurt all the same.

"When we were in Drindal," Aric said, doing his best to mask any reaction, "the demons found some older schematics of theirs."

"Impossible," she scoffed.

"They recovered several sets of blueprints as they swept through the villages that had been overrun."

"Even if they have some scribblings that look like Tower designs?—"

"It's not the designs alone that concern me—it's the ley lines they're attempting to destabilize to power it." He held up a hand. "I know you have reason to distrust me—I know I've given you every reason to doubt my loyalty—but I need to ask you to please be honest with me now. Because my understanding is that this is an entirely unprecedented plan—one that even High Mage Diviandra was opposed to implementing when she caught wind of it." His heart squeezed at just saying her name—his mentor within the Tower proper.

Olaya opened her mouth as if to protest again, but Aric held up one hand, palm out.

"I know I don't deserve your trust after . . . after everything," he admitted. "But this isn't just about me. This is about all of us—all our people." And perhaps more than even his people's fate hung in the balance.

"Why should I believe anything you say?" Olaya asked.

Aric's fists clenched at his sides—the fire burning beneath them—but he forced himself to stay calm. He needed her help, now more than ever.

He needed her truth more than anything else.

"Olaya, please?—"

Ruta's voice was soft, tentative. "Olaya, let him speak. You know he's a large part of why I'm standing here right now."

Aric's pulse spiked. Hearing Ruta stand up for him meant more than he'd expected it to—and the ghost of a memory threaded through him, so bittersweet and raw.

The feeling of Darioth's teeth closing in.

The stillness in Malekith's presence as Aric begged him to spare Ruta's life.

Not the moment to get lost in old regrets. Not when he was trying to help these people too.

"I don't know why you're truly here," Ruta went on, glancing at Aric uncertainly. "But you helped me once already." She bit her lip. "I've already told you my story," she said to Olaya, the demons' hunts and Malekith's ruse to free her. "It was Aric who saved me from the one demon and bought time for another to bring me to the border safely."

"You were always too clever by half," Davin muttered with a sniff, all that old affection fading under a new hardness Aric couldn't quite read. "Eager for every advantage you could find in the fight against the demons."

Aric wasn't sure if he meant it as a compliment or not.

"Maybe that's why they took me," Aric said, ignoring how his stomach turned at referring to Malekith so impersonally. "Or maybe I just got lucky." He felt suddenly exposed, laid bare. He'd fought so hard to bury his vulnerabilities beneath layers of armor, but in the face of Olaya's stern expression and Davin's disdain, they came rushing back to him. Still, if he'd tried to come up with a lie or ruse before this meeting to explain away his return from their clutches, no way they would have bought it. And he was tired—so gods-damned tired—of the lies.

He forced himself to meet Olaya's eyes as he continued. "I'll admit that circumstances around my return seem . . . suspicious, to say the least." He clenched his jaw. "But whatever he hoped I could do for them . . . all I've been trying for is protecting my people as best I can."

Aric's explanation seemed to sap the heat from Olaya's anger. She lowered her arms and rubbed at one shoulder with the other hand, glancing away from him. "I feared you dead," she said quietly, not looking up at him. "I'd been trying not to hold out hope you were alive until Ruta came to us. And even then . . ."

"I'm sorry," Aric said gently. And he was—he'd been reckless with his own life in ways he didn't know how to apologize for. Not yet. "Let me try to explain."

"Start from the beginning," Olaya prompted. "When you were taken by the demons."

Aric took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "It was after a battle—one of the last at our outpost in the Borderlands. I . . . I was captured and brought to their realm. They had ways of . . . forcing compliance." He hesitated, words sticking in his throat as he struggled not to conjure memories of Malekith's hands on him, Malekith's voice calling his name. There were some truths he would take to his grave.

"They're adept at breaking prisoners, as you know," he added with a glance at Ruta. She nodded solemnly in agreement.

Olaya's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't interrupt him.

