Errant Wings (BL)

Angels were not meant to bear scars.

Their bodies, woven from celestial dust and divine energy, were resilient beyond measure. Blades could pierce them, fire could scorch them, but their wounds healed faster than any mortal creature's. It took great force to make them bleed, and even greater to kill them.

Even in war, angels rarely perished.

When they did, their bodies did not rot or decay. Instead, they vanished—dissolving into shimmering cosmic dust, carried away by unseen currents to the stars from which they were born.

And yet, Azarel had a scar.

A thin, almost imperceptible line across the tip of his finger.

It should not have been there.

Azarel sat in his secluded alcove, high above Asphodel's endless expanse. From here, he could see the golden towers, the endless cloud seas, the eternal light of his home.

And yet, all he could think about was the darkness that lay beyond it.

The relic sat in his hands, its runes pulsing faintly, waiting.

It had started small.

At first, when he touched it, the visions of Kur'thaal had flickered for a few brief seconds. A hazy mirage, nothing more. He had done it once, then again, then again.

He hadn't meant for it to become a habit.

But it did.

Slowly, he began keeping the portal open longer. At first, ten seconds. Then a full minute. Then several.

Now, he could hold it for nearly an hour before the relic's energy wavered.

And every time, the cost was the same.

His blood.

Angels did not scar. Not from weapons, not from war, not from the passage of time.

But the relic was different.

Its metal was not of Asphodel, nor Kur'thaal. Whatever it was, it could cut him. And each time he offered it his blood, the wound reopened in the same place, deepening, marking him with something permanent.

Something forbidden.

Azarel stared at his fingertip, pressing it lightly against the cool stone beside him. The scar tingled.

For the first time, he wondered—was the relic taking something from him?

Or was it giving him something in return?

The portal wavered before him—a thin fracture in reality, opening onto the desolate ruins of Kur'thaal. He could feel its heat, hear its silence, see its endless expanse of stone and ember.

He never stepped through.

Not once.

But he was growing bolder.

At first, he had only dared to look. Then he began listening, straining to hear anything beyond the winds of the Abyss.

And then, he began to reach.

Not far—only a few inches past the threshold. Just enough to let the air of Kur'thaal ghost against his skin. To feel the weight of it.

The Abyss did not push him away.

It welcomed him.

Each time, it felt easier.

Each time, it felt more familiar.

And each time, he wanted more.

Azarel exhaled, watching his own breath disappear into the warm air. The scar ached.

Was it pain? Or something else?

His body should have rejected the wound. His divine essence should have healed it within moments. But the relic's cut remained, as if it had branded him with something beyond his control.

How long can I keep this hidden?

It was a dangerous question.

For months now, no one had noticed. Not Seraphine, not the others who watched him with awe and admiration. No one saw.

But he saw.

He felt the mark on his body, and he felt the mark in his mind.

Kur'thaal was supposed to be a place of darkness. A place of war.

Then why did it call to him like an old friend?

He had long convinced himself he was alone in this ritual.

That he was the only one watching.

That he was the only one reaching.

But he was wrong.

Far below, in the endless gloom of Kur'thaal, Vael felt it again.

That pull.

That ripple in the air.

He had begun to sense it more frequently now. And every time it happened, his runes reacted before he even realized it.

It's him again.

Vael did not yet know who was opening the portal.

But he was starting to understand why.

Because whoever they were… they couldn't stop.

And neither, it seemed, could he.