Corvian, 3181.
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The presenter's voice split the hush like a blade through silk. "Ladies and gentlemen—now, the moment you've all been waiting for. The amazing Igor Ivanov and the magnificent Hugo Verran!"
Applause rose—first polite, then thunderous—human fervor feeding on its own echo. The air thickened with perfume, sweat, and the faint metallic scent of anticipation. I sat among them, a devil in borrowed skin, watching worship performed as entertainment.
The program called it a collaboration, but tradition opened with alternating solos.
Igor emerged first. The lights bowed toward him. He moved as if the stage had been built around his pulse. Water arced from the fountains flanking the platform, ribbons of liquid twisting into serpents that coiled about his arms. With a flick of his wrist, they burst into vapor; the mist hung like incense before condensing again into rain that fell upward. Gasps, applause, the rustle of mortal awe—he drank it in.
Then came the earth: gravel and dust lifting from the polished floor, spinning into miniature galaxies. He raised both hands, and the particles fused into a sphere, pulsing with slow, earthen light. Wind rose from nowhere, bending sound itself. Dresses fluttered, champagne rippled, and the chandeliers trembled in their golden cages.
He looked pleased with himself. Pride—a human vice I have always recognized as divine plagiarism.
Hugo stood at the far edge of the stage, silent, still. His posture unassuming, his expression unreadable. To the crowd he appeared a shadow beside a god. But I could feel the mark under his skin awakening, answering the storm with a quieter hunger. Fire is patient before it kills; it studies oxygen.
Igor's show reached crescendo—gusts spiraling, water forming halos, dirt suspended mid-air in shimmering suspension. The audience rose to their feet. They believed it was victory. He believed it too.
Beside him, Hugo's eyes glowed faintly—not gold, not red, but a shade that once existed in the heart of dying stars. I felt it inside my own lungs, that mirrored breath I had placed within him. The rhythm of my corruption beating under his ribs.
When Igor turned, inviting applause, the lights dimmed of their own accord. Not by cue, not by switch. The air drew inward—as if the room itself inhaled.
I smiled. The gods of this place had changed, and none of them noticed.
The storm of Igor's making hung motionless above the stage—caught in a silence thick enough to taste. The dim didn't come from the board; the room itself inhaled. One ember appeared behind Hugo, small as a thought, trembling like a heartbeat learning to burn.
And I knew: the real act was only beginning.
The ember lingered—fragile, defiant—then split, multiplied. A slow inhalation drew through the hall, the kind of silence that makes mortals forget they are alive.
Hugo raised his hand.
The fire obeyed.
Heat bloomed without burn; a thin veil shivered above the heads like a dome.
It unfurled behind him like a banner of breath and blood, shaping itself not into destruction but choreography. Each flicker moved as if aware of its own reflection, bending at his smallest motion, drawn to his pulse. The audience gasped when the flames climbed the ceiling beams yet did not burn, twining through crystal chandeliers like veins of living light.
He did not perform. He conducted.
Every gesture was deliberate—wrist turning, breath measured—as though he were translating the unspoken language between mortal and divine. The cards rose next, hundreds of them, scattering through the air. He whispered something under his breath; the cards ignited, but instead of ash they became feathers—black, crimson, pale gold—circling the audience in a slow storm. One feather brushed my sleeve and dissolved into warmth.
Igor stood rigid beside him, his own illusions stuttering, water trembling mid-air as if caught in worship. The crowd leaned forward. They didn't understand what they were seeing. They thought it was theatre. But I knew—this was creation in reverse, a stolen echo of the first light ever spoken into being.
Hugo lifted both hands now, palms open. The air thickened. Reality strained. The fire folded inward until it compressed into a sphere between his hands—bright, then blinding, then silent.
He looked almost serene.
Then the sphere burst.
Light flooded the hall, faces lacquered in gold and red. The chandeliers shivered; water from Igor's act rose again, catching fire mid-air, turning into rain that fell as embers. The audience stood frozen in reverence. Some wept. Some smiled like they had glimpsed God.
