8. Sarilian
eight
Sarilian
Sarilian lowered his now-empty arms. Rejection sat heavy in his gut as he watched Malorg walk away. So much for the connection he’d sensed between them. He could’ve sworn the Infernal felt the same indelible draw he did. Had he been mistaken?
Perhaps he’s simply as uncertain as I am.
Though Sarilian couldn’t explain why, everything from Malorg’s casual deadliness to the stark contrast between his gruff demeanor and kind heart, to his deep, aching melancholy intrigued Sarilian in a way nothing else had since he’d awoken in the Dawnlands.
That was why, despite his churning doubt, he’d given in to his longing. And it was why he now ignored the voice in his head telling him to leave and trailed after Malorg instead.
He found the Infernal waiting by the entrance.
Wordlessly, Malorg offered a hand, avoiding Sarilian’s eyes.
Sarilian took it, bracing himself for the uncomfortable shift into the shadows.
He kept his eyes open this time, and that helped a little with the nausea.
Watching the world blur past at impossible angles remained just as disorienting, but it proved easier to bear when he could see it happening.
This duskwalk lasted longer than the previous one.
Wherever they were going must lie deep within the labyrinthine city.
When they finally rematerialized, Sarilian saw that they were alone.
In the near distance, an impressive structure loomed, its shape reminiscent of a crown forged from bristling spiked chains.
“The Dusk Citadel,” Malorg said, following Sarilian’s gaze. “Home to the Five Dusk Aspects and their attendants.”
Sarilian found the sight imposing in a way he never had the Dawn Citadel.
Though that curved spire in Daybreak possessed an undeniable grandeur, it felt like one forged from respect and tradition.
This edifice, on the other hand, screamed intimidation, as if those within wanted to ensure no one else ever forgot where the true power resided.
“Scary,” Sarilian said. “Is that where we’re going?”
Malorg shook his head and turned down a nearby alley wide enough for them to walk straight, if still single file. “I wore out my welcome there decades ago.”
They didn’t have far to go before Malorg halted. Frowning, Sarilian glanced around, but all he saw were dull gray walls.
“It’s, um, nice,” he ventured hesitantly. “A, uh, great example of an alleyway.”
Malorg shot him a glare, and he quieted as Malorg channeled duskflame into the nearest wall. The wall parted beneath his magic, curling over itself like a flower unfurling its petals.
Shock sucked the air from Sarilian’s lungs when he saw the shimmering blue curtain exposed in the duskflame’s wake. Against the grays and blacks of the Dusklands, the color seemed impossibly vibrant. Silver runes coalesced across its surface like rising bubbles.
Sarilian struggled to speak, his heart racing. “Is that…?”
Malorg nodded, his own narrow visage awed as he studied the opening. “The Shroud that separates the Mortal and Immortal Realms of Allaria.”
“But…but how? Has the Void truly breached so far?”
Malorg shook his head. “It’s a rift—a spot where the fabric of this realm has begun to fray.
” He raised his hand, palm hovering above the ethereal surface.
Its blue glow cast an azure pallor over his skin.
“I discovered this a long time ago, with my…with an old friend. I’ve kept an eye on it ever since in case it widens, but so far, it has remained the same. ”
My. Sarilian hadn’t missed how Malorg stumbled over the word. Did Malorg already have a lover? That might explain his reluctance in the Gallery. “Do you come here often?” he asked, deciding not to pry despite the tendrils of mild jealousy clawing up his throat.
Malorg’s hand hovered near the rift for another heartbeat before he lowered it and faced Sarilian. “Whenever I need to. They say it’s impossible to return to the Mortal Realm once you’ve passed on—that to even attempt the journey would tear one’s soul asunder. But…”
“But you’ve considered it.”
Sympathy flooded him at Malorg’s terse nod.
After hearing Malorg’s story in the Gallery, he could understand how the Infernal had grown weary of fighting.
If Sarilian lived as long as Malorg had, would he eventually succumb to the same despair?
Or would his devotion to honoring the Covenant and protecting Allaria remain enough to sustain him?
He thought of his desire to earn a seat on the Dawn Council, of Darius’ tutelage and the centuries that likely lay between him and that dream. Before, the thought of eternity had filled him with boundless potential. Now, however, a hint of dread crept in as well.
“Let the others continue their eternal vigil,” Malorg said.
“I’ve done my part.” His dark eyes bored into the Shroud, his expression almost longing.
