Chapter 6

Six

W hen the first dark shapes of the town appeared at the base of the hill, Aric had to force himself to believe they were real. It was like a nightmare, made flesh and blood and bone, marching in lockstep with the pounding of his heart. He moved like a ghost of himself as the army surged forward, the ground trembling beneath their feet, the air thick with the cloying stench of brimstone and the harsh cries of a thousand demons as they led their renewed assault. Malekith stood at the front of the vanguard, his black hair billowing around him, his horns stark, and his eyes fixed on the valley below. Aric's feet moved him forward, carrying him up the hill to stand beside his prince.

"Drindal," Aric whispered, and felt the world tilt and spin. The last time he'd seen the human town, it had been from the opposite side of the valley, the demons repelled, the wards holding strong. He'd spent many summers in Drindal as a young apprentice, training in the Silver Tower's outpost and exploring the town's winding streets with Olaya, his mentor. They would spend their days poring over dusty tomes in the tower's library and practicing spells in the open courtyards, and in the evenings, they would walk along the cliffs, watching the sun set as the waves crashed far below, or enjoying the famed hot springs that made Drindal so cherished. It seemed a lifetime ago, a dream he'd had as a different person.

He picked out the landmarks with a sharp pang of nostalgia—the ancient stone walls, the domed temples that housed the town's many gods, the garrison of the Silver Tower perched high on the cliffs by the springs, its white banners snapping in the wind. Aric's eyes lingered there, a dull ache settling in his chest. He could almost see the tower's mages training in the courtyard, the way he and Olaya would join them, their faces upturned to the sun as they practiced their spells. But the courtyard was empty now, the mages gone, called to defend the town's borders.

"Malekith! My lord!" Vizra appeared at his side, her skin gleaming with the blood-red light of battle. "We must strike at the wards now, while they're still reeling from last night's assault. Let me lead the vanguard and we can shatter their defenses."

Malekith's gaze never wavered from the valley below. "Hold the line," he said, tone brooking no argument. "The humans will be expecting a head-on assault. We will give them something else."

"But we must press the advantage while we have it?—"

"And I say we must hold back the knowledge that we can dismantle their wards until the very last moment," Malekith said, his face an impassive mask as he surveyed the town below. "It is the greatest surprise we have on our side. Disclosing it too soon or launch a rash assault could cost us dearly."

Aric's heart quickened at the opening Vizra's outburst had provided, and he pushed his way to the front of the war council. "If I may, my lord." Aric swallowed, the taste of the city's fear sour on his tongue. "I have some knowledge of the city's defenses."

Malekith turned to him, his dark eyes glinting. Aric's heart stuttered, but he made himself meet his gaze, to look beyond the mask of the demon prince, searching for a hint, a trace of what lay beneath. But all he found was that same enigmatic face, giving nothing away.

"Well?" Malekith's eyebrow arched. "What can you tell us?"

Aric turned to face the city, the memories of his time there slotting into place like the pieces of an intricate spell. "The town is protected by a series of defenses, but they are not insurmountable."

He wove a tapestry of half-truths and exaggerations, emphasizing the strength of certain fortifications while downplaying vulnerabilities. Malekith listened intently, eyes darting between Aric and the city, while Vizra's frustration simmered visibly. Aric's mind raced as he spoke, calculating the best angle of approach, the most vulnerable points to target, then throwing his suggestions just a little off-target to keep the demons on the back foot. He had never been a military strategist, but his time in the demon court had taught him the value of deception and misdirection.

And as the town drew closer, he knew he had one last chance to put those lessons to use.

Dawn was a slow seep of blood over the horizon, staining the sky as the demon army gathered in the valley below. The humans were ready for them after the previous night. As ready as they could be after suffering losses; their remaining ranks bristled with spears and fluttered with bright silk banners. The town's mages wove their spells in the air, a shimmering net of magic ready to ensnare any who attempted to breach their walls, while the griffin riders, the few who hadn't been ravaged by Karthax's winged hordes, made slow, cautious scouting laps in the dawn.