But there was no God here. Only my mark speaking through him.
The air stilled. Hugo exhaled softly, and with it the last flames sighed into nothing. The feathers vanished. The hall smelled faintly of iron and roses.
He turned his head toward me—only a fraction, but enough. The eyes that met mine were no longer entirely human. My breath echoed in his chest; I could feel the rhythm align, our lungs caught in the same motion, our hearts learning the same dissonance.
Then the applause came—violent, thunderous, endless. The sound of worship disguised as celebration.
Hugo didn't bow. He only smiled: calm, exhausted, luminous, and for one brief moment, he was everything he had ever wanted to be: seen, adored, and utterly beyond saving.
I thought of Heaven's gate and the silence that once lived behind it. The order I had lost. And I understood, at last, that this was my creation—my echo of the divine.
And like every imitation of God's work, it was beautiful.
The hall still trembled from the echo of Hugo's fire. The applause had yet to subside when Igor stepped forward again, his composure an imitation of what it once was. His smile held, but his eyes were glass—reflecting light, not owning it.
The stagehands dimmed the chandeliers until the world narrowed to a circle of gold around them both. Two magicians, as the mortals saw it. Two flames sharing air.
Igor began first. Water rose from the edge of the platform, suspended like strands of silk pulled from an invisible loom. He twisted them into spirals, forming shapes meant to mesmerize—dragons, doves, the usual theater of wonder. The audience gasped on cue, obedient in their awe.
But Hugo stood beside him, still as glass, watching. His stillness was the louder act.
When Igor turned the spirals into a storm, Hugo lifted a single finger. The water slowed. He whispered nothing, merely looked at it, and the liquid stilled in midair, solidifying into translucent shards. The crowd thought it part of the design; Igor did not. I saw his hand falter, the pulse in his throat quicken.
Hugo took a step closer, the hem of his suit brushing against the stage. His expression was gentle—merciful even—as he placed his hand upon Igor's creation. The shards bloomed into color, igniting without burning. He seeded the air with a breath of silica— dust from chandeliers and stone. Fire swallowed water, yet neither died. Instead, they fused—flame breathing through liquid, shaping it into molten glass. The sculpture turned slow in the air, a moving cathedral of light.
The audience whispered. Igor froze.
I tasted it—his disbelief. It was sharp, almost holy.
"Your turn," Hugo murmured, voice low enough that only I and perhaps the dead could have heard.
Igor attempted wind next. A swirl of air gathered, lifting their hair, their sleeves. He spun the current until it formed a cyclone around them. But Hugo stepped within it. The wind parted for him, curving, obeying. He raised his arm, and sparks leapt from his wrist to the air, turning the cyclone into a tunnel of light. The elements circled him, not Igor.
Igor smiled again, brittle as ice under heat. "You've improved," he said, his tone meant for composure but cracking like paper under water.
Hugo looked at him with quiet kindness. "I had a good teacher."
That line was a blade sheathed in silk. The audience heard humility; Igor heard truth.
They continued the act—together, as the program promised. Igor summoned dust from the stage, commanding it into shapes. Hugo breathed warmth into the dust, and it turned to glowing amber. Igor moved air through it, expecting to command the dance, but Hugo shifted the light itself. The dust began to fall like gold rain—obedient only to his rhythm. Every movement Igor made after that became reaction, not creation.
He followed, not led.
And I, watching from the dark, felt something stir that could almost be pity. The man who once embodied mastery now stood within the radius of a greater fire, one he could neither name nor extinguish.
Hugo turned his palm outward; the stage deepened into shadow. The air thickened with color. From the remnants of Igor's water and soil, he formed a figure—a statue of shimmering ash and glass. It looked human, almost alive, head tilted upward in reverence. The audience gasped as the figure stepped forward, its body cracking light through every seam.
Igor tried to add his touch, to claim authorship, but the illusion ignored him. It bowed only to Hugo before disintegrating into a soft exhale of light.
The crowd erupted. Chairs scraped. Applause cascaded in waves.
And there it was—humility disguised as collaboration, destruction hidden inside grace.