"I feigned subservience long enough to learn what they were planning—a new wave of attacks." Aric clenched his jaw against the tidal wave of emotion threatening to overtake him. "I couldn't stand idly by and let them slaughter innocent people. They dragged me along on their campaign. Used their magic to draw out the secrets of the wards from me." Aric flinched. A half-truth. "But finally, an opportunity came in Drindal, when they were distracted by their . . . petty court intrigues."

"And what of the demon who kept you prisoner?" Ruta asked. "Malekith?"

Aric bit back his knee-jerk reaction. No point in denying it, not when she'd already met him while under his "protection."

"Yes," he finally admitted. "He helped me leave the demon realm."

Olaya and Davin exchanged looks, both of them registering that revelation with varying degrees of skepticism.

"And what did you have to do for him in return?" Olaya asked softly.

Aric hesitated, his gut twisting with memories that felt all too raw and immediate: the way they'd nearly ended each other's lives so many times over, yet always drawn back together; the vulnerability beneath Malekith's mask as he'd begged for more time.

All eyes were on him. Aric's chest felt tight, the invisible bonds around him growing more oppressive by the second. He needed to end this, needed to escape before he said too much.

"Malekith's reasons are his own," Aric said, praying his lie sounded convincing. "But I suspect it was just another of his schemes—playing at something beyond our comprehension. Using me against the demons' Sovereign in some way." The words tasted sour on his tongue. "All I know is that he let me go, and I intend to use whatever advantage I have for our people."

The answer seemed to satisfy them. For now.

"We'll help however we can," Olaya said. "But we must proceed carefully. The Silver Tower is already stretched thin as it is, especially after they dismantled the Drindal outpost and scrambled the Pureblade Order. And despite those efforts, several recent demon attacks have slipped through our defenses, and your battle here only adds to my concerns."

Olaya noticed Aric's expression, and her own softened. "We've both fought these battles long enough to know the stakes, Aric. But this—whatever is causing these anomalies, or if there are other dangers headed our way—we need to face it with clear minds and open hearts."

Aric nodded silently in agreement, and Olaya turned to the other mages gathered there.

"Thank you all for coming," she said. "I know it's a risk to meet like this. But our mission is too important to abandon now."

As she spoke, Aric felt a sudden chill run down his spine, as if he were being watched from the shadows. He glanced around the room, half-expecting to see Malekith's dark eyes peering out at him from some hidden corner. But there was nothing, only the silent watchfulness of the atelier walls.

The sensation left him unsettled, adding to his growing unease about what they were facing.

Aric and the others nodded, though Aric caught the furtive looks exchanged between Davin and Olaya as the latter bade them farewell.

"I'll do what I can to protect you from Cyrus," Olaya added quietly, her voice wavering slightly. "But you mustn't test his patience further."

Cyrus.

The name alone sent a fresh wave of anger coursing through Aric's veins. The memory of Cyrus's words back at the outpost—all but condemning him to execution for merely daring to study demon magic—was one of the last things he'd expected to have to remember from his old life. It made him wonder if he truly had any place left in this world at all.

"I know," Aric said, struggling to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I'll stay out of his way as much as I can. But this anomaly—it poses a threat far greater than him, greater than anything we might face from demonkind. I'll do whatever it takes to stop it." He swallowed hard. "Cyrus be damned."

Olaya hesitated, then squeezed his shoulder. "Take care, Aric. We'll speak more tomorrow. There may be more danger ahead."

Aric nodded. "I will."

With that, she turned and headed for the door, and Aric felt the ache of their parting more acutely than he'd expected. He'd missed her—missed all of them—more than he could put into words.

He lingered in the workshop, suddenly aware of Davin's presence at his side. He wanted to say something, anything to fill the awkward silence stretching between them. But no words came, and after a moment Davin turned away with a quiet sigh.

"Take care of yourself, Aric," Davin said quietly before following Olaya outside.

