Page 25 of Trial By Fire

“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 survivaldepended 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 eachother. 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.

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