Igor bowed first, trembling. Hugo followed, unhurried, the very image of serenity. His eyes met mine across the room—unchanged, unwavering. The mark between us pulsed, and I understood what he had done.
He did not defeat Igor. He absorbed him.
He turned power itself into homage.
And the mortals applauded, never knowing they had just witnessed a god humbling another before their eyes.
Igor stood beside Hugo once more—his hands clasped tight, his smile fixed with the precision of survival. The next act was meant to be unity, a finale of balance and grace. Yet the air no longer belonged to him. I felt it coil around Hugo, drawn to the pulse of the mark beneath his skin.
Hugo turned his head slightly, speaking without words. I knew the look; it was the calm before unmaking. He raised both palms, and the lights above obeyed, dimming until their glow gathered only upon him and Igor. The audience stilled, leaning forward as though held by unseen threads.
A whisper of air trembled through the room. Cards rose from the stage, swirling between them like a slow storm. They caught the glow, glimmering silver-blue, each spinning so swiftly that the air itself shivered. Hugo's fingers moved, elegant, almost merciful, and the cards converged around Igor's head.
For a breath—no longer than a heartbeat—the illusion looked effortless: art poised on devotion. Then the edges turned sharp. The cards froze mid-spin, their corners glinting like the teeth of a machine that remembered hunger. One hovered against Igor's throat, close enough to lift a strand of hair.
A gasp cut through the hall—soft first, then multiplying. I heard chairs creak, jewelry clatter. Igor's composure faltered, his breath catching on a sound that wasn't meant for public ears. The card pressed closer, drawing a single thread of blood.
Hugo smiled, not cruelly but with divine composure, and flicked his wrist. The cards snapped back, orbiting once more, harmless, radiant, dissolving into sparks. Igor staggered a step, his knees unsteady. He laughed too loudly, clapping his hands together.
"Part of the trick," he said, voice strained but steady. "All planned."
The crowd roared again, the release of fear turning into applause, as though gratitude could cover what they had witnessed. Yet I saw the tremor in Igor's jaw, the wild disbelief in his eyes—he knew that for a single instant, Hugo could have ended him and chosen not to.
Hugo inclined his head slightly, pretending partnership. "Thank you, Igor," he said, quiet enough that only I caught the inflection. Gratitude dressed as farewell.
Then movement in the far corner drew my gaze. Kent stood against the columned wall, the only stillness in a sea of celebration. His face was unreadable, yet his eyes—those pale, serpentine mirrors—betrayed astonishment. Even he, who wore a devil's grin in a mortal face, had not believed Hugo capable of such control. His jaw slackened, and for the first time since his fall, I saw fear in him.
I let my gaze rest on him until he felt it. When he turned toward me, our eyes met across the distance—two exiles, both recognizing what stood on that stage was neither man nor miracle.
Hugo lifted his hand in a slow bow. The crowd cheered louder, blinded by their own worship. But Kent and I knew better. What we saw was not a performance. It was sovereignty disguised as art, mercy masquerading as illusion.
And even the devils in the room—myself included—were forced to remember why heaven once trembled at the sight of human fire.
The corridors were still thick with applause when I left the hall. The walls trembled with voices—praise spilling into echoes, human awe chasing its own shadow. I moved through it in silence, each step deliberate. The scent of stage powder and sweat lingered in the air, the aftermath of spectacle.
Then came the interruption.
A hand on my chest. A staff member, earnest, forgettable. "Sir, no one's allowed backstage." I looked at him, quiet, patient. The kind of patience that precedes something ruinous.
"Are you kidding me?" I said under my breath.
Before I had to decide what came next, Poppy appeared behind him, the silver strap of her gown catching the corridor light like a knife. Her smile was sweet and fatal. "Let him pass," she said. The man's posture collapsed instantly. He stepped aside without meeting my eyes.
As we walked down the corridor, her heels clicking like punctuation marks, she said, "No thank you?" I didn't look at her. "Would've passed through anyway." "Oh really?" she said, voice laced with amusement. "I'd love to know how."
