Sundered by Fate (Shadowbound #3)

Chapter 7

Seven

A ric stood at the prow of the river barge as it glided through the thick morning mist, revealing the city of Astaria's sprawling silhouette. Even from a distance, the sight of it set his heart pounding—a chaotic clash of emotions. The gnawing guilt of all that had transpired during his absence. The treacherous hope that perhaps, just perhaps, he could set things right.

But mostly, there was the sheer, paralyzing terror of what awaited him.

He gripped the railing tight, his knuckles white as the memories came flooding back—the heavy scrape of iron gates, the sharp tang of wards thick in the air. How he'd begged for an assignment, any assignment that would get him to the front lines where he could make a difference. How naively he'd believed he could fix everything with sheer force of will.

That certainty seemed laughable now. Astaria had endured while he was away, adapting and surviving without him. New fortifications rose along the skyline, strange silhouettes disrupting its familiar lines. Thick, shimmering wards, rough and scattered without the larger wards to shelter them, encased entire districts like freshly laid scabs.

How much had changed? Within himself, a great deal, certainly. But in this world he once called home?—

Well. It was time he found out.

The ship nudged against the dock, ropes thrown and secured with brisk efficiency. Aric followed Olaya, Ruta, and Davin down the gangplank, his legs uncertain after the days spent on the river.

The port swarmed with life, yet every sound and scent scraped across Aric's senses, raw and jagged. Too much, too soon. Dockworkers called to one another in harsh cadences as they heaved crates from cargo holds. Merchants hollered prices in voices like rusted iron, scents of fish and spices mingling around them.

All around him, people eyed him furtively before quickly looking away. Some whispered to their neighbors; others hurried past, hands clenched into fists. And above it all came the faint thrum of distant wards. Barely audible now, but still enough to raise the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

Aric's sigil pulsed hot beneath his shirt like a brand. How had he ever believed he could simply slip back into this life? Into this skin that felt more and more like an ill-fitting mask with each step he took.

"Easy, dear one," Olaya said, her hand a firm weight on his shoulder.

He turned to find her watching him, a soft look of understanding in her eyes that only sharpened his awareness of everything he'd lost.

Yet he drew comfort from her presence all the same. From all of theirs. Together they could face whatever awaited them. They had to.

"Let's go," Aric said roughly, forcing his feet to move again.

Their boots clattered on the cobblestones as they pressed through the bustling market crowds toward the towers of the mage enclave rising on the horizon, calling them home at last.

Aric couldn't help but stare as the streets of Astaria opened up around them. Here was where he'd spent his childhood—learning to read, write, and wield magic. The Silver Tower had been his sanctuary, its grand halls a safe haven from the chaos outside.

He'd never imagined it would be so foreign now.

Olaya's voice brought him back to the present. "I should warn you, the political situation's only gotten worse in your absence."

Aric arched an eyebrow as they turned down a narrow lane flanked by alchemy shops and talisman vendors, the street made hazy by the acrid smoke of a blacksmith's forge. "It was teetering on the brink when I left."

"Perhaps. But at least King Aster still held things together, as weak-willed as he could be. Since he fell ill nearly a year ago, though . . . Well. Things have changed."

The words scraped against old wounds. Aric had always resented the king's readiness to cede power to the Pureblade Order when their goals aligned, which was all too often for Aric's liking. But now?

"The king's nephew, Valerian, has been the de facto ruler in Aster's absence, but Aster has yet to make any formal decree regarding succession." Olaya's tone was pained, something else Aric couldn't ignore.

“Can’t say as I’ve ever met the man,” Aric said. “What is he like?”

Olaya pressed her lips together. "Astute. But he's younger, inexperienced. More focused on consolidating his own power than providing stability to the kingdom."

"And the Pureblade Order is more than happy to fill that void," Aric said bitterly.

Olaya gave him a measuring look as they wove through the thickening crowds in the main plaza. "There's more to it than that. Their priestly allies, the Disciples of the Holy Flame, have gained a foothold in court. Spreading their harsh dogma and inciting fear."

Aric clenched his jaw tight, fire sparking through him at the thought of Cyrus Revenant and his fanatical ilk. "I take it this means they've strengthened their hold over Astaria itself."

