Chapter 8

Eight

A cloaked figure rode into the captured town of Drindal as dawn threatened to break, the steed a frothy mass of lather and foam. It took the dark of night with it as the riders made their way through the camp, and Aric's heart withered in his chest as soon as he saw them. He somehow knew, Vizra and Karthax loitering darkly at his side, that his gambit had failed.

The demons knew they had the advantage, and they would not let it slip away.

The town erupted in a flurry of activity as the soldiers prepared to march on Brenville. The high-pitched wail of a horn pierced the morning air, signaling the army to prepare to march. Aric's hands clenched into fists, the knuckles white with tension, as he watched Malekith and General Vezera pore over their battle plans, finalizing them for the assault on Brenville.

"It's not worth the risk," Aric said, and prayed to the gods that he sounded convincing.

He knew what the weapon was capable of, at least in theory, but he'd never seen it in action. It was a terrible thing to unleash, a force that could rip apart the very fabric of reality. He still wasn't sure it was worth the cost, even if it meant saving Brenville and the rest of the human realm.

The weapon had not been created with demonkind in mind, but Aric couldn't deny the possibility that it might be used against them one day.

But the Wrathforge wanted victory, and they wanted it at any cost. Aric's stomach turned at the thought.

Aric's sentiment, however, was not shared. As for the rest of the demons, all they cared was that the wards were shattered, and Drindal was theirs. Next along the warding chain was the town of Brenville, leading inexorably toward the heart of Astaria, and while the mountain pass had been a costly victory, hard-won and brutal, it had proved their strength. It was a taste of what was to come for the humans, if they did not bend the knee. They were a force to be reckoned with, a storm on the horizon, and soon all of it would be his to command.

Malekith raised his hand as he surveyed his troops, and the army fell silent, the only sound the low rumble of flames and the creak of leather and the harsh rasp of demons breathing. "Brenville is another ward center on our march toward the human capital," Malekith said, his voice carrying across the shattered streets. "They may be expecting us, but they do not know the extent of our power. We will show them no mercy, no quarter. We will raze the town to the ground, and leave no human alive. Victory is within our grasp. Let us seize it."

A chorus of howls and roars and battle cries answered him, the demons' bloodlust rising to a fever pitch. Aric shrank back inside himself, and battered his thoughts against the stony wall of the restrictive bonds around his wrists, dreaming of the magic he knew lay dormant on the other side.

In Malekith's campaign tent, every surface was covered in maps, reports, and hastily scrawled notes. Aric watched from a respectful distance as Malekith and Vizra huddled over a large parchment spread out on the table, heads close together in intense conversation. With a sinking feeling, Aric recognized the map as an aerial view of Brenville.

"You'll approach from the south, with the bulk of the forces hidden in the foothills," Malekith was saying to General Vezera, his tone low and smooth. "Meanwhile, Vizra, you and a small vanguard will stage a feint to draw out the human defenders. Once they are engaged, the main assault will sweep in from the east, trapping them against the river."

Aric's stomach turned as he realized what Malekith was doing. The entire plan was a house of cards, relying on the humans falling for the feint and the demon army being able to flank them in the chaos. If a single element went awry, it could spell disaster.

But Malekith's voice was so confident, so hypnotic, that even Aric found himself leaning in to listen. The demon prince was a master manipulator, and he was laying it on thick, buttering Vizra up with promises of a glorious victory and the honor of leading the main assault.

Vizra's eyes gleamed with avarice as she straightened up, drawing herself to her full height. "My lord, I am honored by your trust. I will not fail you."

"I know you won't." Malekith's hand settled on her shoulder, the gesture almost possessive. "The fate of Brenville rests in your hands. Do not disappoint me."

She bowed low, her long mane of obsidian hair spilling over her shoulders. "Never, my lord."

Aric's heart hammered in his chest as he watched the demons prepare for battle. He knew that Brenville's survival depended on the warning he'd sent. The prisoners he'd freed carried the town's only hope.

The first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold. And then the demon army was on the move, a roiling tide of shadows and steel surging towards the human town in the valley below.

Vizra rode at the head of the vanguard, her obsidian armor a dark slash against the morning light. Her eyes blazed with a feral light as she urged her war steed onward, the anticipation of battle making her almost glow. Aric watched her with a sinking feeling in his stomach, knowing that she was a skilled and ruthless commander, despite her recent missteps. She would not make the same mistake twice.

The demons on the front lines howled their battle cries and charged headlong towards the town, their blood up and their confidence high. They had come so far; victory was almost within their grasp. The humans, for all their vaunted defenses, were no match for the might of the demon army.

Or so they thought.