Malekith's strategy was cautious, methodical. He sent his forces forward in waves, testing the strength of the human defenses, probing for weaknesses. It was slow going, the battle devolving into a brutal siege as the demons struggled to gain a foothold.

"Patience, Aric," Malekith said, as Aric fidgeted at the back of House Ixion's ranks, his mind racing with thoughts of what lay beyond the city's walls. "We must wait for the right opportunity."

Aric nodded, but he could feel the restless energy of the demon army all around them. They were hungry for battle, for the taste of victory after so many long years of war. It was a living thing, that hunger, a dark, writhing mass that threatened to consume them all.

Vizra prowled back and forth, her impatience palpable. She shot furtive glances at Aric, no doubt still smarting from her humiliation in the mountains, but for now, she held her tongue. There was battle lust in her eyes, the same hunger that was gnawing at Aric's own insides, though his was for a stalemate as much as hers was for a swift victory.

And then, as the sun climbed higher in the sky and Karthax's strike force darted in behind the vanguard, the wards around the city began to falter.

It started as a low, keening wail, like the wind being torn to shreds. The mages on the walls scrambled to reinforce the barriers, but it was too late. With a blinding flash of light, the wards shattered, and the human town lay open before them.

"My agents have done their work," Vizra said, a hungry smile on her face. "This will make a fine test to see how true your human pet's words are, Malekith."

"This town hardly seems worth wasting the element of surprise on," Malekith said, but there was a glint in his eye that Aric didn't like. "But so be it. If any humans are left alive in our assault, they will spread the word that the wards are fallible. So we cannot leave any survivors."

Aric stifled a sharp cry. If Malekith glanced at him, he was careful not to meet it.

"Prepare the vanguard," Malekith said to General Vezera. "We will press the advantage."

The demons roared their battle cry as they launched themselves onward. Malekith's strategy was working, the humans reeling from the sudden breach of their defenses.

But it was a fragile thing, that breach, and Aric knew it wouldn't hold. Already, the mages on the walls were regrouping, their spells crackling in the air. If the demons didn't move quickly, the humans would reinforce the wards, and the battle would once again grind to a bloody stalemate.

Be swift, Aric urged the Silver Tower's mages, with all the fervor he could muster, all the prayers to long-dead gods that he could spare. Repel them quickly. Make the cost of victory too high.

But his hopes were in vain.

The demon vanguard struck the human defenders with the force of a battering ram, but it was Karthax's berserkers who shattered them. Karthax himself was a whirlwind of steel and fury as he waded into the human ranks, his twin forearm blades a blur as he hewed a path through their lines. He was a nightmare made flesh, a vision of savage brutality as he cleaved through the defenders with a primal roar.

Aric's heart seized with a terrible pain as he watched the carnage unfold. The humans fought with a desperate courage, but it was no match for the berserkers' bloodlust. They were like a force of nature, unstoppable and relentless as they carved a path along the ramparts.

"By the gods," someone whispered, and Aric realized dimly that it was him.

He had thought himself prepared for the horrors of war, but nothing could have steeled him for the sight of it, the raw, unbridled violence playing out before his eyes. The stench of blood and smoke filled the air, the sounds of battle a cacophony that threatened to shatter his mind. He was frozen in place, a silent witness to the slaughter unfolding before him.

The town's defenders were regrouping, but it was too late—the demon army had already breached their walls. Aric fought back a bitter rush of bile in his throat he watched the chaos unfolding below. The humans waged their defense with a desperate kind of courage, their spears flashing in the morning light, but they were too few in number, too helpless without their wards to withstand the demon horde.

"Now, General," Malekith called to Vezera, and wove a dreadful spell of darkness to usher her forces along.

Malekith's forces surged forward, a tide of blackened armor threatening to engulf the town. The demons howled with triumph as they pressed their advantage, their shadows swallowing up the streets.

Aric's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He should be down there with the Silver Tower, doing everything in his power to protect the town. He should be bolstering the Pureblade Order and their light from the gods themselves. But instead, he was here, at the back of the demon army, watching helplessly as the world he'd known was torn apart.

"Look at them," Vizra said, her eyes shining with bloodlust. "Scrambling like ants. They never stood a chance."