"For the most part." Olaya grimaced as they passed a group of Pureblade knights marching toward the palace's gates. "There are some, at least, who think Revenant is growing too extreme in his methods. They're still willing to work with us rather than blame us for the demons."

Aric suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. And yet, if the Silver Tower's new weapons were responsible for the anomalies, then maybe they were to bear some blame. Just not in the way the Pureblades thought.

As they moved through the city, the contrasts were stark.

The outer districts bore the marks of recent military activity—troops mustering in courtyards, running drills that rattled the windows of nearby shops. Workers scrambled to construct siege weaponry, and an air of vigilance hung heavy over the citizens who hurried past with clenched jaws and furrowed brows.

Aric's pulse quickened. Here was the reality of the demon threat he'd tried so desperately to combat. But then he noticed something else—the scars left on buildings, the charred timbers and shattered glass that had yet to be mended. It didn’t make sense. What could have caused that kind of destruction within the safety of Astaria?

"Have there been attacks on the city itself?" he asked Olaya in a low voice.

Her eyes hardened, and she shook her head quickly before nodding toward the Silver Tower looming ever closer. "It’s . . . hard to explain. Later."

As they moved inward, the air of tension shifted to one of luxury. The wide avenues that approached the palace were pristine, lined with manicured hedges and opulent mansions guarded by retinues of well-armed sentries. The citizens here strode with an air of confidence, their clothes rich with embroidery and precious metals glinting in the sun.

The disparity set Aric's teeth on edge. He'd known Astaria held its share of haves and have-nots, but seeing them juxtaposed so starkly was unsettling. It was an inequality that echoed uncomfortably close to what he'd witnessed in the demon realm.

Ruta caught his eye from the other side of Davin, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She too understood how fragile this veneer of civilization really was. How little it took for it to crumble away.

Aric reached out and touched her arm briefly, offering silent acknowledgment. They'd seen the truth behind masks like these. But if there was one thing Aric had learned in his time away, it was that he could no longer accept those falsehoods as immutable.

As they approached the palace gates, Aric's vision blurred, and the world tilted on its axis. For a breathless instant, Malekith's face loomed before him, superimposed over the ornate facade. The demon's dark eyes were filled with an unspoken warning that speared through Aric's mind.

Aric staggered, the ground rushing up to meet him, but Davin's hands were suddenly on him, solid and strong. "Aric! What's wrong?" Davin's voice was urgent, and the warmth of his body pressed against Aric's as he steadied him.

The contact sent a jolt through Aric's senses, stirring up a complex tangle of emotions and half-remembered flashes from their past. As the vision faded, he found himself staring into Davin's concerned eyes, their faces mere inches apart.

"I—I'm fine," Aric muttered, hastily straightening up and stepping back. "Just a little . . . disoriented."

Olaya watched them with a calculating look, one eyebrow raised. But Ruta seemed oblivious to the undercurrents of tension rippling through the group.

Even now, as his vision cleared, the memory of Malekith, bound and tortured, burned in Aric's mind. He'd been so certain it was real at the time, but now he couldn't shake the nagging doubt. Was it some kind of trick, a manipulation by the anomaly? Or worse, was it an actual glimpse into what Malekith was suffering right now?

Aric shuddered. He didn't have answers to those questions—only a dark certainty that whatever it was, he had to face it head-on.

But he couldn't share his fears with the others. Not yet. They already looked at him with suspicion in their eyes, waiting for him to slip up. Aric couldn't afford to give them any more reason to question him.

So he clenched his jaw and forced himself to smile at Davin's concerned face.

The palace gates swung open at their approach, and a young aide in flowing Astarian livery hurried to meet them. Her smile seemed strained, her eyes flicking from Aric to Olaya to Ruta and back again with barely concealed wariness.

"Archmage Olaya." She offered a shallow curtsey. "We've been expecting you. If you'll follow me, please, the council is eager to hear your report."

Olaya nodded, falling into step beside the aide as they moved down the polished marble corridors. But Aric noticed how her shoulders tensed, the way her hand never strayed far from the dagger sheathed at her belt.

