Errant Wings (BL)

The golden light of Asphodel was eternal. It shone without flicker, without fail, without hesitation.

Azarel had never noticed how unforgivingly constant it was—until now.

He stood in the celestial halls, staring at his reflection in the polished marble walls. His posture was perfect, as always. His wings remained pristine, white edged with gold. His face, sculpted by divinity, bore no sign of unrest.

But his eyes…

His silver eyes were not steady.

He had not slept. He did not need to. But rest had never felt so impossible.

His fingertips brushed over the scar on his hand, the black edge deepening, darkening.

For thirty days, he had ignored it.

Now, he could not.

Not after Vael's eyes had burned into him like that.

Not after hearing—feeling—the unspoken hurt beneath his anger.

"Then figure it out."

Azarel clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose.

He had tried to move on. He had thrown himself into training the moment the sun had risen—but even that was different now.

The light around him felt too bright. The admiration in the gazes of the young angels felt too heavy. And Leya was watching him.

Always.

Her emerald gaze followed him too closely, studying the way his thoughts drifted, the way his posture wavered for just a second too long.

Seraphine noticed it too. She had been harder on him than usual, drilling him with commands, testing his control, demanding perfection.

"What is on your mind, Azarel?"

He had said nothing.

Because what could he say?

That he could still feel the pull of the Abyss even now? That his silence had felt heavier than his words ever could?

No.

He could not say any of that.

Instead, he had finished training. He had endured their scrutiny.

And now, standing alone in his hidden alcove, his hand hovered over the relic once more.

He pressed the blade into his scarred finger.

Nothing.

The relic pulsed weakly, but the portal did not open.

Azarel inhaled sharply, trying again.

The energy flickered.

And then—nothing.

His chest tightened. His heart pounded once, too hard, too sharp.

It had never resisted him before.

"What are you going to do, Vael? If he never opens it again?"

Azarel exhaled harshly.

He did not understand.

Why? Why wouldn't it open? Was it because of Vael? Was it because of him?

Or…

Had he already lost the right to reach across the divide?

Kur'thaal burned as it always had.

The sky roiled above the ruins, streaked with fire and smoldering embers. Demons fought in the distance, the clang of metal and the snarl of battle filling the air.

Vael did not move.

He sat atop the wreckage of a collapsed tower, staring at the horizon.

His mind would not be still.

The portal had opened.

Azarel had returned.

And for one moment—before the anger, before the frustration—he had felt relief.

A relief so sharp it had nearly split him apart.

And then, he had hated himself for it.

Vael clenched his fists. His runes flared, restless, shifting.

His body was betraying him.

Something inside him was… changing.

His control was slipping.

Nethros had noticed.

"What's gotten into you?"

Vael had ignored him. He had ignored everyone.

Because what could he say?

That his mind had been plagued with silver eyes and golden wings? That his silence had not been a victory, but a wound?

No.

He had barely spoken a word in days. He had trained alone, fought alone, destroyed alone.

And yet, none of it was enough.

A shadow shifted behind him.

He did not react. He had already sensed who it was.

Lilith.

She stood at the edge of the ruined tower, watching him with the same curious, knowing gaze she had always worn.

She said nothing for a long while.

Then, softly—

"My fragile child."

Vael froze.

His breath caught, his hands trembling for half a second too long.

Then, he forced himself to move. To stand. To mask the weakness in his posture.

"I am not fragile."

Lilith smiled—not amused, not mocking.

Something worse.

Something understanding.

"If you say so."

Then, she was gone.

Vael stared after her, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

His runes pulsed —once, twice— and for a fleeting moment, before he could suppress it—

A pale pink glow flickered at the edges of his aura.

Azarel stared at the relic in his hands, his grip tight enough to tremble.

Vael stood at the edge of the tower, staring at the distant ruins, his jaw locked.

Both of them thought of the portal.

Both of them thought of opening it again.

Both of them wanted to.

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them acted.

Neither of them reached.

And the night remained silent.

For now.