Errant Wings (BL)

The chamber was unlike any other in Asphodel.

It was not made of gold, nor filled with celestial hymns. There were no radiant mosaics of victory, no reminders of triumph.

Instead, it was old.

The walls bore no embellishments, only the weight of time itself. The long marble table at the center was smooth but weathered, and the seats around it were few—reserved for those who had once ruled, but had long since withdrawn from the light.

Tonight, those seats were filled once more.

Azarel did not sit.

He stood before them, wings folded, his expression unreadable.

The three angels across from him had not been present for a Council meeting in centuries.

Claude. Rafael. Fahy.

Each of them carried an air of quiet authority, their presence heavy despite the years of silence.

To his right, Brisco was the first to speak.

"We have much to discuss."

Across the table, Claude leaned forward, his hands folded before him.

He was older than most, his orange-tinted wings a rare sight in Asphodel. His presence was measured, but Azarel could sense something beneath it—a weight, a knowing.

"You have brought a demon into our hands," Claude said smoothly. "And yet you stand before us not as a prisoner, but as one of us."

Azarel did not answer.

Claude exhaled through his nose.

"Curious."

Next to him, Rafael tilted his head, his turquoise-edged wings shifting slightly.

His face—forever that of a young child—was a contradiction to the way he carried himself, his gaze flickering between curiosity and disinterest.

"I don't see why we care," he muttered.

Claude shot him a sharp glance.

"Because what happens next determines the future of Asphodel."

Rafael made a soft, unimpressed sound.

"And yet, Asphodel remains the same."

Claude's eyes darkened.

"Not if you listen closely. Not if you see what is happening."

Rafael's fingers drummed against the table.

"I see. And tell me, Claude—do you fear him?"

Azarel tensed slightly.

Claude's gaze flickered toward him.

"I fear what he may become."

The words landed like a stone in water, rippling across the chamber.

Azarel felt the weight of all their eyes on him now.

Watching. Measuring.

"Queen Rishe," Brisco finally said, breaking the silence.

She had not spoken yet.

But she had been watching.

Still. Silent. Waiting.

Now, her violet gaze turned to the others, assessing them before she finally spoke.

"You all know why I have called you."

Claude nodded once.

"Lilith."

Azarel inhaled sharply.

Even after everything, even after her private words to him, he had not expected her to say it so plainly.

Queen Rishe did not blink.

"Azarel's actions are not yet treason."

Seraphine stiffened.

"Yet."

Rishe ignored the challenge in her voice.

"But there is no denying the path that stands before him."

Claude's fingers tapped the table, slow, thoughtful.

"A path that was walked once before."

Brisco leaned back slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing.

"Then let us walk through it once more."

Lilith's story was not new.

But this time, it was not spoken with reverence.

It was a warning.

"She believed in things beyond Asphodel," Claude said. "She sought to shape the Abyss rather than destroy it."

"She spoke of balance," Brisco added. "And in doing so, she set herself apart."

Seraphine's voice was cold.

"She questioned the light."

Azarel's hands curled into fists.

He was not foolish enough to speak.

Not here. Not now.

Because they weren't telling this story for history's sake.

They were telling it for him.

For most of the discussion, Fahy had remained silent.

She sat perfectly still, her delicate hands folded in her lap, her gray-edged wings motionless.

But then—her voice slipped into his mind.

Soft. Effortless.

"Do you believe in balance, Azarel?"

His breath caught.

The others hadn't heard it.

Only him.

Azarel did not answer.

Not aloud.

But Fahy only watched him, as if she had already found the answer herself.

Then, slowly, she sent one more thought.

"Do you believe in him?"

His heart pounded.

For a second, he thought she meant Lilith.

But then—he understood.

Vael.

Her gaze flickered ever so slightly.

Azarel's breath came slower now, measured, as if trying to quiet something stirring deep inside him.

Fahy leaned back again, her thoughts fading into silence.

But the weight of her words did not leave him.

"So," Claude finally said, shifting his attention to Queen Rishe.

"What do we do with him?"

The air thickened.

Brisco's gaze was sharp. Seraphine's was colder than before.

Leya's was unreadable.

Queen Rishe stood.

Her wings did not move.

"For now, we watch."

Claude frowned slightly.

"And the demon?"

Queen Rishe studied Azarel.

"We will find our answers soon enough."

Claude exhaled, nodding once.

"Very well."

The meeting ended.

Azarel did not look back.

The corridors of Asphodel stretched before him.

The weight of their words, their judgment, pressed against his back.

But only one question remained in his mind.

Fahy's voice.

"Do you believe in him?"

Azarel's steps slowed.

He had been telling himself that he only wanted answers.

That Vael was a means to understanding.

That what happened in Heaven's Prison was not important.

That when he reached out to touch Vael's face—when Vael's eyes followed his movements as if entranced—it had meant nothing.

But Fahy had asked the question no one else dared to.

And Azarel did not have an answer.

Because he already knew the truth.

He did believe in him.

And that, more than anything, was the most dangerous thing of all.