"The situation is delicate," the aide continued in a low voice, glancing around as if fearing their every word might be overheard. "The regent is eager for any news that might help him maintain order."

"Of course," Olaya said smoothly. "We'll do our best to provide him with the information he seeks."

But there was something in the aide's tone that set Aric's instincts prickling. An undertone of fear and desperation. As if she were trying to convey more than her words allowed.

He could feel Davin watching him, as if sensing his unease. But there was no time to address it now. Not when the aide was leading them deeper and deeper into the palace's labyrinthine halls.

"I'm afraid the regent is occupied at this moment," the aide went on. "But he will be with you at his earliest possible convenience."

Aric exchanged a look with Ruta and Davin. Was this some kind of power play by Valerian?

The antechamber to the Lord Regent's office was already crowded when they arrived—courtiers, petitioners, and assorted hangers-on all jostling for position. The air was thick with incense and tension as the palace staff moved between them, offering refreshments with practiced smiles.

Aric tried to avoid the curious stares directed their way. He was far from the only returning veteran of the demon wars, but the Mage Circle's delegation seemed to draw particular scrutiny. Some nodded respectfully to Olaya; others eyed Aric with undisguised suspicion.

"It's not every day the heroes of the Battle of Brenville grace these halls," a courtier in elaborate silks said, sidling up to them. "You're not here to demand more gold for your services, I hope?"

"We're here to offer what assistance we can," Olaya replied smoothly. "In whatever manner best serves His Majesty."

Aric bit back a smart rejoinder. It would take more than polite platitudes to smooth over the looming political storm.

As they waited, snatches of conversation reached Aric's ears—whispers of factions jockeying for power in the regent's absence, alliances forming and crumbling overnight. There were rumors of secret negotiations with foreign powers, of escalating tensions on other borders.

Names floated past him like specters from another life—lords and ladies he'd known or heard of during his time in the capital. But their faces had aged, their voices grown harsher and more brittle.

They dressed themselves in genteelness and polity, but now, when Aric looked at him, all he saw was the same claws and fangs lurking beneath that he'd faced in the Sovereign’s court.

The sigil burned against his back, an almost physical sensation. But the magic here was different—less restrained than he remembered. As if the currents themselves had grown unruly during his absence.

He could only hope that was not a portent of things to come.

After what felt like an eternity, they were finally ushered into Valerian's private chambers. Heavy silk drapes hung over tall, mullioned windows, a tapestry depicting Astarian victories past. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface littered with maps and reports. Stacks of books teetered precariously on side tables, and strange magical artifacts hummed softly in corners.

And there, behind the desk, stood Lord Regent Valerian himself.

Aric almost didn't recognize him at first. He'd grown up around the same time as Aric, perhaps a few years younger, such that Aric always found it slightly strange to encounter broadsheets and illustrations concerning the king's nephew, the man most likely to succeed the childless king, and see someone roughly Aric's own age. But now Valerian was every inch the Astarian prince, with sharp eyes and a strong face that seemed carved from alabaster. Yet beneath the polish was an aura of barely contained impatience and dissatisfaction.

"Archmage Olaya." Valerian's voice was smooth as velvet, but carried an edge like a honed blade. "You've been gone far too long. I trust that you bring me news of the utmost importance?"

Olaya gave a shallow bow. "Lord Regent. We've uncovered much that I believe will be of interest to you."

"And who is this?" Valerian's gaze fell on Aric for the first time, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the wild tangle of Aric's sandy hair and his weather-beaten face.

"Forgive me," Aric said, dropping into a perfunctory bow. He should have prepared a better story—yet he still had only frayed threads to work from. "I am Aric Solarian, a mage of the Silver Tower."

Instantly, Valerian's entire demeanor shifted. The impatience melted away, replaced by something colder and more calculating.

"Ah," he said softly, brushing back a loose lock of silver hair. "So you are the one I've heard so much about."

Aric forced himself to meet that piercing stare head-on. "It seems there are many stories about me circulating these days," he said carefully. "Few of them flattering."

Valerian's lips curled into a sardonic smile as he settled behind his desk once more. "Indeed. But I've always found it best to learn the truth for myself."