Aric's heart clenched at the concern in Davin's voice—a whisper of something soft and tender beneath the sarcasm and banter that was all too familiar to him. A part of him longed to reach out, to tell Davin everything, but he couldn't risk it.

Not yet.

Not ever.

Instead, he watched as Davin disappeared into the night, leaving Aric feeling even more alone than before.

He trudged up the stairs to the room Virida had offered him again for the time being and sank heavily into bed. His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind was racing too fast for sleep to come. So many questions swirled through his thoughts—about the anomaly, about Malekith and the demon realm—but one question loomed above all others: What was he willing to sacrifice in order to stop it?

The dreamscape was a world of shadows and mist, a formless void that seemed to stretch on forever. Aric drifted through it, his body weightless, his thoughts sluggish and disoriented. He had the sense still as if someone was watching, but he couldn't see anything through the swirling fog.

And then, suddenly, Malekith was there, emerging from the darkness with a grace and fluidity that sent a shiver down Aric's spine.

"Aric," Malekith's voice was a low rush, dark and swift as a moonlit stream.

Aric's heart raced as Malekith approached him, his movements fluid and predatory. There was an air of menace about him, but also something else—something softer, more vulnerable. Aric couldn't tear his eyes away from him, even as every instinct screamed at him to flee.

But he couldn't move; the dream held him captive.

"Malekith," Aric breathed. "What are you?—?"

Malekith silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips, and the touch ignited a fire within Aric that sent heat flooding through his veins.

"Shh," Malekith murmured. "No words. Not now."

Aric swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "Why are you here? How did you find me?"

But Malekith didn't answer. Instead, he moved closer, one hand reaching up to caress Aric's face with a gentleness that belied the fierce hunger in his eyes. His thumb brushed over Aric's cheekbone, and Aric's breath caught in his throat.

"You're not real," Aric said, though he wasn't sure if it was meant as a question or a statement. "I saw flashes—images of you imprisoned, you were—No. This isn't real."

Malekith smiled—a slow, wicked smile that sent a thrill of fear and desire racing through Aric's blood.

"Oh, I'm real enough," he said. "Real enough for this."

And then he kissed Aric—a hard, demanding kiss that left no room for protest or denial. Aric's knees went weak as Malekith pulled him closer, wrapping one arm around his waist to hold him up.

The dreamscape shifted around them, roiling like the sea; shadows coiling around them like smoke and flame licking at the edges of their consciousness. But all Aric could feel was Malekith's lips on his own—hot and insistent—and the way his body responded to every touch.

He kissed back with everything he had; pouring all of his fear and longing into that single moment until there was nothing left but raw need. Malekith groaned against his mouth—a low rumble that reverberated through Aric's chest—and deepened the kiss even further.

Aric and Malekith stripped each other down, leaving them bare and exposed to one another, their skin brushing as they moved against each other. Aric's hands roamed over Malekith's body, tracing the contours of his muscles, the scars that told a story of battles fought and survived. Malekith's hands mirrored his movements, and Aric shivered at the touch, a hunger burning in his core.

They undressed each other methodically, their fingers fumbling with urgency as they revealed the flesh beneath. Malekith's hands were strong and commanding, guiding Aric's trembling fingers to unfasten his breeches. As the fabric fell away, Aric gasped at the sight of Malekith's demonic arousal—twisted, ridged, and terrifyingly large. And, oh, how Aric missed it painfully.

Without hesitation, Malekith took hold of both their erections, gripping firmly as he began to stroke them together. Aric moaned, his hips bucking involuntarily as the friction sent waves of pleasure coursing through him. Their bodies entwined, their chests collided with each heavy breath, echoing like distant thunder in the dreamscape.

The kiss turned feral, teeth clashing as Malekith bit down on Aric's lower lip, drawing blood. Aric tasted iron, the metallic tang mingling with the sweetness of their shared breath. It fueled his desire, pushing him further into the whirlpool of passion that threatened to consume him whole.