Aric's stomach turned, but he forced himself to watch, to study the town's defenders. There were mages among them still, their robes billowing as they worked their spells in the air. If they could hold the demons back, even for a few precious moments, they might have a chance at driving them back.

But it was a slim hope, and Aric knew it. The demon army was too vast, too powerful. The town's defenders were brave, but bravery alone would not be enough to save them.

And then, as the first wave of demons reached the town square, the mages unleashed their magic, a blinding cascade of light.

But even from where he stood, Aric could see that it wasn't enough.

And then the walls of Drindal crumbled, and the world turned to chaos.

The town had never been designed for a siege, even after the ward station was erected and the eternal stalemate at the edge of the demon realms turned to a boil, and the human defenders were quickly overwhelmed. The demon vanguard poured through the breach like a tide of black steel, their war cries shattering the morning air. Malekith led the charge, his sword a wicked slash of shadow as he cut down any who dared to stand in his way.

"Forward!" Malekith bellowed, his voice carrying over the chaos of battle. "To the town square! We will establish a foothold there and push outwards."

The demons surged forward, a living river of darkness, and Aric was swept up in the current. He moved on instinct, his body moving as if on its own. His hands were numb, his mind a blank. His thoughts roared with the blaze of his magic, so painfully and tauntingly out of reach, and he could not hear his own thoughts for the crackle and roar of fire that engulfed his senses.

The town square was a scene of carnage, redolent of blood and smoke. The demons had pushed the humans back, but the defenders were rallying, their mages launching bolts of searing light into the demon ranks. Aric paid them no mind as he wove his way through the chaos, his eyes fixed on Malekith's dark figure at the center of the square.

This was Drindal now, a feast for demons and a grave for his own. His mind could scarcely comprehend the incongruous sight as the monstrous hordes flooded over the paved stone plazas, the cobbled paths. This was what his ambition had wrought—all this, possible because of his failings, because of him.

Aric was six the first time he visited Drindal, although it wasn't his first excursion beyond the Tower's walls. His mentor, Olaya, took him on what she called a "field expedition" every summer, journeying to the nearby towns and villages that dotted the foothills of the mountains. These trips served a dual purpose: to educate him in the ways of the human realm, and to give the mages of the towns a chance to meet and learn from the prodigious young talent of the Silver Tower.

For Olaya's visits, the townsfolk would open their markets, lay out their finest wares, and prepare a series of tests for her young apprentice to solve. Sometimes it was a riddle or a puzzle box; other times, it was a test of magical skill, like the time he and another apprentice raced to mend a broken fountain, or the time he was tasked with building a functioning shield charm from only the raw materials provided to him.

He lost almost as often as he won, but Olaya never faulted him for it. "The point is to see other ways of doing things," she told him after his third expedition. "If the point was to win, there would be no need for a test at all, for I could merely show you how it was done."

When he turned twelve, Olaya announced that he was old enough to explore the town on his own—under the condition that he meet her at the inn by nightfall. Aric had never been given such freedom before, and he reveled in it, his eyes wide as he wandered the cobbled streets, the salty sea air of the coastal town a heady perfume.

He visited the market first, drawn to the colorful silks and exotic spices that the human traders brought from far-off lands. He lingered at the stalls of booksellers, poring over tomes and scrolls that he could never hope to find at the Tower, and lost track of time in a quaint tea house where a trio of bards sang of distant lands and epic quests.

But the real magic of Drindal, he soon discovered, lay in its hot springs, a series of natural pools that bubbled and steamed in the heart of the town. The mages of the Silver Tower frequented them after a long day of training, soaking in the mineral-rich waters, and Aric understood immediately why. The heat of the water worked out the kinks in his muscles, and the scent of sulfur and salt soothed his frayed nerves. He could have stayed there for hours, drifting in and out of a blissful trance, the cares of the world melting away.

But eventually the sun began to dip towards the horizon, and he remembered Olaya's warning. He was a guest in this town, and he would not disrespect their hospitality. With a wistful glance back at the pools, he pulled himself from the water and headed for the inn to meet his mentor.

