4. Malrec
MALREC
The afternoon sun—if you can call the perpetual crimson haze above Ikoth sunlight—casts long shadows across the pasture.
I stand with my arms crossed, watching Vexris and Khorvas circle each other in the far corner of the enclosure.
They're testing boundaries, as they always do when released together.
Vexris snaps at Khorvas's flank, and he wheels away with a huff of sulfurous breath that momentarily obscures them both.
The containment wards hum at a frequency I can feel in my teeth. Good. They're holding steady.
I should be focused on this. On monitoring their behavior, on ensuring the magical fencing doesn't fluctuate when Vexris decides to test it by ramming her shoulder against the barrier. Again. This is what I'm good at—structure, observation, control.
Instead, my mind keeps circling back to her.
Lenna.
I finally learned the human's name three days ago, and not from her.
Varek mentioned it in passing while discussing supply inventories, and I found myself cataloging the information with more attention than it deserved.
Two syllables. Short. Direct. It fits the way she moves through the stables—efficient, deliberate, refusing to waste motion.
It also fits the way she glares at me like she's mentally cataloging every way she could dismantle me if given the opportunity.
I shift my weight, jaw tight. This is ridiculous.
She's a laborer. One human among dozens in the estate's employ.
There's no reason her presence should register beyond basic operational awareness, and yet I can feel the weight of her hatred like something physical.
It clings to the air between us whenever we're in the same space, sharp and distinct, and instead of dismissing it the way I should, I find myself reacting to it.
Badly.
Every interaction we've had since that first day has devolved into barely restrained hostility. She looks at me like I'm the most insufferable creature she's ever encountered, and I snap at her like she's personally responsible for every disruption in my carefully maintained routine.
Which she is.
Azhrael has been impossible since she arrived.
The beast who has never once refused my commands, who responds to me with the kind of loyalty most handlers would kill for, now watches me with something that feels dangerously close to resentment.
He won't eat unless I leave his enclosure entirely.
He paces when I'm near, agitated and restless, and the few times I've attempted to check his containment wards, he's reacted with outright aggression.
But when she's in the stables? He settles. Watches her with that eerie, focused stillness that suggests recognition rather than instinct.
It makes no sense.
I tried to fix it. Quietly, without drawing attention to the problem, I requested a different human for stable duty. Someone with more experience, or at least someone who wouldn't look at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of her boot.
The replacement lasted less than a day before Sythrak tore him apart.
So now I'm stuck with Lenna, which means I'm stuck in her presence for hours on end, exchanging glares across the walkways while my frustration builds into something I can't quite name.
It's not just irritation. It's sharper than that. More intrusive.
She gets under my skin in a way that feels almost physical, like an itch I can't reach.
Every time she looks at me with that particular blend of defiance and contempt, something in my chest tightens.
Every time she speaks—clipped, precise, utterly unafraid—I have to suppress the urge to either snap at her or...
I don't know what.
That's the worst part. I don't know what I want from her, only that her presence disrupts my focus in ways that feel increasingly dangerous.
Vexris slams into the barrier again, and the wards flare bright enough to make me blink. I exhale slowly and force my attention back to the enclosure.
Focus. This is what matters. Not a human laborer who hates you. Not the way Azhrael's behavior has become incomprehensible. Not the fact that you can't seem to stop thinking about either of them.
"Looks like Vexris is in a mood."
I don't flinch at Damiros's voice, though I didn't hear him approach. My brother moves with the kind of quiet precision that most people find unsettling. I find it familiar.
"She's always in a mood," I say without turning. "It's her baseline."
Damiros stops beside me, close enough that I can see him in my peripheral vision.
He's dressed in his usual style—dark, tailored, with just enough ornamentation to signal status without tipping into excess.
His silver hair is pulled back neatly, and his expression is calm, measured, giving nothing away.
We stand in silence for a moment, watching the beasts. It's comfortable in the way most of our interactions are—functional, efficient, requiring no unnecessary words.
"Khorvas is showing well," Damiros says eventually. "The buyer from Vesnios is still interested?"
"Last I heard. I'll have him ready for inspection next week."
Damiros nods. "Good. And Sythrak?"
"Not ready." My tone sharpens slightly. "He's too volatile right now. Needs another season at minimum."
"Understood." Damiros tilts his head slightly, considering. "The auction in Marinae is in three weeks. I'll need a final list of viable candidates by the end of this week."
"You'll have it."
This is how we operate. Damiros handles the selling, the bureaucratic navigation, the careful political maneuvering required to maintain House Virex's reputation in the broader demon hierarchy.
