Errant Wings (BL)

The portal was gone.

The night was silent again.

But Azarel could still feel him.

His breath was uneven, his pulse refusing to slow. He sat there, unmoving, his wings tense at his back, his cheek still warm from the touch of a demon's hand.

The demon had not said a word.

Neither had he.

And yet, the weight of that silence still pressed against him, heavier than any battle he had ever fought.

His fingertips rose, trembling, and brushed over the place where the demon's fingers had lingered.

It burned.

Not with pain.

Not with power.

With something else.

Something Azarel could not name.

He forced himself to move.

Rising to his feet, he looked down at his hands, at the faint glow of the relic still pulsing in his palm. Its runes flickered—weaker, drained.

Azarel's gaze dropped to his fingertip.

The scar was deeper now.

More defined.

The same wound, reopening every time he touched the relic, every time he bled for the portal.

But this time, something had changed.

A thin, barely visible line of black traced the edge of the wound.

Something unnatural.

Something wrong.

His breath caught. Angels did not scar.

Not from weapons.Not from war.Not from the passage of time.

But this wound was not healing.

It remained—a mark of something forbidden.

And now, it was spreading.

Azarel turned sharply, stepping away from his alcove. The soft, glowing halls of Asphodel stretched before him, untouched, undisturbed.

As if nothing had happened.

As if he had not just allowed a demon to cross the threshold of Heaven.

The thought sent a shiver through him.

No one had ever done that before.

He had no name to place on the demon's face. No history, no identity—only the burning image of red eyes staring into his.

And the feeling of warmth that should not have existed.

His thoughts twisted in on themselves, turning over again and again, unable to settle.

He needed to leave the alcove, needed to walk, to breathe—to escape this feeling.

As he strode through one of the outer corridors of Asphodel, his mind so distant it felt as if he were not even inside his own body, he nearly walked past her.

"Azarel?"

A soft voice, light as the wind, yet firm enough to pull him back into reality.

He turned sharply, blinking.

Before him stood an angel unlike the others.

She was tall and willowy, with a frame that carried an almost ethereal grace, her golden hair falling in smooth waves over her shoulders. But it was her wings that caught his attention.

They were like his—pure white, edged in color.

But where his bore the touch of gold, hers shimmered at the base in hues of deep, emerald green.

She was watching him carefully.

Azarel immediately straightened, masking his expression.

"You seem troubled," she said gently, tilting her head. "Is something wrong?"

The question was simple. Too simple.

Azarel's first instinct was to dismiss it, to tell her he was fine, that nothing had changed.

But something about the way she was looking at him made it impossible to lie outright.

He exhaled slowly. Collected himself.

Then, with a calmness he did not fully feel, he said, "I appreciate your concern. But I am fine."

She didn't seem entirely convinced.

For a moment, she simply studied him, as if she could see beyond the carefully composed expression he wore.

Then she gave him a small, knowing smile.

"Very well," she said, stepping aside to allow him to pass. "But if you ever need someone to listen… I will be here."

Azarel hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Then, with a polite nod, he stepped past her and continued down the corridor.

Even when she was gone, he could still feel her gaze on him.

For the first time since his creation, Azarel felt something close to fear.

Not of the demon himself.

Not of the scar that should not exist.

But of what this meant.

What it could mean.

He had looked into the Abyss. And now, the Abyss had looked back.

What had he done?

And worse… would he do it again?