And now, as he staggered, dazed, through the streets of the broken town, Aric felt that same sense of wonder and freedom that had filled him as a boy curdle like milk in his heart.

He moved through the town like a ghost, the bitter tang of death and failure coating his tongue. The demon army had left nothing in its wake, the streets littered with the broken bodies of the town's defenders. They had fought bravely, he would give them that, but it had not been enough to hold back the tide.

Aric's steps were unsteady as he trudged towards the hot springs, the memory of them a distant ache. The pools were still there, still bubbling and steaming, but the magic that had once infused them was gone. In its place was a palpable sense of wrongness, a stain on the world that he could never wash away.

He had known this would be the price of his bargain with Malekith, the cost of saving himself and Malekith from Sovereign Zaxos's wrath. But knowing it in his head was a far cry from feeling it in his bones, from tasting the bitterness of it on the air.

Was this really what it had come to? Had he really allied himself with the demons, the same creatures who had terrorized his people for centuries? He tried to tell himself that it was all part of a greater game, that he was playing a long and dangerous game to protect the human realm. But as he looked at the devastation around him, it was hard to hold onto that truth.

Was this what it would take to end the war, to make the demons see that there was another way? How much more blood would have to be shed before the balance of power shifted, before his people were safe?

Aric curled fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. There was a part of him that wanted to run, to flee into the mountains and never look back. He could leave the demon army to their conquest, let them believe that they had broken him. He could make his way back to the human realm, warn them of the threat that was coming.

But he knew it was a fool's hope. The demon scouts were already ranging far and wide, their shadowy forms blotting out the stars. And even if he somehow managed to evade them, there was still Vizra, her spies no doubt already at work, sowing discord and gathering information.

No, there was no going back for him, not now. His only path was forward, to see this through to the end. He had made his choice, and now he would have to live with the consequences, whatever they might be.

Despite the devastation, the town square brimmed with frenzied activity. Demon soldiers swarmed over the wreckage, looting and plundering with savage glee. The town's residents had fled, their screams echoing in the distance, and some unruly wraiths and implings chased after them, but the commanding demons paid them no mind. They were too caught up in the heady rush of victory, their eyes burning with savage glee as they tore the town apart.

Malekith watched it all with a strained smile on his face, his gaze distant. He sat on a makeshift throne of shattered stone, the mangled body of a human defender at his feet as General Vezera reported to him on their initial assessment of the town. Aric's stomach turned at the sight, but he forced himself to keep his face blank, to play his part. He was Malekith's pet human and nothing more. He was only a traitor, as far as the rest of the armies were concerned. He could not betray any other motive.

After permitting this, no one would believe it anyhow.

Aric approached Malekith and Vezera, and Vezera straightened with a nod and a clearing of her throat. "I'll deliver your orders to my lieutenants and report back," she said to Malekith, then trotted off to give them space.

Malekith watched Aric with a heavy stare. Aric wanted to believe Malekith felt the same conflict currently ravaging his heart. he wanted it so badly. But how could he be sure?

"Solarian," Malekith said.

None of the kindness, the concern, the sweet pet names and tender mercies he'd shown him the night before. Was it for the eyes and ears all around them, or only for himself?

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Aric asked, keeping his voice low. "A chance to show your strength, to prove to your people that you are worthy of the crown."

Malekith flinched, his eyes dark. "Do not presume to know my mind, little mage."

Aric braced himself, but Malekith made no move to strike him. He only sighed, his shoulders slumping.

"I hoped there would be another way," Malekith said, so softly that Aric could barely hear him over the chaos. "A path that did not run red with blood. But the demon lords are a fickle lot. They required a show of force, and it is my honor and pleasure as the remaining prince of House Ixion to give it to them."

Aric followed Malekith's gaze, taking in the carnage around them. There were bodies everywhere, the streets slick with blood. The demons had taken the town, but at what cost? The human defenders had not gone down against a fight they were ill prepared for without their wards, and their fury still lingered in the air, a bitter taste on the wind.