I handle the beasts themselves—containment, training, assessment.
It's a clean division of labor that works because we don't blur the lines.
We also don't talk about feelings.
It's not that we're incapable of it, necessarily. It's just never seemed necessary. Damiros knows what I do, and I trust him to manage his end without interference. Anything beyond that feels like wasted energy.
"Walk with me," Damiros says, already moving toward the stable entrance. "I want to look at the candidates before I finalize the auction roster."
I follow without argument, falling into step beside him as we cross the threshold into the cooler air of the descent corridors. The shift in temperature is immediate, almost jarring after the open heat of the pasture.
We move through the stables in silence, stopping occasionally so Damiros can observe a particular beast or ask a clarifying question about temperament or binding requirements. I answer efficiently, keeping my explanations brief. He doesn't need details, just data.
We're halfway through the main walkway when Damiros stops.
Not gradually. Not with a casual pause. He just... freezes mid-step, his entire body going still in a way that immediately sets my instincts on edge.
I follow his gaze.
Lenna.
She's at the far end of the walkway, crouched near one of the supply stations, organizing tools into their designated storage bins. Her back is to us, but I recognize the line of her shoulders, the efficient way she moves through the task without wasting motion.
Damiros doesn't move. Doesn't speak. His expression shifts—subtle, almost imperceptible unless you know what to look for—from calm neutrality to something harder to define.
Shock, maybe. Or recognition.
Then, just as quickly, it's gone. His face smooths back into its usual controlled mask, and he turns his attention to the nearest enclosure as though nothing happened.
"I didn't realize you'd brought on more help," he says, his tone casual. Too casual.
I watch him carefully. "Recent addition. She's assigned to maintenance and stall prep."
"Hmm." Damiros's gaze flicks back toward Lenna for just a fraction of a second before he looks away again. "How's she performing?"
The question feels weighted, though I can't pinpoint why. "Adequately."
"Good." He nods once, then gestures toward the next enclosure. "Shall we continue?"
We resume walking, but the ease from earlier is gone. I can feel the shift in Damiros's energy—subtle, controlled, but present. He's too still. Too measured. The kind of careful that suggests he's actively managing his reactions rather than simply existing in his baseline state.
I know my brother. I've known him my entire life. And I know when something has unsettled him, even when he's doing everything in his power to hide it.
"Dam."
He glances at me, one eyebrow raised slightly. "Yes?"
"You looked—" I pause, searching for the right word. "Surprised. When you saw her."
"Did I?" His tone is light, mildly curious, as though we're discussing the weather. "I suppose I wasn't expecting to see anyone down here. You usually prefer to work without additional personnel."
It's a reasonable explanation. Logical, even.
It's also a deflection.
I study his profile as we walk, noting the slight tension in his jaw, the way his hands remain clasped behind his back in a posture that looks relaxed but isn't. Everything about his body language reads as controlled containment.
"She's just a human," I say carefully.
"Of course." Damiros's voice doesn't waver. "I wasn't suggesting otherwise."
We reach the next enclosure, and Damiros turns his attention to the beast inside—a mid-tier infernal predator with decent lineage but unremarkable temperament.
He asks a few standard questions about feeding schedules and containment requirements, and I answer on autopilot while my mind circles back to that moment.
The way Damiros froze.
The way his expression shifted before he locked it down.
The way he looked at Lenna—not with curiosity or mild interest, but with something that felt almost like... fear.
No. Not quite fear. Something adjacent to it. Recognition, maybe, but laced with wariness.
It doesn't make sense. Damiros has never met her before. I'm certain of it. And even if he had, there's no reason a human laborer would provoke that kind of reaction from him.
Unless—
I cut the thought off before it can fully form. Speculation without data is useless. Whatever Damiros saw, or thought he saw, he's clearly not interested in discussing it. Pressing the issue will only make him close down further.
Still, I can't shake the wrongness of it. The way his entire demeanor shifted for just a fraction of a second before he regained control.
"Malrec."
I blink, realizing Damiros has been speaking. "What?"
"I asked if you've finalized Vexris's containment protocols for transport." His tone is patient, but there's an edge beneath it. He knows I wasn't listening.
"Not yet. I'll have it ready by the end of the week."
"Good." He nods once, then turns toward the exit corridor. "I'll leave you to it, then. Send the roster when it's complete."
He's already walking away, his stride measured and unhurried, giving no indication that anything unusual just occurred.
But I know my brother.
And I know when he's lying.