I didn't answer. Some curiosities don't deserve mercy.
At Hugo's door, I paused. My hand rested on the handle; the heat from my palm sank into the metal. A breath, slow, unnecessary, more habit than need. Then I pushed it open.
He turned immediately, eyes bright, the joy in him still glowing from the stage. Before I could speak, he crossed the room in a rush and threw his arms around me. His body was feverish against mine, the mark inside him alive, thrumming. I caught him instinctively, holding him there.
"You were phenomenal," I told him. He pulled back, his face alight. "I've never felt as free and fearless as when I was out there. Did you see Igor's face?"
A smile tugged at my mouth. "Yes. The best part, with all due respect to your tricks, of course." He laughed. "No, I agree."
The moment was almost human—brief, fragile, almost pure—before the shouting began outside. "Let me through! Are you kidding me?"
The door handle jerked violently. I sighed. "This motherfucker."
I turned the lock. The door slammed open and Igor burst in like an untrained dog. His face was flushed, his posture trembling from the weight of humiliation he refused to name.
"Was this a joke to you, you fucking peasant?" he spat.
Hugo's joy cooled into indifference. "You missed the rehearsals. Said you wanted to keep the surprise element. You forgot we were supposed to work together. Not to mention your underling, Kent, coming to tell me you refused to show up. I did my best to warn you, but your pride deafened you."
Igor stepped closer, fury uncoiling in his throat. "Never in my twenty years of performance have I been treated that way. You're scum, Hugo. Do you think I don't know where you came from?"
Hugo's voice turned soft, bored. "Who gives a fuck where I came from? I made it bigger than you. Stop weeping and go collect your splattered dignity from the stage."
The punch came sharp and ugly. Igor's fist cracked against Hugo's cheek; the sound was intimate, almost personal. He cursed in Russian.
"I've seen enough," I said quietly.
I caught him by the back of his jacket and pulled him off balance, dragging him down. His body hit the floor hard. I stood over him, my patience dissolved. The crowd outside murmured, uncertain whether to flee or watch.
I rubbed my forehead with one hand. "I hate getting my hands dirty. Hell knows I do." I looked down at him, my voice calm, precise. "But I touched you already, so it's tarnished anyway."
I knelt beside him, one hand closing around his throat. His breath stuttered beneath my fingers. Between my teeth I said, "Tell your fucking companion to see me outside, the garage. I'm not having a fight with a son of a bitch like you. Get up—and go get him."
When I released him, he gasped, crawling upright, his face pale with disbelief. The staff stood frozen at the threshold, wide-eyed, pale, useless.
I straightened, brushing off my sleeve as if the air itself disgusted me. "Everyone can leave," I said, voice low but resonant. "You know how it is between magicians."
No one moved.
I turned my head, and the room fell cold. "Move!"
The shout cracked through the air like a verdict. Chairs scraped. People scattered, tripping over apologies. Only Hugo remained where he stood, touching the mark at his throat, eyes on me as if something inside him recognized that this—this temper, this calm brutality—was what he had been made for.
The door swung open again as Igor stumbled out, clutching his neck, gasping for Kent.
And somewhere down the corridor, I heard Kent's answering voice—too calm, too soft to belong to anything human.
I turned toward the door, the scent of anger still thick in the air. Hugo sat on the floor, blood gathering along his lip like a signature he hadn't meant to leave. His breathing was steady, almost amused. Humans were strange that way—hurt looked like proof of life to them.
"Poppy," I called.
The door cracked open, and she appeared, breathless from running, her dress half tangled around her legs. Her eyes darted between me and Hugo, confusion flashing across her face.
"Fix his face and—just—ugh." I didn't finish. Words felt too heavy, and the room already carried enough of mine.
She frowned, more startled by my retreat than by her friend bleeding on the floor. I didn't stay to clarify. The door closed behind me with a quiet finality that sounded like a sigh from the building itself.
The corridor stretched long and empty, lined with the dull reflection of the chandeliers above. I could feel eyes watching from unseen corners—humans, perhaps, or something else that had learned to look like them. It didn't matter. Every gaze was a pebble against the weight already sitting on my chest.
