Chapter 5 #3
“My brand burned. White-hot. When the dragon looked at me.”
Goroth grunted.
Mareth exhaled.
“Shit.”
“What?” Aldric demanded.
Mareth met his gaze.
“Your fate is tangled with forces we haven’t dealt with in a long time. And the fact that Varnir is involved…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck. This is not good. I thought we had few more centuries to prepare…”
He hesitated.
His eyes resting on Aldric.
“Have you noticed any changes?”
Aldric stiffened.
“What? Changes how?”
“Loss of control. Irritability. Sudden anger. Impulses that don’t feel like yours.”
Aldric bristled.
“I’m fine.”
The words came too fast.
Too sharp.
Inside, something twisted.
Because part of him knew.
The short temper.
The restless frustration.
The moments where his thoughts felt… louder than they should.
He crushed it down.
“I’m not dealing with the brand properly.”
Mareth didn’t respond.
Aldric knew he wasn’t convinced.
Finally, Mareth turned away.
“We’re heading back,” he said.
No one argued.
The marsh lay silent behind them.
Watching.
Night still clung to the world when they stepped back through the portal.
The air on this side was calmer.
They walked toward the palace in silence, boots echoing against stone as the distant towers of Nerathys rose before them.
Mareth glanced sideways at Aldric.
“What happened tonight stays between the three of us.”
Aldric opened his mouth—
Goroth interrupted him.
“That name you heard evokes panic. We plan before we speak. The fewer demons who know of it, the better.”
Aldric inclined his head, his jaw tight.
A flicker of frustration sparked beneath his ribs.
Treating me like a child.
I know when to keep my mouth shut.
“Understood.”
By the time they reached the palace gates, no servants waited. No queen. No sisters. No Seraphae.
Mareth adjusted one of the curved blades at his back.
“I sent word ahead. You’ll dine in your chamber. We speak tomorrow. First we need to decide how to handle this situation.”
Handle.
Aldric’s jaw tightened slightly.
Back in his chamber, a tray of warm food waited by the hearth. Fresh bread. Roasted meat. Spiced vegetables. A decanter of dark wine.
He set his armor aside and went to the bath.
Steam coiled around him, thick and clinging. He lowered himself in, exhaling slowly as the water burned his skin.
The water was hot.
Too hot.
The silence pressed in.
Frustration simmered again, sharper now.
His fingers curled against the edge of the basin.
They’re treating me like a child.
Fucking riddles and secrets.
Once he was done with the bath, he got dressed, and ate in silence.
The food tasted fine.
He barely noticed.
Later, lying in bed, staring into the dark, sleep took him harder than he expected.
And then the dreams came.
Blue eyes.
Brilliant. Unblinking.
Watching.
A breath.
Not his.
Rage surged through him.
Violent, directionless. A fury that did not feel entirely his own.
Stone ruins rose around him.
A vast chamber without windows. Without doors.
Light pierced from below in a single white beam.
He stepped into it.
The brand flared—
Then changed.
The searing heat softened.
The agony eased.
Warmth replaced pain.
No longer burning.
But soothing.
As if something watching approved.
As if something awaited him.
? ? ?
Two silhouettes stood on the highest balcony of Nerathys.
One paced in tight, restless circles.
The other remained perfectly still.
“Fuck… fuck,” Mareth muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “How? How is this even happening? Did you see how quickly that corpse come back to life? No spell, no ritual, no being should be able to do that, let alone from another plane of reality.”
Goroth stood at the balustrade, massive hands resting on cold stone, eyes fixed on the distant horizon.
“I know. And we cannot let word of this spread. Panic would tear the realm apart.”
“Panic?” Mareth snapped. “That damned being was never meant to touch this world again. Ever. He was exiled to the abyss. So why now?”
Goroth did not answer.
Mareth turned sharply.
“And why him?” he pressed. “Why that knight? What’s so special about Aldric?”
“He carries the blood of the old kingdom.”
Mareth frowned.
“So?”
“Varntherionir approved of him.”
Mareth exhaled slowly.
“Great. Wonderful. So an ancient god approved of him.” He spread his hands. “What does Varntherionir expect a human to do? Restore the old kingdom? Unite demons and humans against the enemy? How?”
Silence.
Only the wind answered.
Then Goroth turned.
“You know what éltharion sought the last time this world stood divided.”
Mareth’s jaw tightened.
“I know.”
He hesitated.
“He cannot cross into our realm alone. Not anymore. Not after what was done to him.”
A thought struck.
The color drained from his face.
“Unless…”
Goroth finished calmly,
“Unless the others have joined him.”
Mareth sank onto the stone bench, suddenly weary.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let out a long breath.
The night beyond the palace was unnaturally dark. No stars. No glow. Just endless shadow.
“I’ll begin preparations tomorrow,” he said at last.
His voice was steady.
But his hands were shaking.