Aric's gaze strayed to Vizra, who loped through the streets with a gore-glutted blade, a hungry look in her eyes. She caught Aric's eye and smirked, a silent promise of pain. She was biding her time, he knew, waiting for the perfect moment to strike at him and Malekith, to show her dominance. And now that she had seen the town's fall for herself, she would not have to wait long.

As Aric scanned the crowd, he caught sight of clusters of demons huddled together, their voices low and furtive. They cast uneasy glances at Malekith and Vizra, and a shiver of foreboding ran down Aric's spine. The demon army might have dismantled the first ward station and seized Drindal, but the victory was far from certain for House Ixion. The political fault lines that Malekith had warned him about were already beginning to crack open, and if the demon lords turned on each other now, it would only be a matter of time before the humans saw their chance.

Aric's mind raced with possibilities, but before he could formulate a plan, a trio of lesser demons approached, their taloned hands laden with plundered food and drink. With a silent exchange, they set the offerings at Aric and Malekith's feet before retreating, leaving the two of them alone.

A roast pig, its skin glistening with fat, and its head still attached, red eyes staring at them like a curse. A platter of skewered meats, still twitching and oozing as the demon blood magic held them in an uncooked state. A salad of wilted leaves and bitter herbs that did nothing to mask the stink of carnage that hung in the air.

"Please, eat," Malekith said, with a cruel smile. "I'm told it is a delicacy in your realm."

Aric's stomach lurched, and he fought back the taste of bile in his mouth. "I—I'm not hungry."

Malekith's eyes flashed, a warning. "I would not want you to forget where your loyalties lie, human." He waved a hand at the feast before them, but Aric saw behind what he was gesturing toward—the eyes of countless demons, watching them expectantly. "Surely you can find something to sustain you."

Aric's mind raced. He couldn't afford to make any missteps now, not when any chance at salvaging this devastation he'd wrought hung in the balance. But the food before him might as well have been laced with poison, for all he could bring himself to reach for it.

"Apologies, my lord," Aric said, forcing his voice to stay steady. "I am . . . unaccustomed to such . . . exotic fare."

He could practically hear his own teeth grinding, but to Aric's relief, Malekith only chuckled. "A fair point. I suppose our chefs can only offer a pale imitation of true human cuisine. Perhaps one day you will have the chance to show us how to prepare it properly."

Aric said nothing, his jaw clenched tight, and after a moment, Malekith turned away from him to address his court. The demons looked up from their ravaging, felhounds lifting blood-streaked snouts, winged imps flitting down from their perches on the gables of the town square. General Vezera stood to one side with the lieutenants of House Ixion, while Karthax, streaked in blood and sweat, waited expectantly with Vizra's guards.

"My friends, my loyal subjects," Malekith said, his voice ringing out over the crowd. "Today is a day of victory, of triumph for the demon people. We have taken the first step on the long road to the human world's haert, but there is still much to be done."

The crowd let out a deafening roar, their voices blending together in a terrifying symphony. Aric's heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the plaza, the firelight casting long shadows across the broken stonework. He caught sight of human prisoners being dragged forward, their hands bound, and tried to look away, but it was no use.

"Every step we take brings us closer to our goal," Malekith said. "But we must remain vigilant. The humans are a cunning and tenacious foe, and they will not give up without a fight. So let us show them fully why their defenses are futile. Let us march onward. To Brenville and beyond. To the heart of Astaria!"

More cheering, and Aric felt like he was drowning in it. He couldn't let himself forget why he was here, why he had made this terrible bargain. He was here to protect the human realm, by any means necessary. Even if it meant playing this deadly game.

But as the feast stretched on, the stench of roasting meat thick in the air, Aric found he could not bring himself to take a single bite. He was losing track of the time, the days melting together in a hazy, sleep-deprived fog. A hand closed around Aric's wrist, and he flinched, his heart lurching. But it was only Malekith, his face carefully neutral.

Malekith leaned in close, his breath hot against Aric's ear. "There are human prisoners below," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the raucous celebration. "In cells beneath the square."

As Malekith spoke, Aric felt a subtle shift in the air around him. The sigils on his wrist bracers, which had been cold and unyielding for so long, seemed to warm ever so slightly. A faint tingle of magic, like a whisper of wind on his skin, brushed against his senses.