At the elevator, I pressed for the garage and waited. The doors slid shut with a whisper, trapping me in mirrored silence. My reflection looked almost human—still, composed, tired of charades. This had been running too long. The ties, the pretenses, the companions wearing stolen flesh. It needed to end before the corruption spread beyond redemption, even for one like me.
The descent felt endless, the kind that stretched thought into confession. When the doors opened, the air changed—cooler, emptier. The garage was nearly deserted, the lamps above flickering against concrete.
"Kent," I called, my voice low but carrying.
The echo came back hollow.
I took a few steps forward. "Don't play coy. I can sense your presence, you wimp."
The shadows stirred. He emerged from behind a column—tall, pale, his expression torn between arrogance and guilt. Kent always wore his vessel too comfortably, like silk tailored over rot.
"Can't you control your human?" I asked.
He tilted his head, the corners of his mouth trembling into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You marked yours?"
I exhaled softly. "I said, can't you control your human?"
He spread his hands. "Look, I don't want to fight with you, Corvian. But Hugo really pushed it—he nearly killed him."
"Did he, though?" My tone sharpened, deliberate. "And why would you hate it even if he did?"
Kent hesitated, his throat working around words he didn't believe in. "But… I'm his companion. I'm supposed to look after him."
"Companion," I echoed, clicking my tongue once. "Not servant, Kent. You mix them up every century or so. How predictable, Kaelith."
His jaw tightened. "Don't use my real name."
"Oh?" I stepped closer. "It repulses you now?"
He flinched. "Corvian, I don't want to be banished. I know I've pushed limits more than I should—but this time, I swear, I didn't tell him to attack Hugo. I can't fully control him."
I studied him in silence. The light above us flickered again, splitting the shadows across his face. Beneath the veneer of fear, I could feel the remnants of what he once was—grace stretched thin, trembling in denial.
"Kaelith," I said quietly, letting the name roll like an old wound being reopened. "Control was never your strength. It's why you chose the mask of mercy in the first place."
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, I almost pitied him. Almost.
But pity was the first lie of angels, and I'd sworn off it ages ago.
I stepped closer. The air between us thinned, tightening around his throat like an unspoken command. Kent's breath caught, shallow, uneven. I could hear it—the rhythm of a creature who had forgotten how to breathe without permission.
"That means," I said quietly, "it's either him or you now."
He blinked, confusion briefly clouding his eyes. "What?"
"You know the rules, Kent." I tilted my head. "Him or you."
The silence pressed against the walls, the sound of it brittle as glass. He took a step back, shaking his head. "Let me just fix it. One last chance, I promise I'll fix it."
A sigh escaped me—long, heavy, older than both of us combined. "Oh, I hate this," I murmured, dragging a hand across my face. "You're so goddamn annoying. No matter how old you get, you're still that childish, broken creature who went behind my back to destroy every chance I ever had. Snitching to Thea, thinking he doesn't already know. Messing things up with Ismere. Deceiving me into believing you loved me, that you looked up to me."
His mouth opened, words trembling on the edge, but I didn't give him space to breathe them.
"And you know what?" I said, voice softening, almost kind. "I'm not even angry about it anymore. I'm just tired. Tired of you standing in my way, again and again, as if the centuries haven't taught you what it costs to provoke me."
Kent's expression wavered—defiance flickering and dying within a heartbeat. He knew the hierarchy written in our bones, the one that chained eternity into order.
"I'm older," I said, the words settling like stone between us. "So by the oath, I can end you this instant."
I took another step, close enough to see the tremor in his jaw, the faint shimmer under his skin where the remnants of grace still burned like an infection that refused to die.
"So," I whispered, almost tenderly, "him or you, Kent?"
He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away, the question hanging like a blade above his spine.
The garage seemed to exhale around us. The lights buzzed overhead, painting us in pale, ghostly halos. I waited. I've waited for centuries, it seemed, for him to make this choice.
And still—he hesitated.