Page 30 of Sundered By Fate

"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.

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