Errant Wings (BL)

Azarel had told himself he wouldn't open the portal again.

That the last time had been a mistake.

That the scar on his finger, the ache in his chest, the lingering warmth on his cheek—it all meant nothing.

And yet, here he was.

In his hidden alcove, seated beneath the silver glow of Asphodel's sky, with the relic pulsing softly in his palm.

The mark on his fingertip had not healed.

But tonight, he didn't hesitate.

The blade of the relic bit into his skin.

The portal shivered open.

And this time, he wasn't afraid of what waited on the other side.

Kur'thaal stretched beyond the rift, the same as always. Silent. Smoldering. The ruins of its world bathed in ember light.

But this time, he wasn't alone.

Azarel felt it before he saw him.

The moment the portal stabilized, the air in the Abyss seemed to shudder, as if something in it had been waiting.

And then—he appeared.

The demon stepped into view, the runes on his bare skin faintly aglow, his red eyes sharp yet... uncertain.

He looked as if he had been standing nearby, as if he had felt the portal open before he even saw it.

Their gazes met.

Azarel didn't move.

Neither did the demon.

Seconds stretched between them—long, fragile.

And then, the demon did something unexpected.

He took a slow, measured breath.

And spoke.

"You did it again."

His voice was deeper than Azarel expected. Smooth, yet edged with something hesitant.

Azarel blinked.

He hadn't realized how strange it was to hear him speak until now.

"…I suppose I did."

The demon tilted his head slightly. Something unreadable crossed his expression.

"Why?"

Azarel's fingers tightened around the relic.

He could have said it was curiosity.

He could have said he didn't know.

But for some reason, those answers felt... wrong.

Instead, he let out a quiet breath and said, "Because I wanted to see you again."

The demon stiffened.

For a split second, his entire body tensed, as if the words had physically struck him.

Azarel immediately regretted saying it so plainly. It sounded—too much. Too real.

But before he could correct himself, the demon exhaled—shaky, uneven.

And laughed.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

But soft. Almost… disbelieving.

"You're honest."

Azarel frowned. "Should I not be?"

The demon hesitated.

Then, after a moment, he shook his head.

"No. I think… I like that about you."

Azarel's chest tightened—but he did not know why.

The demon shifted his stance, his muscles coiled as if he were ready to move at any moment.

As if he still wasn't sure if he should be here.

Azarel studied him—the jagged runes, the sharpness of his features, the contrast of dark hair and red eyes.

This was the first time they had spoken.

The first time they had stood here, separated by nothing but the air between them.

And yet…

It did not feel like the first time at all.

"I know who you are."

Azarel's gaze snapped up.

His brows furrowed slightly. "How?"

The demon exhaled, glancing aside. "I heard your name before. On the battlefield. A woman called it—Seraphine, I think."

Azarel tensed.

Seraphine. Of course.

She had spoken his name a thousand times before, always in command, always in certainty.

And now… a demon knew it.

A demon he had let touch him.

"Azarel," the demon said, testing the name on his tongue.

Azarel shivered.

Not from cold.

Not from fear.

From something else entirely.

The demon's gaze flickered. His lips parted slightly, as if about to say something more.

Azarel's pulse quickened.

Would he—?

But then, the demon hesitated.

His jaw tensed.

And he looked away.

"…I should go."

Azarel's brows knitted together.

Go? Now?

For some reason, the thought irritated him.

They had just begun speaking. He had only just begun to understand the sound of his voice.

His own words left him before he could think.

"Wait."

The demon stilled.

Azarel hesitated. Then, more carefully—"You know my name. Shouldn't I know yours?"

The demon's gaze darkened.

Not in anger. Not in threat.

But in something else.

Something Azarel couldn't quite read.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, so softly Azarel almost didn't hear it—

"…Not yet."

Azarel's breath caught.

Before he could question it, before he could press further, the demon stepped back.

Back into Kur'thaal.

Back into the darkness.

Back into the place Azarel could not yet follow.

The portal wavered.

And then, it was gone.

Azarel stood in the silence that followed, heart pounding, breath uneven.

He should have been shaken.

Should have been angry.

Should have been confused.

But instead, he only felt one thing.

The quiet, lingering weight of a name not yet spoken.

-

Far below, in Kur'thaal, Vael sat in the ruins of a collapsed tower, hands curled into fists.

His runic aura flickered around him—unstable, shifting in restless waves.

And then—

For the first time in his existence—

The deep, violent hues of his aura softened.

The chaotic flames dulled.

And, unseen to all, pale pink orbs began to flicker around him—soft, unsteady, unfamiliar.

Vael saw them.

And for the first time in centuries—

He was afraid of himself.