Page 15 of Sundered By Fate

As the tension in the square dissipated, Olaya approached Aric. Their eyes met, a silent communication passing between them. Aric nodded, understanding that their real conversation would have to wait.

He turned away from the retreating Pureblades and surveyed the gathered townsfolk. They were still looking at him with a mix of curiosity and fear, but now there was something else—something that gave him hope.

"Thank you," he said, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. "I swear, I meant you no harm when I arrived here. I only want to serve you."

Virida stepped forward, her expression softening. "And we thank you, Solarian. For all you've done for Thornhaven."

Aric nodded, his heart full as he took in the sight of this place that had become something like home.

But he could not stay.

He met Olaya's gaze once more, and her expression was one of understanding. "We have a long road ahead of us, Aric Solarian," she said. "Longer still, if we return to Astaria."

He nodded, acknowledging her words—and the warning they carried. As soon as he left Thornhaven, he'd be subject to Pureblade jurisdiction once more.

The shadows beckoned him onward.

Four

Aric approached the abandoned atelier with a mixture of dread and anticipation twisting in his stomach. The windows were shuttered, the paint on the door peeling away like a reptile shedding its skin. It was tucked down a narrow alleyway, the perfect place for a clandestine meeting. As he reached the threshold, he hesitated, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

It had been over two years since he'd last seen Olaya, his mentor. The one who had found him, a lonely orphan with untapped magical potential, and brought him to the Silver Tower. She'd been the closest thing he had to family for most of his life, before he'd become something else entirely.

When he'd last seen her, she'd been fighting demons at the Pureblade outpost where Aric's death sentence had been handed down—the outpost from which Malekith had abducted him, propelling him into an entirely different world.

Aric opened the door to the atelier and stepped inside. The air was heavy with dust and disuse, but there was an electric current in the air as well—a residue of magic still clinging to the walls. Aric scanned the dimly lit interior and spotted a group of figures gathered at the far end of the room.

Olaya stood at their head, her hair—even more silvery than when he'd seen her last—braided in tight rows that gleamed in the meager light. Her presence was regal as ever, her dark skin luminous in the half-light. Aric's chest tightened as they locked eyes—so full of understanding—and then her mouth fell open at whatever it was she saw within him.

The other mages were less familiar to Aric. One was stocky and broad-shouldered, with lines etched deep into his face that spoke of years spent battling demons in distant lands. Another was slender and sharp-featured, her midnight hair pulled back into a severe bun. But it was the third figure who made Aric stop in his tracks.

Davin Lyantros. Gods save him.

"Davin," he said, his voice softening as he took in Davin's familiar features. He looked just as he had when they'd last parted ways at the Tower—his copper-red hair artfully disheveled, freckles standing out against tanned skin. Bright green eyes met Aric's for a fraction of a second before Davin looked away, a flush spreading across his cheeks.

Davin's lips curved into a wry smile. "Hello, Aric."

A thousand memories flooded Aric's mind at once—shared late-night study sessions at the Silver Tower, magical duels where they'd pushed each other to their limits, and that one evening they'd stayed up talking till dawn, debating the philosophical implications of demonic magic over bottles of sweet feywine. The vague sense that they might have been something more than friends, if not for their stubbornness and pride.

And then there was the silver pendant that hung around Davin's neck—a blue stone catching the light like an unspoken secret between them. The sight of it twisted something deep inside Aric, summoning echoes of sentiments all too familiar.

But those were echoes from a life that seemed eons ago.

Aric forced himself to look away and focus on Olaya as he approached them. She turned to face him fully, hands clasped in front of her with the poise of someone who'd spent years commanding respect from even the most obstinate pupils.

"Aric," she said, voice achingly familiar despite their time apart.

Olaya held out one hand in greeting, and Aric moved to grasp it. But as their fingers brushed against each other—as her magic flared against his own like solar fire meeting starlight—he remembered too late all he'd done to betray that same goodwill.

Olaya drew Aric into a fierce embrace, and Aric allowed himself to melt into it, even as the fire roiled under his skin. It had been far too long since he'd let himself relax this way, felt something he didn't deserve but still craved. But the way Olaya's shoulders shuddered and tightened in the embrace told him she didn't care what he'd become.

"I've been so worried about you," she whispered against his shoulder. "For so long?—"

"Olaya—" There were so many things he wanted to say in return, and not a single one that would make any of this better. So Aric just hugged her tight, trying not to think of what he still had to do for them to have even this shred of a reunion together.

When they parted, though, Olaya offered him a smile far warmer than he'd ever thought to see again—and another woman stood at her side, dressed like a town defender rather than a Silver mage. One of those fiery twin daggers resting in her belt was far too familiar to Aric—and so was the woman's stubborn expression.

"Ruta?" he blurted out, placing her with a sudden flash of memory.

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