Page 86 of Sundered By Fate

"Malekith," he said. The name was a benediction, a curse, a plea. "Why are you here?"

Malekith raised his spear, the weapon's blade glinting in the moonlight. "For you, Aric."

Aric's wings sagged, his heart thundering in his chest. "And if I won't go?"

"Then I have no choice." Malekith's voice was a razor, each word slicing into Aric's heart. "This ends here, one way or another."

Aric nodded, his vision blurring with tears. "Then let it be so."

He surged into the air once more on a blazing gale. The courtyard was a darkened tomb beneath him, his city a distant memory. Only the rift remained, an open wound in the heart of the capital city, and Malekith was its keening wail.

Aric dove for it head-on, the sword's radiance shielding him from the rift's pull. The portal was jagged, chaotic; the edges shifting and undulating like molten glass.

The demons howled and surged toward him, but he was not afraid. The sword's power coursed through him, and he knew that he was invincible.

Only Malekith could stop him now.

Twenty-Three

Aric alighted on the courtyard stones, golden wings spread around him like rays of the sun. The dim glow of the rift outlined Malekith's form in the distance, but the poison of the anomalies gnawed at Aric's senses, the air thick with its corruption.

Malekith stood before the tear in reality, the violet energy illuminating an eerily empty battlefield. The soldiers and demon forces had shifted to other fronts, leaving the space wide open, deserted. Aric took a cautious step forward, and Malekith turned toward him, his eyes gleaming with a violet hue.

"Solarian." Malekith's voice was low, almost pained.

Aric's heart ached at the familiarity of that voice, the cadence he had once cherished, coupled with the cold unfamiliarity that rimed it like frost. But this—this nightmare of a man—was not the Malekith he had known. The energy of the rift twisted around him like a malevolent storm, and the shape of his demonic form seemed distorted, enhanced by the Void.

"Malekith," Aric said, his voice rough. He tightened his grip on the sword in his hand, the blade's glow pulsing in time with his racing heart. "Please. Whatever you've become—whatever Sylthris and the Sovereign have done to you—it's not too late."

Malekith laughed, a sound that sent a twisting knife of pain through Aric's heart. "Not too late? Oh, little mage, you have it all wrong."

His form shifted, the demonic armor re-forming around him. The rift’s energy reached for Malekith like lover’s arms, the shadows stretching and bending as he approached. Aric made himself stay still, the sword an anchor against the madness threatening to overwhelm him.

"Malekith. Please. I know you're still in there." He took a step forward, the courtyard stones cold against his feet. "I know you can fight this."

Malekith's eyes didn't waver, the violet gleam strong, unyielding. "There is nothing to fight, Aric. This is what I've always been. What I was always meant to be." He tilted his head, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "You should really be thanking me. I was holding back, when we were together. For you."

Aric's chest felt tight, the breath coming in ragged gasps. "You don't mean that. Whatever Sylthris has done to you, we can fix this." He raised the sword, the golden fire dancing along the blade. "I can help you, if you'll let me."

Malekith took another step, shadows clinging to him like a second skin. "I don't want your help."

They began to circle each other, their feet crunching on the charred remains of the courtyard. Aric's heart ached with the familiar dance—the way Malekith moved, the deadly grace of him. But there was a new weight to his steps, a heaviness that spoke of power beyond anything Aric had seen before.

And then he saw it—the corruption spreading through Malekith's veins, the darkness pooling beneath his skin. His once-glossy horns were dull and ashy, and his eyes . . . The violet glow had spread, devouring the whites, the irises, until they were nothing but pits of shadow.

Aric's fingers tightened around the sword. Whatever had happened to Malekith, it was nothing he could fix with words. Not this time.

Malekith moved first, his blade a streak of black as he lunged at Aric with a snarl. Aric's reactions took over, his sword meeting Malekith's with a clang that shuddered up his arm.

"Please, stop," Aric pleaded, trying to reach the part of Malekith that was still his. But the only answer he got was another vicious strike, driving Aric backward, the dance of their blades a relentless assault.

Parry, deflect—the familiar rhythm of their sparring sessions, turned deadly. Aric's heart thudded with each remembered step, each turn of wrist?—

A delicate waltz in the sparring room of the Ixion stronghold, Malekith prodding Aric’s leg with a training blade and caressing each spell Aric cast with his own, until they knotted and swirled together in a tapestry of dark and light . . .

He couldn't think about that now. He had to focus on getting past Malekith. But the longer this went on, the more he felt himself slipping, the sigil on his chest burning with dark power. But Aric couldn’t lose control.

Aric spun, feinting to the right before darting left. Malekith's sword raised to intercept, and Aric brought his own around, the golden fire surging down the length of it. Malekith's blade caught the flames, but they twisted and writhed, trying to engulf him.

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