Page 9 of Sundered By Fate

"Anomalies," Aric said softly, understanding at last. "The side effects of magic gone wrong. This is what it looks like."

The townsfolk recoiled, whispers of fear spreading through the crowd. But Aric remained steady, a calm at the center of their storm.

"We need to secure the area," he said firmly. "Move back the perimeter, and keep watch for anything unusual."

A handful of guards jumped to obey. Virida watched Aric closely, an odd mix of emotions in her eyes.

"What do you need us to do?" Bastian asked, voice tight.

Aric gave him a terse smile. "Just follow my lead."

As they worked together to secure the scene, Aric felt a strange warmth spreading through him. Despite everything—the secrecy, the lies—this was what he'd yearned for. A place where he could use his talents to protect those who couldn't defend themselves.

The next day, Aric met with Mayor Virida to discuss increasing the town's magical defenses. Her office was tucked away in a narrow stone building at the heart of Thornhaven's marketplace, the walls lined with grim portraits of past townmasters staring down at them.

"We're stretched thin as it is," Virida said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Between your reports of those anomalies and the constant demon threats, I don't know how much more we can handle."

Aric shifted in his seat, the wooden chair creaking beneath him. He was still getting used to how physical every part of life in Thornhaven felt. But even that, he reminded himself, was a privilege—a reminder that he was alive and free to make these small sacrifices now.

"I can help bolster your wards," he offered. "It won't be much, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve."

Virida's lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile. "You've proven yourself to us over these past weeks. I trust your judgment."

A warmth spread through Aric's chest, and he sat up a little straighter.

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, breathless and wide-eyed as he burst into the office.

"Mayor Virida!" he gasped out. "Trouble at the gates—a band of horsemen in silver armor, approaching fast."

Virida's face paled, her eyes darting to Aric. "The Pureblade Order."

The Pureblade Order. Those three words filled Aric with a chilling dread. The ones who wanted him dead more than any demon in their realm ever did.

But before he could voice a protest, they were at the gates, demanding to see him. The town was abuzz with activity as the knights dismounted their horses, their silver armor shining in the torchlight. Despite the years that had passed, they looked exactly as he'd remembered: broad, serious faces, hands always a hair's breadth from the hilts of their swords. Weapons chosen not to incapacitate but to dismember.

Panic roared in his chest as he staggered back from the door, gasping for air. He heard himself speaking, felt his throat vibrating with it, but couldn't tell over the rush of fear what words he'd actually chosen.

Virida's hand landed on his shoulder like a rough shackle. "I swear to you, I didn't call them. I sent word to the Silver Tower just like you asked me to."

A hush fell over the room as Bastian stepped forward, his arms folded over his chest. "No," he said roughly. "I called them."

Aric's heart skipped a beat as he turned back to Bastian with wide eyes. How could he have been so naive?

"You were never one of us," Bastian sneered. "And we know exactly how to deal with demonic taint like yours."

Three

The echoing clamor of hooves striking stone filled the square, freezing the bustling marketplace into a tableau of terror. Figures in the gleaming armor of the Pureblade Order swept in, forming a vanguard of tempered steel and smoldering purpose. At their head rode Cyrus Revenant, Lord Inquisitor and scourge of demons' taint—his narrow face hard as granite, lips drawn into a thin white line.

Aric stood transfixed on the steps of the town hall, the silence stretching as a ringing sensation tingled through him. A murmur rose from the onlookers—a prayer, or perhaps a curse. Aric clenched his fists at his sides to steady himself against the flood of noise.

"Heathen scum," Cyrus sneered, his words slicing through the chaos as easily as one of his blades. "Aric Solarian. You have eluded justice for far too long."

Aric squared his shoulders and forced himself to meet the inquisitor's eyes. They were dark pits sunken in his cadaverous face. "I answered to a higher call than your false justice."

He held the other man's stare even as his guts threatened to twist right up into his throat. This was it—the moment when thefragile alliance he had begun to forge with these people either shattered or tempered itself in fire.

Let it be fire,he begged silently.Let me stay . . .

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