"Then I hope you will listen to the truths we bring you," Aric said.

Valerian's attention shifted to the rest of Aric's companions, who had taken their places around the opulent chamber. Olaya stood tall and dignified, though Aric sensed the simmering tension coiling beneath her calm exterior. Ruta's arms were crossed as she surveyed the room, her expression hard. And Davin . . .

Well. Aric tried not to look too closely at Davin.

"We received your warnings about these magical 'anomalies,'" Valerian said, lacing the word with skepticism. "But you'll forgive me if I'm reluctant to place them on equal footing with the very real and present demon threat that we face."

"They are as great a threat, if not more so," Aric replied firmly. "Unpredictable. Erratic. Affecting both demon and human alike without regard for allegiance."

Valerian's eyes narrowed, and he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "And yet you believe these anomalies can be traced back to a new weapon developed by the Silver Tower itself?"

Olaya hesitated, then glanced at Aric, her expression unreadable. "We have reason to suspect the disturbance is a reaction to certain breakthroughs achieved by our researchers." She lifted her chin. "But if so, it has already spiraled beyond their control."

Aric suppressed a frown. Why was she trying to shield the Silver Tower? Surely the Lord regent knew of the weapon, too.

Valerian's piercing blue eyes bored into Aric, searching for any sign of weakness or dishonesty.

"And what of you?" Valerian asked. "The infamous Aric Solarian, returned from the demon realm. You really think this is a greater threat than their renewed invasion? Their new ability to dissolve the wards around our kingdom’s borders?"

Aric steeled himself against that scrutiny. An invisible pressure pricked at the edges of his mind—some kind of magical probing. But instinctively he drew up mental walls, blocking out the intrusion.

Valerian's expression flickered, a hint of frustration in his expression before it smoothed over once more.

"What I saw there was enough to make me fear for both realms' safety," Aric said slowly, choosing each word with care. "If we do not act swiftly and decisively, I believe things will only continue to worsen."

Valerian's eyes remained locked on him, weighing his words and their implications.

"And why exactly should we care what threat these so-called 'anomalies' pose to the demon armies?" Valerian's voice took on a new sharpness. "If anything, we should be looking for a way to harness them as weapons against our enemy."

Aric faltered, searching for a quick counter to Valerian's argument, but he found nothing that didn't involve exposing aspects of his time amongst the demons that he’d rather not share. Silence stretched taut in the chamber, the other courtiers shifting uncomfortably as they watched Valerian and Aric locked in a battle of wills.

"The demon threat is still very real and present," Valerian pressed, undeterred. "Their forces gather even now on our borders, preparing for a renewed assault. And you expect me to divert my attention to some . . . magical curiosity?"

"They are already far more than a curiosity," Aric said through gritted teeth. "We saw firsthand the devastation they wrought on the city of Brenville. It is only a matter of time before?—"

Valerian rose from his chair in one fluid motion, moving around his desk to stand directly in front of Aric.

“I do not discount the value of magic,” Valerian said swiftly. “Do not mistake me for a paranoid Pureblade, or superstitious simpleton. I know what it is capable of. And I know that our magic—human magic, true magic—is capable of so much more than what the demons wield. Yet they have their advantages, too.” Valerian cut his eyes toward Aric. “If we are to beat them, it will be through honing our magics to a lethal point and allowing these beasts to impale themselves on it.”

Aric’s mouth opened, working silently as he tried to find an angle of approach. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from the regent, but it was hardly—this. “I agree that the difference in human and demon magics are vast, but altering our own beyond sustainability?—”

"And you," Valerian said softly, "an expert in demon magics yourself. Where do your loyalties truly lie? With your fellow mages here? With your precious Silver Tower?" He leaned in close enough for Aric to feel the heat of his breath on his skin. "Or have you truly turned your back on them all?"

Aric flinched away from Valerian's touch, and Olaya quickly stepped forward to interpose herself between them.