A rumbling filled the air, a low, ominous sound that sent a shiver down Aric's spine. He scanned the valley below, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The demons were almost to the town now, their vanguard engaged with the human defenders.

And then the ground beneath them gave way.

Hidden pits opened up, filled with sharpened stakes that skewered the unfortunate demons who stumbled into them. A network of trenches and barricades appeared as if by magic, channeling the demon forces and cutting them off from each other. The human defenders, it seemed, had not been idle in the days since the demons arrived at their doorstep.

The panicked braying of war steeds, the howls of wounded demons, and the clash of steel filled the air as the battlefield devolved into chaos. The demons, overconfident and expecting an easy victory, were thrown into disarray by the sudden shift in the human tactics.

"Mages, to the front!" Vizra's voice cut through the mayhem, and a line of demon sorcerers surged forward, unleashing torrents of dark magic in a desperate bid to turn the tide. Malekith's soldiers moved to flank the demons, but the humans were ready for them, meeting their advance with a wall of fire and steel.

Vizra's forces fought with savage determination, their battle cries echoing across the blood-soaked field. The cacophony of clashing steel, snarling demons, and screaming humans created a hellish symphony that assaulted Aric's ears. He watched in horror as Karthax, his massive form a blur of rippling muscles and gleaming armor, led his elite team in a relentless charge towards the town's wards.

"Push forward!" Karthax's booming voice carried over the din of battle. "The wards are weakening! Victory is at hand!"

Aric's heart raced, a frantic drumbeat in his chest. He found himself torn between conflicting emotions: a desperate hope for his people's survival warring with a gnawing fear for the lives being lost on both sides. The weight of his divided loyalties threatened to crush him.

Suddenly, the air itself seemed to scream. A sound like reality tearing apart sliced through the battlefield, drowning out even the loudest battle cries. Aric's eyes widened in shock and recognition.

"No," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "They couldn't have . . ."

But they had. A blinding rift of unstable magic erupted across the battlefield, its edges crackling with raw, uncontrolled power. The prototype weapon, the one Aric had hoped would never see the light of day, had been unleashed in all its terrible glory.

Time seemed to slow as the rift expanded. Aric watched in horrified fascination as it sliced through the demonic forces like a scythe through wheat. Stone walls crumbled, steel armor warped and melted, and flesh . . . flesh twisted in ways that defied comprehension.

"Fall back!" Vizra's panicked cry cut through the chaos. "Retreat! We can't?—"

Her words were cut short as the rift engulfed her position. Aric caught a glimpse of her honey-colored skin contorting, her golden eyes wide with terror, before she vanished into nothingness.

Demons screamed, their bodies contorting with gruesome abruptness. Limbs elongated impossibly, faces melted like wax, and some simply ceased to exist, leaving behind nothing but echoing howls of agony.

The air grew thick with the stench of ozone and corrupted magic. Aric choked with every breath, his eyes watering as he witnessed the carnage unfolding before him. For the first time since his capture, he felt a perverse gratitude for the bonds that cut him off from his magic. The thought of what such unstable energy might do to his own powers sent a chill down his spine.

As he watched the destruction unfold, a sickening realization dawned on him. The Silver Order, his own people, must have been truly desperate to deploy the weapon in such an unfinished state. Its wild, unpredictable nature posed nearly as great a threat to the human forces as it did to the demons.

The rift pulsed and writhed, a hungry, ravenous beast that seemed to devour everything in its path. Aric's gaze darted frantically between the fleeing demons and the terrified human soldiers, knowing that at any moment, the weapon's fury could turn on its creators.

He held his breath, his entire body tense as a bowstring. This, he realized, could be the moment when both sides finally understood the true cost of their war. The air crackled with potential energy, both magical and emotional, as demons and humans alike stared into the face of annihilation.

The rift pulsed again, growing ever larger, and Aric braced himself for what might come next.

Then the battle descended even further into utter mayhem.

Hidden human forces emerged from concealed positions, raining arrows and spells upon the disorganized demons. Vizra's forces, at the forefront of the assault, bore the brunt of the ambush. She fought furiously, her honey-skinned form a blur as her daggers flashed in the morning light, but her troops were falling rapidly around her.

Malekith watched from a distance, his face an impassive mask. Aric hoped it hid his inner satisfaction at seeing his rival's forces decimated.

"Fall back!" Vizra's cry echoed across the battlefield as she cut down a human paladin with a vicious backhand. "We're overrun!"

The human town's defenders regrouped, the survivors of the initial demon assault falling back to their barricades and trenches. The demons hesitated, uncertain, their overconfidence shattered by the sudden reversal of fortunes. And yet even as the rifts devoured clusters of demonic soldiers, Aric could only watch in mute horror as a human guardsman, too, was rent apart by the lingering magical detritus.

