11. Malorg

eleven

Malorg

Malorg moaned, his back arching as a wave of euphoria washed over him, filling him with a warmth so unlike his usual listless cold. Above him, Sarilian shuddered, his face slackening with satisfaction.

The necklace Malorg had bought him in the Market dangled from his neck, the Celestial sigil wrought from duskflame dancing with each of his movements. It might be a small thing, but Malorg loved seeing it there. It offered incontrovertible proof that Sarilian was his.

As they melted together into the plush pillows, Malorg caught the unabashed affection on Sarilian's face and wondered what his own expression revealed. Usually, he was an expert at masking his emotions, but something about Sarilian tore past all his carefully constructed walls, and he couldn't resist capturing Sarilian's lips once again with his own.

When their frantic kiss broke apart, Sarilian reached up and brushed a hand through Malorg's mussed hair. "That was incredible, Mal," Sarilian whispered fondly, his bright gold eyes wide and sated.

Mal.

Only one other Immortal had ever called him that…and Uryqh would never get that chance again. Malorg's contentment turned to ash in his mouth. That niggling voice of doubt in the back of his mind grew deafening. Suddenly, Sarilian's adoring looks, the warmth of his body wrapped tight around Malorg's, was all too much, suffocating him until it became a struggle to breathe.

Drawing on his duskflame, Malorg flickered in and out of the shadows to escape Sarilian's grip and put a few much-needed paces between them. "Thank you," he said a touch too formally.

Sarilian raised a brow, a confused smile flickering over his perfect lips. "Thank you? You speak as if I did you a favor by coming here. As if there's somewhere else I'd rather be."

Malorg averted his eyes and shrugged. "It must be tedious traveling all this way to meet."

That had been an unfortunate effect of their disparate magic. Malorg would've gladly alternated their visits between both their domains, but his illusion spell couldn't function as reliably in the Dawnlands. That, coupled with Twilight's far laxer atmosphere, made it the superior location for illicit rendezvouses.

"I don't mind." Sarilian shifted to prop himself up on his arms amid the pillows. He must have read some portion of Malorg's tension on his face because his lips parted in a soft smile. "You're not the only one to enjoy yourself here. So, no more thank yous , okay?"

"Fine," Malorg grunted, more of that unfamiliar warmth spreading through him despite the physical distance separating them.

Eternal Dark, he still couldn't believe that someone as vibrant and full of life as Sarilian found him deserving of attention. He was an empty husk—a shell of a person going through the motions after having long since given up.

"Anything you'd like to do?" he asked, mostly to distract himself. "We could visit the Market or the Gallery." His eyes roved over the paintings and tapestries that now covered his small room's walls and the assorted knick-knacks cluttering his shelves and table. "On second thought, perhaps we should avoid the Market for a while."

Sarilian smirked and patted the pillows beside him. "All I want right now is you. Now, stop brooding long enough to rejoin me."

Malorg scowled. "I don't brood."

"Right. Sure. Of course not." Malorg's scowl deepened, but Sarilian only chuckled at a look that would have made most of Malorg's fellow Infernals retreat in fear. "Fine. How about you come finish your not-brooding over here, then?"

Grumbling under his breath, Malorg gave in. No sooner had he settled onto the cushions than Sarilian's arms enveloped him in a reassuring embrace. With Sarilian's chest against his back, Malorg sensed the heat of his dawnflame and the steady thump of his heart.

Many times over the past centuries, Malorg had railed against the Progenitors for granting Immortals emotions like pain or sorrow or doubt—for deliberately cursing them with mortal frailty. But, wrapped in the safe cocoon of Sarilian's arms, he had to admit there were definite benefits to being human as well. It almost made him believe that this wouldn't all end in ruin.

"I didn't thank you because I view this as a transaction." Malorg's voice came out hesitant, and he was grateful Sarilian couldn't see the vulnerability on his face. "I thanked you because you finally gave me back what I've been missing."

Sarilian's soft lips ghosted over Malorg's neck, sending shivers skittering along his skin. "Oh, yeah?" the Celestial whispered. "And what's that?"

With a shudder, Malorg pressed back into Sarilian's tantalizing touch. "Hope in a brighter future. I may not believe in the Covenant, but I believe in you."

Sarilian inhaled sharply. Before he could reply, Malorg turned and kissed away the Celestial's words. Enough talk. Now, he just wanted to feel .

As he gave himself over to Sarilian's warmth, he sought to smother his doubts, striving to exist fully in the moment. The thought of losing Sarilian the way he'd lost Uryqh terrified him, but he wouldn't let those fears control him—not while Sarilian, for whatever inexplicable reason, chose to remain by his side.

The two of them lay chatting—or rather, Sarilian chattered on about the latest happenings in Daybreak while Malorg grunted along—when a sudden sharp knock interrupted them. Malorg's gaze fastened on the door, his eyes narrowing as he ran through a list of those who might disturb him.

He'd long since outgrown any commanders who might try to issue him orders, and he had no friends worth mentioning. Certainly none that would pay him a house call, except maybe for—

Paling, Malorg leaped to his feet and resummoned his outfit. He let out a soft curse as his gaze scoured the room.

"What is it?" Sarilian asked, his voice tightening with concern. "Do you know who it is?"

"I can guess." Seeing nothing incriminating lying around—though exactly what there might have been in the first place, he wasn't sure—he gave Sarilian a careful once-over. Like Malorg, Sarilian had dressed himself, though they'd let the magic disguising him lapse once they were in private. Malorg held out a hand. "Here, let me refresh your illusion."

Sarilian nodded, pursing his lips as Malorg reapplied the duskflame disguise. Thankfully, that process had gotten easier over time. Either Sarilian's body had begun to acclimate to the duskflame, or Malorg had grown more skilled at the spell from frequent practice.

"Should we be worried?" Sarilian asked.

Yes. "No," Malorg said at another impatient knock from the door. "Just stay there and don't say anything. If it is who I think it is, we—"

"Ah, Malorg!"

Malorg flinched, turning toward the soft, lilting voice. An Infernal stood just inside the still-closed door, wisps of duskflame curling off him. Everything about the man appeared pristine, from the tailored suit he wore in the style favored by high-ranking mortal merchants, to the authoritative way he held himself, to his immaculately groomed features.

Malorg inclined his head. "Pelorak. I see your new position has made you forget how knocking works. It's rude to duskwalk into someone's private residence without permission."

Pelorak's smile held a dangerous edge Malorg didn't miss. His old friend had always been that way—perfectly cordial, even pleasant, so long as you did as he wanted. But the instant you crossed him, all bets were off. "Perhaps. But isn't it also rude to keep an old friend waiting on your doorstep? Especially when said friend has such a demanding schedule."

Malorg crossed his arms, trying to ignore his fizzing nerves. "Then, perhaps said friend should keep to his demanding schedule rather than bothering me."

Pelorak's eyes narrowed to slits. Malorg tensed, worried he'd pushed the Infernal too far. Relief eased some of the tightness in his chest when Pelorak chuckled and pressed a hand to his heart.

"You wound me, Malorg! I know it's been a while since we last spoke—my fault—for which I sincerely apologize. But it's past time we caught up, wouldn't you agree?"

Once, Malorg would have welcomed Pelorak's company. Even sought it out himself. But that was before everything that had happened with Uryqh. "What do you want, Pelorak?"

Pelorak gave a cold smile. "Why, nothing but to check up on a dear pal. Eternal Dark, you act as though you are the one with no time on their hands, though by all accounts, you…"

Pelorak trailed off as he finally noticed Sarilian sitting quietly in the back of the room. Malorg had to resist the urge to throw himself between them. Better not to show any weakness in front of Pelorak: nothing the opportunistic Infernal might exploit.

"Well now, who is this?" Pelorak nearly purred. His smile widened as he arched a brow at Malorg. "No wonder you seemed so put out. Am I interrupting something?"

Sarilian shifted awkwardly on the cushions, and Malorg clenched his jaw. "No. In fact, he was just leaving."

Hoping Sarilian wouldn't take offense at the brusque dismissal, Malorg jerked his head toward the door. It was risky sending the Celestial into the city alone without the ability to duskwalk, but they'd made the trip enough times by now that he should be able to find his way. Besides, the less time he spent around a schemer like Pelorak, the better.

To Malorg's relief, Sarilian didn't argue—merely stood, bowed his head, and moved toward the door. Before he could reach it, however, Pelorak slid smoothly in front of him, still wearing an obnoxious grin.

"No need to hurry off on my account." His eyes flicked to Malorg, then back to Sarilian. "After all, Malorg and I go back centuries . Any friend of his is a friend of mine."

Pelorak offered his perfectly manicured hand. Malorg noticed he wore fingerless gloves embroidered with the downward- facing triangle of the Dusk Council. Unlike the Dawn sigil with its five converging lines representing beams of light, this one bore five lines that speared the triangle at various positions and angles such that none of them ever intersected. A symbol of independence…and of arrogant selfishness. It suited Pelorak.

Sarilian eyed Pelorak's hand, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "Jafav," he said, using the fake Infernal name they'd invented for him. He hesitantly gave the hand a quick shake before dropping it like a voidspawn's claw.

Malorg's heartbeat quickened, but if Pelorak noticed Sarilian's Celestial warmth, he gave no indication. "Jafav, hmm? Can't say I've heard of you before." His eyes flicked again to Malorg's, coldly calculating. "But you must be remarkable to have caught Malorg's interest." He gave a slight, flourishing bow. "I am Pelorak, though most know me as the Aspect of Ambition."

If Pelorak thought that would catch Sarilian by surprise, Sarilian's reaction didn't disappoint. He stumbled, his illusioned complexion somehow paling even further as he fell into a deep bow. "A-apologies, Aspect, if I failed to show the proper respect. I-I did not know that—"

"That your friend Malorg here possessed such powerful contacts?" Pelorak interrupted. He winked at Malorg, who bristled but managed to hold his tongue. "He used to be quite the fearsome general back in his day. Why, there were many who expected him to rise to the seat of Wrath. But after that unfortunate incident at the Blistering Fields—"

Malorg moved before he could stop himself, shifting into the shadows to appear at Pelorak's back, a cursed blade gripped in each hand. Thankfully, he caught himself before he drove the strikes home. It probably wouldn't have done serious damage to an Infernal as old as Pelorak anyway, not when he possessed the power of an Aspect. Still, Malorg doubted what remained of their ‘friendship' would have survived such a blow.

A slight tightness in Pelorak's posture was the only sign of his tension as he turned, cocking a brow at Malorg. "I see those old wounds continue to fester. My apologies." He pointedly turned his back despite the blades still poised to thrust.

Malorg released a breath. Allowing the daggers to melt away, he forced himself to relax and step back. Pelorak, meanwhile, returned his attention to Sarilian by the door.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jafav. Perhaps the three of us can catch up sometime. I'd love to hear about how you and Malorg met. I'm sure it's quite the tale."

Pelorak's smirk set every nerve Malorg had on edge. Does he suspect Sarilian's true nature? Malorg didn't relax until Sarilian had escaped out the door with a murmured, "Of course, Aspect."

Sending a quick prayer to the Dark for the Celestial's safe return, Malorg refocused on Pelorak. The infuriating Infernal had sauntered over to Malorg's table and taken a seat there, his eyes roving over the rest of the room.

"I see your tastes have changed little. Your quarters remain as barren as the Dawnlands despite your apparent love of collecting junk."

"And you remain as obnoxious as a voidspawn." Malorg stalked to the opposite end of the room from Pelorak and fixed his old friend with a glare. "I'm tired, so get to the point. Why are you here?"

Pelorak studied Malorg, his good humor fading. As if a switch had been flipped, he straightened his back in the seat and folded his hands, his posture turning business-like.

Pelorak had ever been the consummate schemer. From the stories Malorg had heard over the years, he'd more than earned his position on the Dusk Council. Once, Malorg had thought to join him—Wrath and Ambition, the sword and the hand to direct it. But that had been a long time ago. Before Uryqh. Before Malorg rejected the Covenant and the trappings of power that went with it.

"Very well," Pelorak said, his voice crisp. "I am here on behalf of the Dusk Council. Simply put, we are losing."

A chill gripped Malorg. "What? What happened? Has the Void broken through?"

For all his talk of the Void's inevitable victory, he'd always envisioned it as some distant point at the end of eternity, not something he himself would have to face. The whole world could burn for all he cared. But the thought of anything happening to Sarilian…

Pelorak frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. The Void remains as contained as ever. No, it is not the Void that threatens us, but our true enemies."

It took Malorg a moment to realize what Pelorak meant. When he did, he gave an incredulous laugh. "The Celestials are not our enemies."

"Oh, spare me your sophistry." Pelorak rolled his eyes. "Just because they also fight the Void does not make those idealistic fools our allies. Or have you forgotten how your last overtures of peace ended?"

Visions of a charred wasteland pierced his skull, Celestials and Infernals alike screaming while ash choked the air. Malorg closed his eyes, willing the memories away in vain. He'd relived that horrible day in his nightmares more often than he could count. As always, one voice cut above the others. Please, Mal, please, help me!

Pain radiated from his hand. Malorg opened his eyes and glanced down to find he'd clenched his fist tight enough to draw blood. Duskflame trickled from the minor indents his nails had left.

"That wasn't the Celestials' fault." If anyone's to blame, it's me for forcing Celestials and Infernals to fight together—for being arrogant enough to think I could make a difference.

The Aspect of Ambition shrugged. "Perhaps not. But they didn't hesitate to point the finger at us, did they? As much as you might wish otherwise, coexistence between us has always been and will ever be impossible. Even the Progenitors recognized that simple truth. Hence why they forged the Covenant and divided the Immortal Realm between us." He shook his head, his bottom lip curling in disgust. "But despite our best efforts to keep those pompous pricks in check, their influence continues to swell."

Malorg recalled his recent visits to the border and how it had seemed closer than before. "And what if it has? What do you expect me to do about it?" A thought occurred to him, one that sent a ripple of unease through him. "If you intend to reassign me to soul acquisition—"

Pelorak laughed, the sound full and rich. "Eternal Dark, no. I know better than to put my faith in your powers of persuasion." His lips quirked. "Although, judging by what I walked in on, perhaps I underestimate you." Malorg's jaw trembled from how tightly he was clenching it. Pelorak leaned forward, his coal-black eyes gleaming. "No, it's not more souls I want from you—it is your unparalleled leadership on the frontline."

Malorg blinked, taken aback by the unexpected pivot. "My…leadership?"

"Quite." Pelorak waved a lazy hand. "I have several plans in the works to boost recruitment, but I need Infernals I can trust to train them how to fight."

More like Infernals you can control. "Why is the Aspect of Ambition so concerned with our warriors? Shouldn't that responsibility fall to the Aspect of Wrath?"

Pelorak's eye twitched as he shifted slightly in his seat. Malorg must have struck a nerve. A disagreement among the Dusk Council, perhaps? The Aspects always seemed ensnared in a dozen or more schemes at any given time. Malorg couldn't imagine what Pelorak's ultimate game might be—nor did he care, so long as the Aspect left him and Sarilian out of it.

"Traditionally, yes," Pelorak conceded. "But the Covenant's success is every Immortals' concern, and our new recruits have proven…lacking."

Malorg snorted. "What do you expect when you send them out with inadequate preparation barely a year after they arrive? Most of them can't even control their duskflame yet. It's no wonder the voidspawn cull so many of their number."

For a split second, rage twisted Pelorak's fair features into a hateful grimace. He quickly masked it beneath an approximation of a smirk. The abrupt shift left Malorg unsettled. "Hence, why I'm here. I want you to return to your former post overseeing our forces. I've already cleared it with the rest of the council. You can pick up right where you left off."

An image of Uryqh's charred face flashed before his eyes. He clenched his hands into fists and turned away. "There is no going back, Pelorak. The man I was died on the Blistering Fields that day. Find someone else."

"Too busy with that new toy of yours, are you?"

Malorg's shoulders tensed, but he didn't take the bait, remaining faced away.

After a taut silence, Pelorak sighed. The faint scrape of chair legs announced him rising. "So be it. I won't force you to do your duty—our need is not yet so dire." His footsteps echoed across the floor, pausing by the door. "But for what it's worth, I didn't come here only for myself. Venturing out on solo assignments, fooling around with that boy—you're better than this, Malorg. And I hope you remember that before it's too late."

Silence marked the Aspect of Ambition's departure as he slipped out through the shadows as easily as he'd entered. Malorg remained where he was, rooted in place. His frozen body felt at odds with his seething thoughts. Images of Uryqh and Sarilian flickered past, overlaying one another until past and present collided into this singular point, driven by the choices he'd made.

Malorg wasn't fooled by Pelorak's seeming dismissal of Sarilian. No doubt the Aspect of Ambition was already sending out feelers through the city for information on Jafav . He wouldn't turn up anything from the fake name, of course, which was both a blessing and a curse. But if Pelorak dug deeply enough, he'd discover plenty of witnesses to their trips around Twilight. It wouldn't be too difficult for him to start piecing things together.

If Malorg cared enough about Sarilian to put his wellbeing first, he'd break things off now before Pelorak had a chance to embed any hooks in him. Once the Aspect realized how much Sarilian meant to Malorg, the Celestial would become another pawn in his games. And should he stumble on the full truth of Sarilian's heritage—well, Malorg had no idea what he might do.

Shame curdled Malorg's insides as he collapsed onto the pile of pillows, relishing Sarilian's lingering warmth. He already knew he lacked the strength to do what he should. So long as Sarilian wanted him, he would cling to whatever fleeting touches and contact he could.