“A single step, and this could all be over. Either I return to the life stream to be reincarnated in the Mortal Realm, or I cease to be altogether. Either way, an ending.”
Sarilian swallowed down the ball of lead that had formed in his throat.
Part of him wanted to hurl himself between Malorg and the rift, no matter how irrational the gesture might be.
Malorg had obviously known about this breach into the Shroud for some time.
If he’d intended to enter, he could have done so long before they’d ever met.
Besides, Malorg was right—it wasn’t up to Sarilian to save him from his despair. That burden lay squarely with Malorg himself. Still, that didn’t mean Sarilian couldn’t demonstrate his support.
“An ending, huh?” Sarilian forced a lightness into his tone he didn’t feel as he crossed his arms, conjuring a weak grin. “I don’t know. Seems to me like you’d be missing out.”
Malorg blinked. He turned away from the Shroud’s azure surface to face Sarilian with a raised brow. “On what? On more pointless battles against an unbeatable foe? On day after day of struggling in vain to find some reason for living beyond sheer stubbornness?”
“On a chance to accomplish the impossible together.” Sarilian straightened his shoulders, meeting Malorg’s slate-gray eyes despite the nerves churning in his gut. “Because like it or not, I care about you, Malorg. And I’m not ready to give up on that future without a fight.”
Malorg shook his head, the lines on his face deepening with sudden weariness. “I never should have brought you here. Return to your Dawnlands. Forget we ever met.”
“No.”
The fierce word hung in the charged air between them. His jaw tightening with determination, Sarilian stepped forward until a mere finger’s length separated them.
Malorg held his ground. His nostrils flared as Sarilian met his stormy gaze. With a touch as tender as a whispered promise, Sarilian reached up, tracing the scar on Malorg’s left cheek. A hiss escaped Malorg’s lips, a mix of surprise and anticipation.
“There is nowhere else in this realm I’d rather be right now than here with you,” Sarilian said. Then, giving Malorg an eternity of chances to pull away, he leaned in.
Malorg remained locked in place, as still and lifeless as a shadow while Sarilian brushed their lips together. For an agonizing moment, doubt nibbled at the edges of Sarilian’s certainty. Had he misjudged the situation yet again? Was he about to face another rejection?
Then, like a dormant ember igniting into a blaze, Malorg came alive, returning the kiss with rising fervor. Sarilian let out a soft groan as Malorg’s teeth found purchase on his bottom lip. Their tongues entwined while their hands roamed, mapping the hidden contours of each other’s bodies.
Somehow, Sarilian ended up pressed against a wall with Malorg grinding atop him.
Careful to give the rift into the Shroud a wide berth, Sarilian set aside his lingering inhibitions and abandoned himself fully to the desire that had been brewing between them all day—and, unless he missed his guess, for some time before then.
“This. Isn’t. A. Good. Idea,” Malorg managed between bouts of kissing.
“You’re right,” Sarilian panted, struggling to think with Malorg’s lithe body gyrating against him. He moaned as Malorg nibbled his neck. “You must have a place to stay in the city, right? Somewhere a bit more private?”
Malorg hesitated, uncertainty flashing over his features before he nodded.
He grasped Sarilian’s hand, and they burst into shadows.
This time, Sarilian’s impatience drowned out any discomfort from the duskwalking.
Malorg must have been equally eager because in no time at all, they’d slipped up the stairs of an angular building to a small apartment near the top.
As they melted out of the shadows, Sarilian dismissed his conjured clothes with a thought.
Malorg followed suit an instant later, and for the first time, nothing stood between them.
Hands clutched for purchase as they tumbled together onto the soft collection of pillows that must pass for Malorg’s bed.
Since Immortals didn’t require sleep, all they really needed was a place to lounge… and to indulge moments like this.
“Merciful Light, you’re beautiful,” Sarilian murmured, reaching up to cup Malorg’s scarred cheek. Malorg’s eyes darkened as he took Sarilian in another heart-stopping kiss.
When they eventually broke apart, Malorg pulled back. Alarm spiked through Sarilian, replaced by confusion when he noticed Malorg’s raised hand crackling with duskflame.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to see the real you.”
A shiver of desire arced through Sarilian as Malorg pressed his shadow-infused hand to Sarilian’s bare chest. The illusion coating him snapped apart, revealing his normal bronze skin faintly glowing with suppressed dawnflame.
The sharp lines of Malorg’s narrow face softened as he pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to Sarilian’s forehead that sent a shudder of pleasure racing down his spine. “Much better.”