Page 6 of Sundered By Fate

Aric watched her closely. A demonic torturer's smile from his past nipped at his heels; he pushed it away and faced her with open palms upraised.

She studied him for what felt like an eternity. Aric fought not to squirm under her stare.

Finally, she nodded. "Very well."

"Virida, this is madness," Bastian said, speaking quickly. "We can't just let him walk free."

"If he's truly from the Silver Tower, then he deserves a chance to prove it." Virida turned back to Aric, expression hardening once more. "You say you're willing to earn your place here. I'll hold you to that."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping. "But make no mistake, mage: if I find out you've lied to us, if I find even one shred of proof that you're working with the demons, I'll put you down myself."

Aric nodded slowly, trying to appear cowed. Inside, he felt only numbness. Virida didn't trust him, and he didn't blame her for that.

He'd just have to prove himself to them all.

Virida straightened, folding her hands in front of her. "You've asked for a chance to earn our trust," she said. "Very well. I've got just the task in mind."

Her smile was cold enough to make Aric's blood run chill.

The tang of sweat on his brow and the bitter sludge caking his gloves made it hard to remember he'd once wielded the fate of worlds in his hands. But now, as Aric toiled in the sewage tunnels beneath Thornhaven, ankle-deep in muck and stifled by the stench, it was all too easy to forget who he'd been. The rhythmic scrape of his shovel on stone, the dribble of sludge underfoot—these things were real. Grounding.

At least this was a problem he could tackle with brute force alone.

The dampness and the dark closed in around him, claustrophobic but somehow comforting, reminding him of the shadowy tunnels under the demon realm. But here there were no sinister echoes or malicious whispers carried on the damp winds. Only silence, broken by his own labored breathing and the occasional drip-drip-drip of water seeping through ancient stonework.

Aric leaned into the mindlessness of it, let the hours dissolve into a blur of exertion. No thoughts, no regrets; only the twist of the shovel in his hands and the rough abrasion of rock on leather gloves.

But as dusk fell and he staggered back to ground level, filth staining every inch of him, he knew he'd done good work. Repaired breach after breach; strengthened stone seams; stabilized sections near collapse.

And for now, at least, this exhausting monotony was enough.

Over the next week, Aric threw himself into any task he could find. He shored up breaches in the town's defenses, dug out trenches, and helped with repairs to the main gates. The townspeople were wary at first, but as he worked tirelessly alongside them, some of the suspicion began to fade from their eyes.

He helped reinforce a pig pen where a boar had broken free, and laughed with the children who rushed to round up the escaped pigs. He moved lumber and hoisted frames, and shared meals by the fires in the evening. It was far from the life he once knew, but it was honest work, and for now, that was enough.

But even as he integrated himself into Thornhaven's routines, Aric couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. There were too many hushed conversations when he entered a room, too many wary glances cast in his direction.

He dismissed it as paranoia until the night he awoke with a searing pain in his back.

The mark left by Malekith's sigil burned through his thin tunic like white-hot iron, and Aric curled into himself, stifling a cry. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision, whispering seductions and mockeries that he couldn't understand.

We should have just cut him down?—

Shh, you know it's not that simple. He's?—

Aric squeezed his eyes shut tighter, as if that would banish them.

Then a new voice cut through the noise—not a voice so much as a presence—and everything fell away. The sigil flared to life, illuminating the darkness around him.

And for just an instant, Aric saw through Malekith's eyes.

All was shadow and stone: thick chains binding wrists and ankles; scars crisscrossing over alabaster skin; violet eyes wide with fear—no, defiance. Faint torches cast the barest glow over itall, turning the chamber into a sea of muted shadows and painful screams that echoed off ancient stone walls.

Then Malekith turned his head slightly, as if sensing Aric's presence within his mind. Their eyes locked—and in those depths, Aric saw not just pain or rage or hatred . . .

But also a fragile flicker of hope.

The vision faded suddenly, leaving Aric breathless and disoriented on his bedroll once more.

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