"Lord Regent," she said firmly. "I assure you Aric is quite dedicated to our cause." Her eyes flickered with something Aric couldn't decipher. "Any questions about Mage Solarian's actions during his captivity can wait until our official debrief tomorrow. The Silver Tower and Pureblade Order will be conducting a joint questioning then, and you are welcome to ask anything you wish to know then, but until?—"

"I am welcome to do whatever I want. And what I want is to destroy the demonic threat once and for all." Valerian glared right through Aric. "Anything you know that will enable that—that's what I care about. Not some— disturbance in your spells."

"You are far too dismissive of the larger picture, Lord Regent," Aric said, the room starting to feel stiflingly hot around him. "These disturbances are not isolated phenomena. They are indicative of a deeper, more pervasive breakdown of the very fabric of our world. A breakdown that could render us powerless to face any threat, demon or otherwise."

Valerian raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "And what evidence do you have to support this dramatic claim, Mage Solarian?"

Aric's temper flared. His fingers twitched, and tendrils of golden magic curled around his hands before he could stop them. He clenched his fists, trying to quash the unruly power threatening to escape.

"Enough to warrant taking action, rather than waiting until it's too late."

The golden glow danced over his skin as his control slipped further. Magic sparked and crackled in the air around him, the building heat palpable against his cheeks. Aric's sigil burned white-hot against his back, his senses raw and overstimulated.

"You think we can afford to be complacent because we hold a fragile edge over our enemies? That complacency will be our undoing."

With those words, the tension snapped.

Aric's magic surged in a brilliant flare, washing the room in harsh golden light. Papers fluttered from Valerian's desk; the silken drapes rustled as if in a gale.

All eyes turned to Aric—the other courtiers, Olaya and Ruta and Davin—and he knew he'd revealed more about himself than he'd intended. The sigil on his back sizzled with approval even as he fought to tamp it down.

Valerian's eyes widened in shock before narrowing into thin slits. He looked at Aric now like a new weapon that had appeared on his rack—something to be wielded with deadly precision.

Aric mumbled an apology, though for what he wasn't sure, and resumed his seat. But he knew the damage was already done.

"Fear not," Valerian said, smoothing a nonexistent crease from his robe. "I shall be certain to attend the questioning myself tomorrow. I expect it will prove most illuminating. Perhaps then we can discuss these so-called anomalies in more detail." His gaze flitted over Aric, assessing and weighing. "For now, I bid you welcome back to Astaria. But do keep in mind—every decision you make here will have consequences. The court is a nest of vipers, Mage Solarian, and one would be wise not to disturb them unnecessarily."

Valerian gave a small flick of his wrist, and the doors swung open behind him.

"You are dismissed."

Olaya opened her mouth as if to protest, but whatever look Valerian gave her overrode it, and she simply nodded instead.

They followed the aide out into the hallway once more, the courtiers' curious stares pricking at Aric's back as they went. As the heavy doors of the antechamber closed behind them, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

What in all the realms had just happened in there?

"You did well," Olaya said quietly, moving alongside him. "Better than I expected, at least."

Aric frowned at her, but she just shook her head. He couldn't press her for answers with so many listening ears around them.

He'd known returning to human lands wouldn't be easy. But he'd never imagined it would feel so much like stepping into a different realm altogether.

At least when he'd stood before demon lords, their machinations had been all too clear.

As they made their way back through the palace toward the enclave of mage quarters set aside for them, Aric looked around at the courtiers clustered in dim alcoves, whispering behind their fans and goblets of wine. Their laughter was like knives on stone; their eyes were forever shifting, searching for weakness or advantage to exploit.

And they were all watching him now.

Aric set his jaw and kept his shoulders back as they passed through the throngs of guards and servants bustling about their duties. But inside he felt like prey caught in a hunter's sights—no matter how strong or capable he was on his own, there was nowhere left for him to hide from their scrutiny.

They'd all have their opinions about him now—about what he had done while gone. Whether it truly mattered in the face of this new threat remained to be seen.

But Aric's heart pounded with certainty: whatever game they wanted him to play, whatever power struggles and intrigues lay ahead—he would not be played this time. He'd survived the trials of the demon realm with his morals intact; he'd faced down horrors and evil there that would destroy them all if left unchecked.

He was done with masks and disguises. Done pretending to be someone else's idea of a hero or villain.

The real battle had just begun—and Aric intended to win it on his own terms.