Errant Wings (BL)

Asphodel never truly knew darkness, but there were moments when twilight settled over its golden halls. Tonight was one of those rare instances—a dim hush draped over the sky, the perpetual glow of the Celestial Realm softening into muted silver. Most angels had retired for the night, their luminous forms flickering gently in the vastness of their heavenly city.

Azarel, however, could not sleep.

He sat in his secluded alcove, the wind ruffling the golden-touched feathers of his white wings. The relic rested in his hands, its runes pulsing faintly with the same quiet insistence that had tormented him for months. He exhaled slowly, his fingers grazing the strange markings. What are you? he thought for the hundredth time. What do you want from me?

Something about it felt different tonight—stronger, more insistent.

With a deep breath, he pressed his fingers against its surface and focused. The runes flared brighter, as if responding to his silent command. The metal hummed under his touch, and then—without warning—a thin line of light split the air before him.

Azarel's breath caught.

A tear in reality wavered in the space ahead, a fracture through which he could glimpse Kur'thaal.

The vision was clearer than before. No longer hazy mirages—this was a tangible opening. A jagged, flickering portal no wider than an arm's length revealed the scorched ground of the Abyss, the embers glowing like dying stars against the dark expanse. Heat radiated from it, and the sound of distant, howling winds filtered through.

Azarel's pulse thundered in his ears.

For a long moment, he simply stared.

Far below, in Kur'thaal, Vael woke with a start.

A sharp pulse surged through his chest, a sensation that sent a shiver through his runes. His red eyes snapped open, breath unsteady. It wasn't pain—it was something else. Something calling him.

He sat up, his muscles tensing as he scanned his surroundings. The rocky cavern where he had chosen to rest was the same, the air thick with heat and the distant murmurs of creatures stirring in the darkness. Yet something felt different.

A thin, electric sensation ran over his skin, coiling through his runes like an unseen force pulling at him from afar. His fingers instinctively traced the markings over his chest, and his brows furrowed.

This wasn't his magic.

Something had touched the Abyss, something unfamiliar.

He rose to his feet, his mind racing. This was no ordinary shift in the dark energies of Kur'thaal. It felt personal, as though it had reached for him specifically.

Back in Asphodel, Azarel watched the small, wavering portal in stunned silence. The light around its edges flickered, unstable, yet it remained open. His golden-armored shoulders tensed, his wings shifting unconsciously. He could hear the air on the other side—hotter, heavier, so different from the crisp serenity of the Celestial Realm.

But more than the heat, more than the strangeness of the sight itself, something else stirred in him.

A presence.

He couldn't see anyone through the portal. The stretch of Kur'thaal visible to him was empty, only dark rock and distant embers. Yet, his skin prickled with the undeniable feeling that someone was there.

Watching.

His breath hitched.

Something—or someone—had felt his touch on the Abyss.

His grip on the relic tightened. He didn't step forward, didn't dare move closer to the portal's threshold. The runes on the relic dimmed slightly, and he instinctively knew: it needed more from him to sustain the gateway.

A cost.

He swallowed hard and, hesitantly, pressed his finger against the metal again.

A sharp sting.

The relic's edge bit into his flesh, and a drop of silvery blood welled up. The moment it touched the runes, the portal brightened—stabilized. The view of Kur'thaal sharpened, the howling wind grew louder, and the strange feeling in Azarel's chest intensified.

In the Abyss, Vael felt it instantly.

A rush of energy, as if something had pushed against the fabric of his world. The sensation struck deep, pulling at something inside him, something he hadn't known could be pulled at all.

He turned sharply, his breath uneven. His runes flared, responding to the force with an intensity he hadn't felt before. The presence wasn't just out there anymore. It was here.

Near.

For the first time in centuries, a gate had been forced open from the other side.

Someone had touched Kur'thaal.

And this time, Vael could feel exactly where.

Azarel took a step back, his breath coming fast. The portal wavered—as if something on the other side had noticed, as if it had responded to his blood.

Instinct screamed at him to close it.

Quickly, he lifted his hand from the relic, breaking contact.

The runes flickered. The glow trembled. Then, with a sound like rushing wind, the portal collapsed in on itself, vanishing in a soft crack.

Silence.

Azarel stood frozen, the relic still warm in his hand. The cool night air of Asphodel whispered against his skin, but he hardly felt it. His heart pounded, his thoughts in turmoil.

Had he truly been alone in that moment?

Had someone seen?

Or worse… had someone felt him?

Far below in Kur'thaal, Vael stood still as stone, staring at the spot where the invisible force had touched his world.

The sensation had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, but it left something behind in him. A lingering pull. An aftertaste of something forbidden but familiar.

His hands clenched. He didn't know who had done it—who had reached through the veil—but he knew one thing with certainty.

This would not be the last time.

The boundary between light and shadow had been breached.

And soon, he would find the one responsible.