"Lord Malekith!" Vizra's voice was a raw, animalistic snarl as she fought her way towards him, her war steed carving a bloody path through the demon ranks. "Order the retreat! We are lost here!"

Malekith's gaze locked with Aric's, a silent command passing between them, before he turned his attention back to Vizra. His posture was straight, his movements unhurried as he dismounted and approached her. "Fall back. All forces, retreat."

His voice, though raised only enough to carry, seemed to echo across the battlefield. The demons hesitated, looking to their commanders for guidance, and then the first ranks began to turn and flee.

"Withdraw! Fall back to Drindal, now!"

Vizra's face was a mask of fury as she met Malekith's gaze, a look that promised retribution, and then she was turning, her steed leaping over the churned-up earth as she fled towards the foothills.

The demons, shattered and bloodied, streamed past Aric, their wounded cries filling the air. Malekith's soldiers, for their part, moved with grim efficiency, falling back in tight formations, protecting their flanks and covering the retreat of the rest of the army. The human defenders, wisely, did not pursue. They had inflicted heavy casualties on the demon forces, but they were in no shape to give chase.

Not as the magical mayhem they'd wrought on the battlefield threatened them just as savagely.

As the last of the demon army regrouped at their camp halfway between Drindal and Brenville, Malekith stalked towards Vizra, his face an unreadable mask. "A word. Now."

She dismounted, her movements jerky with rage, and bowed stiffly, her eyes never leaving the ground.

Malekith's voice, though pitched for Vizra's ears only, carried across the camp in the sudden silence that fell over the demon soldiers. "You were so certain of the humans' weakness, of your own strength. And yet, you led the vanguard straight into a trap of your own making. The very thing you accused me of plotting."

Vizra's lip curled back, her fangs bared, but she said nothing.

"The humans were ready for us, yes. But your overconfidence, your bloodlust, blinded you to the warning signs that were there to see. You gave them the opening they needed to turn the tide against us. Fortunately, I was able to salvage the situation, but the cost of your folly is steep."

"I . . . I am sorry, my lord," Vizra said, her voice a strangled whisper.

"Sorry will not be enough to appease the Sovereign," Malekith said. "You have failed him, and he will not look kindly upon that failure."

Vizra's eyes widened in horror, the full weight of her mistake crashing down on her. "My lord, please?—"

"The fate of your household now rests in the hands of the Sovereign. I can only hope he will show you more mercy than the humans showed us or themselves."

He released her then, and she crumpled to the ground, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs as he retreated to his private tent.

And there, he allowed a small smile to play across his lips, and Aric found himself smiling in kind.

The humans would be emboldened by their bittersweet victory, no doubt, but the demons' true strength had been kept hidden. As far as the Sovereign and the rest of the demon court were concerned, Malekith had single-handedly turned the tide of the battle, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. His reputation could not have been burnished more brightly, while Vizra's had been tarnished beyond repair.

Malekith reached out to him, and Aric took his hand, a thrill of heat racing through him. "You did it," Aric said, a lump forming in his throat. "You held him back."

Malekith's eyes flicked from Aric to Vizra, still on her knees before him, before he let out a long breath. "For now." His fingers tightened around Aric's, and he turned to face him, his eyes intense. "There will be consequences. But it was a risk that had to be taken." His thumb brushed over Aric's knuckles, a soft caress.

Aric moved closer, stepping into the shelter of Malekith's embrace. "We'll face them together." His voice was a whisper, but he knew Malekith could hear him.

After a long moment, Malekith released Aric's hand and brought his palms to either side of Aric's face. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as he traced the line of Aric's jaw with his thumbs.

Aric's breath caught in his throat as their eyes met, and he saw the storm of emotions raging within Malekith. Relief and regret, hope and sorrow. They both knew the cost of the battle that had just been won, the lives that had been lost and the fractures that had been torn open within the demon ranks.

But still, Aric couldn't help but feel a rush of hope. Malekith was a master of this game, and now the tide of the war was at his back. Maybe, just maybe, they could use it to stem the tide and find another path.

He raised himself on his toes, closing the last few inches between them, and pressed his lips to Malekith's. Malekith stiffened for the briefest moment, and then he was kissing him back, his lips parting with a soft sigh.

Aric felt a sudden flood of emotion so strong it made his head spin, so he poured it all into the kiss. Gratitude, for Malekith accepting him, flaws and all. Sorrow, for the lives lost on both sides of the battlefield. Hope, that they could use this moment of retreat to set things right. And love, a fierce, unquenchable love that he hoped Malekith could taste on his lips.