Aric's eyes widened as understanding dawned. Malekith had loosened the magical restrictions, just enough to allow a trickle of power through. The meaning was clear: if Aric could find a way, he was to free those prisoners.

He met Malekith's gaze, searching for confirmation. Malekith's face remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something in his dark eyes—a challenge, perhaps, or a test. Aric gave an almost imperceptible nod, his mind already racing with possibilities. Malekith nodded towards the edge of the plaza, and Aric understood.

Aric rose from his seat, and he swayed on unsteady feet as the blood rushed back to his head. Malekith's fingers tightened around his wrist, steadying him, and for a fleeting instant, Aric allowed himself to imagine a different world. But the moment passed, and Aric forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

Aric headed to the outskirts of the plaza and down a level from the central fountain, where a group of shadow demons stood watch. They nodded to Aric, their eyes glazed as if with some kind of ensorcellment, and Aric slipped into the night, the sounds of the feast fading behind him.

The streets of the town were cloaked in darkness, the only light the sickly green flames that danced in the sconces. Aric tried to move quickly, his senses on high alert. He passed through the town's outer defenses, and soon he was in the heart of the demon camp, the shadowy forms of the army stretched out around him.

Aric's skin itched with the urge to cast a spell, but he forced himself to hold back. Finally, he reached a heavily guarded building, and the demons on watch nodded before letting him pass.

Aric's heart raced as he approached the guarded building. The trickle of magic Malekith had allowed him burned like liquid fire in his veins, unfamiliar and intoxicating. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

With a subtle flick of his wrist, Aric wove a thread of demonic energy into the air. It coalesced into a faint, shimmering mirage—the ghostly outline of a human figure darting between shadows at the edge of the guards' vision.

The effect was immediate. The demons' heads snapped up, nostrils flaring as they caught the scent of illusory prey. Without a word, they abandoned their posts, loping off into the darkness with predatory grace.

Aric's chest tightened as he watched them go. The spell had worked perfectly, but the ease with which he'd manipulated demonic magic left him cold. For a fleeting moment, he entertained the wild notion of using this newfound power to escape.

But reality crashed down upon him like a physical weight. His gaze drifted upward, where bat-winged sentries circled overhead, their keen eyes scanning the ground below. Even if he could muster enough magic to slip away unseen, his absence would be noted, and they would hunt him down without mercy—and without any trouble, given the signatures woven into his bracelets.

With a pang of bitter resignation, Aric turned back to the now-unguarded entrance. He had a job to do, and lives to save. Everything else would have to wait.

The prisoners were huddled in the corner, their hands bound and mouths gagged, but their eyes widened with hope as Aric approached. Aric stepped forward, his hands moving in a quick, precise pattern to melt the locks on the makeshift cells. Aric worked clumsily, allowing a thin tendril of shadow magic to flow through him, but after so long without his powers, it was like a wobbling foal trying to take its first steps.

Yet he'd missed this magic so. It was a heady rush, like being plunged into icy water, and Aric had to fight to keep himself from being overwhelmed by it. Aric focused on that as he wove his way through unlatching the prisoners from their bonds.

Aric's heart was in his throat as he worked, scanning all around him for any sign of danger. He moved from one ward to the next, each one more complex than the last, but with Aric's knowledge of human spellcraft, he was able to dismantle them with relative ease.

Finally, the last ward fell away, and the bindings on the prisoners' hands dissipated. Aric placed a finger to his lips, and the prisoners nodded, their eyes shining with tears. They knew what was at stake, and they were willing to risk it all for a chance at freedom.

As silently as they could, the prisoners slipped out of their bonds and made for the door. But one of them, a young woman with a shock of white hair, paused before Aric. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and she reached out a trembling hand to touch his arm.

"Thank you," she mouthed, her voice barely a breath. And then she was gone, melting into the darkness with the others.

Aric repeated the process two more times, until all of the prisoners had been freed, and the town's defenses were in tatters. Aric looked around, a weary smile on his face.

"Anything to help my people," Aric said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice.