13. Malorg #2
“Who better to architect a new attempt at peace than one of its most fervent advocates?” Pelorak continued. “Think of this as your chance at redemption.”
Redemption.
The word called to Malorg like nothing had since Sarilian’s departure. If he could unite the Celestials and Infernals beneath an improved Covenant, perhaps he could bring this endless war against the Void to a close. Perhaps Sarilian and I can even find our way back to each other.
Yes hovered on the tip of his tongue. Then, he caught Pelorak’s smug expression and hesitated. “What do you get out of this? The Dusk Council barely agreed to my plan last time, and you’ve made your disdain of Celestials clear. Why give me this second chance?”
Pelorak waved a dismissive hand. “Mistakes were made in the past, but they need not define your legacy.” He stepped closer, his obsidian eyes glittering as he lowered his voice.
“I know you, old friend. How many centuries have you spent longing for this opportunity? If you let it pass you by now, it will become yet another regret to haunt you.”
Malorg felt the words like a slap to the face. His fists tightened at his sides, though the pitiful flicker of his faded duskflame spoiled any threat his tensed posture might’ve conveyed. “You forget that I know you as well, Pelorak. I know how the Dusk Council operates. What’s really going on?”
Pelorak’s faux sympathy melted away as his gaze hardened.
For a second, Malorg saw him the way other Infernals must, the way mortals did—as a Dusk Aspect brimming with dark power and the absolute authority of his seat.
Then, the image faded, and he was just Pelorak again, though with a frown fixed upon his face.
“Our scouts have detected a troubling increase in voidspawn activity. The council fears they are building up to something, and while my efforts to bolster recruitment continue to bear fruit, there are…concerns that we currently lack the strength to fend them off.”
Pelorak’s words dripped distaste, and Malorg could well imagine why. His admission came close to declaring outright that the Infernals required the Celestials’ aid.
“Of course,” Pelorak added, “the Celestials need us too, no matter how much they might wish otherwise. If the Dusklands succumb to the Void, the resulting chaos would spell their own doom as well.” He splayed his hands out, palms up.
“Thus, it was decided to seek a temporary alliance. Better to fight alongside Celestial scum than to die alone.” His sneer suggested that, for him, the decision was a close one.
Eternal Dark, if what Pelorak said was true, it painted an even grimmer picture of the Covenant’s futility than Malorg had expected.
It also presented the perfect opportunity to revise the Covenant before it was too late.
Faced with such a dire threat, neither side could simply walk away whenever it suited them.
Peace might actually be possible—at least in the short-term.
The trick would be devising the new Covenant to encourage more long-term cooperation.
And not just on the battlefield—that had been one of Malorg’s biggest mistakes during the last negotiations.
Though fighting together might be the ultimate goal, they needed to learn to trust one another first. To share resources, coordinate their efforts, and function as a cohesive team.
A vision of hunting voidspawn with Sarilian flickered before his eyes.
They had managed to fuse their respective magics into something new.
Could he replicate that feat among others of his kind?
As the thought passed through him, he realized he’d already made his decision.
He’d made it the instant he’d begun thinking of this as his plan. His assignment.
His duty.
“I’ll do it,” he said, resigned. “So long as I am permitted to do things my way, with minimal interference from you and the rest of the Dusk Council.”
“Of course,” Pelorak said easily. Too easily. “We trust you to handle the talks as you see fit, provided you ensure the council’s demands are met. Glad to have you on board.”
Malorg studied his former friend. What’s your angle, Pelorak? For the Aspect to give up control and grant concessions without even a token fight meant Malorg was missing something. An ulterior motive? Or maybe…
“You need me,” he guessed. Satisfaction surged through him at the surprised confirmation that twitched over Pelorak’s face before he recomposed it. “That’s why you’re here. Did the other Aspects demand my participation as a condition for your plan?”
The faintly admiring look Pelorak gave him sent a shiver down Malorg’s back. It was as if Pelorak was seeing him now for the first time. The sensation left Malorg feeling uncomfortably exposed.
Then, Pelorak shrugged and grinned wryly.
“The Celestials, actually. I admit, when I reached out to the Dawn Council, I had someone else in mind—one of my own people. But, alas, the stubborn fools refused to entertain any talks unless we named you our emissary.” Pelorak drew his brows together, unable to completely mask his displeasure.
“Enough of them must remember your previous overtures of peace to trust your good intentions.”
The thought pleased Malorg even as a stone lodged in his gut at the reminder of his past failings. Still, no matter his baggage or distrust of Pelorak, there was only one way this could go.
“So be it.” He inclined his head, straightening his back as best he could despite his exhaustion. “You have your emissary.”
“Splendid!” Pelorak strode toward the door.
“In that case, I shall leave you to recover. You have a few days before the Accords begin at the Citadel—my people will be in touch with everything you need.” He paused right before the door.
“Oh, and one more thing.” When he glanced back, all pretense of good humor had washed away, leaving his eyes deep pools as empty and emotionless as the Void.
“Don’t fail me. You might not be afraid to die, but there are worse fates than death in the Immortal Realm. ”
With that, Pelorak shifted into the shadows and disappeared.
Malorg watched him go, worry pinching his chest. Buried beneath it, however, blossomed the faintest sprig of hope.
Because whatever games Pelorak might be playing, he’d said at least one honest thing: this was Malorg’s chance at redemption.
And he didn’t need Pelorak’s threat to be determined not to mess it up.
Malorg cursed his own foolishness as he duskwalked through the Dusk Citadel, ignoring other Infernals’ dirty looks as he rushed past. It was generally considered poor form to duskwalk within the palace—something about failing to demonstrate the proper respect—but he didn’t care.
Not when he was already running this late for his first meeting with the Dawn Council’s delegation.
It was his own Dark-cursed fault, too. He’d been pacing around his apartment earlier when one of the trinkets Sarilian helped him pick out caught his eye.
That’s when it had hit him—his own simple armor and tunic were hardly fitting for such a momentous occasion.
If he wanted the Celestials to take him seriously, he needed to look the part, and that meant investing in more refined garments than he had the skill or patience to craft himself.
Of course, that revelation had led to over an hour wandering the Market, searching for the perfect ensemble to convey professional sophistication without leaning too hard into Celestial prejudices against Infernal ostentatiousness.
Now, here he was, better dressed but at the cost of arriving well past their scheduled start time.
So much for making a good impression.
Everyone knew how much Celestials valued punctuality.
And here he was, ruining any potential alliance before negotiations even began.
The Celestials had already made a concession by agreeing to hold the Accords here, requiring their delegation travel to and from each meeting since they couldn’t safely remain in the Dusklands for more than a few hours at a time.
The Dawn Council must really want this alliance to succeed.