The kiss was a spark, igniting the flame that had been smoldering between them for so long. Aric felt the heat of it sear through him, melting away any remaining hesitation. He pressed himself closer to Malekith, their bodies aligning perfectly, and Malekith's hands came to rest on his hips, pulling him even nearer.

Aric's heart was pounding in his chest, his breath coming in short gasps as Malekith's mouth trailed down his neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there. He shivered, his hands coming up to tangle in Malekith's hair, holding him in place as he savored the feel of Malekith's lips and tongue against his skin.

Malekith's hands slid up his sides, thumbs brushing the peaks of his nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt, making Aric arch into the touch. With a soft growl, Malekith bit down on the juncture between Aric's neck and shoulder, and Aric moaned, his head falling back to give Malekith better access.

They stumbled backward, Malekith's legs hitting the edge of the bed, and they fell onto it in a tangle of limbs. Aric found himself on his back, Malekith's body a welcome weight on top of him. Malekith's eyes were dark, burning with a hunger that mirrored Aric's own.

Malekith's hand slid between them, fingers wrapping around Aric's cock, and he bucked up into the touch with a gasp. Malekith's thumb swiped over the head, spreading the pre-come there, and Aric's hips stuttered as he sought more friction.

"Patience," Malekith murmured, his breath hot against Aric's ear. His free hand pinned Aric's wrists above his head, holding him in place as he slowly stroked them both.

Aric's breath hitched as Malekith began to move his hips, their cocks sliding against each other in a slow, torturous rhythm. He rocked up into each stroke, seeking more, his body singing with pleasure. Malekith's thumb brushed over the head of his cock again, and he keened, his hips stuttering.

"You're so beautiful like this," Malekith whispered, his lips brushing Aric's ear. "So responsive."

Aric's cheeks burned, but he didn't look away, holding Malekith's gaze as their hips moved together in a steady, relentless rhythm. Malekith's eyes were half-lidded, his mouth parted as he focused on the pleasure building within them both.

Aric's body was on fire, every touch and sensation magnified. He felt the heady rush of desire coil low in his stomach, a delicious tension that begged for release. He wanted—needed—more.

His hips snapped up, seeking deeper friction, and Malekith growled, his hips stuttering in response. Aric's hands were still pinned above his head, and he jerked forward, seeking to deepen the contact.

Malekith's free hand came down on his chest, holding him in place as he began to move his hips in earnest, their cocks sliding together in a frantic, desperate rhythm. Aric moaned, frantic and desperate as the pleasure built and built, threatening to overwhelm him.

"Malekith, please," he gasped, his hips stuttering as he sought release.

Malekith's thumb came down on the slit of Aric's shaft as he stroked him, and Aric cried out, his body arching up off the bed as he came with a shudder. Malekith followed soon after, his body tensing as he spilled himself between them with a low, satisfied groan.

They lay there for a moment, breathless, their hearts pounding in time. Aric's wrists were still trapped in Malekith's iron grip, but he didn't mind, his body thrumming with the aftershocks of his release.

Malekith's thumb brushed over his wrist, and Aric's hands were free, sliding down to tangle in the sheets as he struggled to catch his breath. He felt Malekith shift beside him, and then warm lips pressed against his shoulder, a soft kiss that made his heart stutter.

He turned his head, seeking Malekith's mouth, and their lips met in a slow, languid kiss that spoke of promises and a future that lay beyond the war and the darkness. Aric poured all his hope into it, his love, and his desire for a world where they could be together, without secrets or shadows.

A sharp rap on Malekith's tent post jolted Aric from his slumber. He blinked, disoriented, as the pre-dawn light filtered through the canvas. Beside him, Malekith stirred, his arm tightening around Aric's waist.

"Enter," Malekith called, his voice rough with sleep.

A young demon messenger burst into the room his eyes wide with urgency. He faltered for a moment at the sight of Aric and Malekith tangled together, but quickly recovered his composure.

"My lord," the messenger said, bowing low. "I bring word from the Sovereign."

Malekith sat up, suddenly alert. "Speak."

"The Sovereign has ordered an immediate retreat. All forces are to fall back to Drindal." The messenger swallowed hard. "And . . . the Sovereign will be awaiting you there."

Malekith's face was a mask of stone, betraying nothing of the turmoil Aric knew must be churning beneath the surface. "Very well. You may go."

The messenger bowed again and hurried out, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

Aric turned to Malekith, his heart pounding. Their eyes met, and in that moment, a look of shared dread passed between them. All their careful planning, all the risks they had taken—it had come to this.

The Sovereign was calling them to account, and there was no telling what price they might have to pay.