Malekith continued to frot them, the rhythm steady and relentless, driving Aric towards the precipice of release. Each stroke brought him closer, the pressure building inside him like a storm ready to break. Desperation clawed at him, his nails digging into Malekith's shoulders as he sought some form of relief.

But just when he thought he would finally succumb to the ecstasy that awaited him, Malekith stopped. Withdrawing his hands, he broke the kiss, leaving Aric panting and bewildered. The sudden cessation of stimulation was agonizing, a cruel reminder of how close he had been to satisfaction.

And then the dream shifted again.

The shadows receded, revealing a vast chamber of black marble, chains dangling from the ceiling like a forest of night. Malekith was bound in the center, arms spread wide, chains biting into his flesh as he struggled against them. His eyes met Aric's, a mixture of terror and defiance etched across his features.

"Aric," he gasped. "Help me."

Aric tried to run to him, but it was like wading through thick mud. The distance between them seemed impossibly vast, no matter how hard he tried to close it.

"Malekith," Aric called out, but the words were swallowed by the void. "Who did this to you?"

Malekith's lips moved, forming words that Aric couldn't hear.

The dreamscape fractured further, reality and fantasy blurring at the edges. Aric caught glimpses of unfamiliar landscapes—twisted forests, obsidian spires, rivers that flowed with molten silver. He heard whispers in languages he didn't understand, felt the brush of feathers and scales against his skin.

Through it all, Malekith's presence remained constant—a dark star, an anchor in the chaos. Aric reached for him, desperate to hold onto something solid as the dream threatened to pull him under.

"Aric," Malekith's voice caressed like velvet against his mind. "You must . . ."

But whatever he was trying to say was swallowed by the dreamscape's vortex, leaving only the echo of his voice. Aric strained to hear, but the words slipped through his fingers like smoke.

The dream began to fade, pulling away from him like a retreating tide. Aric reached out, trying to grasp hold of Malekith once more, but he was already vanishing into the shadows.

"Malekith," Aric whispered. "Wait."

But it was too late. The dream was gone, leaving Aric with a profound sense of unease—and a lingering warmth where Malekith had touched him.

Aric jolted awake, his body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. The room was shrouded in darkness, the only sound the pounding of his own heartbeat. But he felt it there, lurking just beneath the surface—the sigil on his back, pulsing with energy, a warm, almost painful sensation that refused to be ignored.

Disoriented, Aric stumbled to the mirror, his heart pounding in his chest. He examined his reflection in the dim light, the sigil on his back shifting slightly, the patterns more intricate and somehow more alive than before.

Unable to shake the lingering effects of the dream and disturbed by the changes to the sigil, Aric paced his room, mind racing. He considered seeking out Olaya but hesitated, unsure of how to explain the intensity of his connection with Malekith. The idea of confessing everything—the passion, the betrayal, the bond that had formed between them—felt like a weight pressing down on him.

Instead, he tried to make sense of the dream on his own, jotting down notes and sketching images in an attempt to decipher any hidden meanings. But it was like trying to hold water in his hands; everything slipped through his grasp, leaving him feeling more adrift than ever.

As dawn broke, a sharp pain stabbed through Aric, tracing the edges of the sigil on his back. He stumbled, hand gripping the doorway for support as his breath came in ragged gasps.

The pain intensified, spreading outwards from the sigil like molten metal being poured into his veins. He fell to his knees, vision swimming as his body was wracked with agony. And then, through the haze of pain, he saw her—a woman with silver hair and swirling lavender-blue eyes, an eerie smile playing at her lips.

Sylthris.

The vision was fleeting, but it left a cold weight in the pit of his stomach, the unsettling feeling that he was being watched from some unseen vantage point.

And worse still was the knowing look in Sylthris's eyes—the suggestion that she knew something he did not.