Page 43 of Trial By Fire

Her mouth opened, but only silence came out, the sorcerers unable to wrench a proper retort from Aric’s mind, no doubt.

And that was the key, wasn’t it? He wasn’t fighting against the illusions themselves, no. He only had to understand the limitations of the spells being woven around him, of the sorcerers weaving them. One by one, he quieted each illusion, with a flicker of flame or a few sharply placed words.

Once more he tore through the false images, the twisted corridors of the maze melting away. The demon howled in outrage, the sorcerers redoubling their efforts, their voices rising in a frantic chant. But he ignored it all, his focus singular, his purpose clear.

The first few turns were simple, the path yielding before him like a ribbon through the shifting stone. Aric’s confidence swelled with each step, his magic guiding him true. He ignored the whispers that echoed in the maze’s depths, the shadows churning around him like a gathering storm. They were only illusions, after all.

But as he delved deeper into the maze, the illusions became more intense, more personal. The shadows took on familiar shapes, the voices his own. They whispered taunts, his deepest insecurities laid bare.

You are betraying your people.

You are a fool to trust the demon.

You will fail, and all will be lost.

Aric grit his teeth and forced himself to move, to push through the illusion. It wasn’t real. It was just a trick of the sorcerers, a test of his resolve. With a cry, he lunged forward, and the illusion shattered.

But behind the lesser ones stood one more, looming larger than all the rest.

“Traitor.” The hiss came from around a corner, and Aric stumbled back, his heart lurching in his chest. “Demon’s whore.”

The Illusion solidified before him—a twisted, wicked mirror of Cyrus Revenant. His cold, dead eyes stared into Aric’s, and for a moment, Aric was sure he was looking at the real thing. The force of Cyrus’s judgment, his disgust at Aric’s betrayal, pressed against him, unyielding.

His hands shook with a surge of rage, the golden flames of his magic flickering to life. The Illusion sneered at him, a cruel, hateful grin. “Look at you. All it took was a taste of power, and you sold out your own kind. You’re a disgrace, Solarian. A stain on everything the mages are supposed to be.”

The words cut deeper than any blade, and Aric’s nails dug into his palms. He was trying so hard to hold onto himself, to remember that the Illusion wasn’t real. But the taunts, the doubts—they were.

A sign of weakness, Malekith had said. And Cyrus’s Illusion knew it. Knew Aric’s deepest fears, his most wrenching guilts. Lashing out now would only prove that the Illusion had power over him.

Aric’s jaw hardened, grinding his teeth together as the golden flames rose up his forearms. He’d always seen Cyrus as the enemy, the embodiment of everything wrong with his people’s doctrine. He was cruel and sadistic, his hatred so all-consuming that it left nothing but a withered husk of a man in its wake.

If he was to face this Illusion, he would do so on his terms. He would not let it break him.

Aric took a deep breath, the heat of his magic washing over his skin. He felt the flames burning within him, a coiled, seething thing that longed to be unleashed. He would need thatpower in the trials to come, but he had to be careful. He couldn’t let it consume him.

Not now. Not yet.

With a supreme act of will, Aric forced the magic back down, locking it away in the deepest recesses of his soul. He held the Illusion’s gaze, his voice steady.

“Shut the fuck up, you coward.”

And then he turned and ran, the echo of the illusion’s enraged howl spurring him forward.

He rounded the corner, and all at once, the maze fell away around him. He was staring into the eyes of Olaya once more, but she wasn’t fighting Aric this time. Instead, she was in the clutches of a hulking demon brute, glancing at Aric as she pleaded for mercy.

“Aric, please–Tell them–”

But then the demon who seized Olaya took shape.

Aric cried out, stumbling back as her voice echoed in his ears, the flames in his hands sputtering out. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, the blood rushing in his ears, drowning out all other sounds.

“You’re nothing but a weak human.” The illusion solidified before him, a sneer curling the Illusion’s lips. It looked just like Malekith, but the real Malekith would never speak with such contempt, such disappointment. It was enough to shatter Aric’s carefully composed shield, and his knees buckled from the weight of it. Callously, he tossed Olaya aside, and her body crumpled. “Did you really think you could ever be worthy of me?”

He was losing himself in the illusion’s words, the taunts shredding his resolve. He was a failure, a broken promise, a disgrace to his people. The tears were streaking down his face now, the raw, painful sobs ripping from his throat. He’d tried so hard—sacrificed so much—and it still wasn’t enough.

A wave of darkness threatened to swallow him whole, the bitter taste of his own failure. He was exhausted, his body aching and spent. And he knew he was only at the beginning of the trials Malekith had set for him.

How could he possibly continue, when he could barely stand to face himself?

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