Vael felt it before anything else—a silent tremor, a tug at the roots of his being. His runes pulsed beneath his skin, faint at first, then flaring like embers catching wind. The air around him rippled, heat washing over his bare feet even in the cavern's cool gloom.
He is opening it again.
That now‑familiar pull settled in his chest, equal parts dread and exhilaration. It had become more frequent, more insistent, as if the very veins of Kur'thaal were echoing Azarel's desire to peek beyond the veil. Vael did not need to turn to know where the fracture lay. His senses—each sharpened by centuries of demonic mastery—already perceived the rupture in reality. But tonight... tonight, the portal felt different: sharper, brighter, humming with an urgency he had never sensed before.
He rose from the scorched stone floor, the muscles along his arms—etched with glowing white and black runes—stretching as he moved. His aura flickered around him in wavering waves: deep violet of unease, molten red of warning, and undercurrent of silver that spoke of restrained power. He inhaled slowly, tasting ash and sulfur, and let his gaze drift toward the far wall.
There it was: a sliver of light, like a tear in the fabric of the world. The air before him shimmered, the very laws of the Abyss bending to admit something holy. Vael's pulse quickened as the crack widened into a portal no wider than his arm.
He knew he should have stepped back. He was a creature of shadows and blood, a denizen of endless war. His home was the Abyss, not this realm of celestial wonders. Yet every impulse screamed at him to step forward.
With measured footsteps that barely disturbed the ashen floor, he approached. Each stride drew fresh ripples through his aura, runes brightening with the cadence of his heartbeat. He could taste the threshold on his tongue—metallic and sharp.
Beyond the portal lay a world bathed in light: the marble spires of Asphodel gleaming like beacons, floating gardens drifting on cloud‑sea breezes, fountains of condensed starlight singing their eternal hymns. Vael's lungs burned as he crossed the divide, for the air here was thinner—charged with divine radiance that clung to his skin, seeping into his bones like an intoxicant.
He should have felt fear. Instead, he felt... home?
Azarel.
There, in the soft glow, stood the angel whose vision had haunted him: carved from celestial perfection. White hair caressed his shoulders, silver eyes reflecting starlight. Every line of his form—strong chest, sculpted arms, wings edged in molten gold—spoke of a creation untouched by the ravages of war.
Vael's breath caught at the sight. He had studied Azarel through the portal as through a window, but now—to stand before him—was a temptation he had never imagined. The angel did not move. He merely watched, lips parted, eyes unblinking, as if daring Vael to cross the final gulf.
A tide of emotion swelled within Vael: desire and awe, curiosity and guilt, all tangled like serpents in his chest. His runes pulsed brighter, each beat illuminating the swirling storm of his aura. Indigo flickered with crimson, then shifted to a rare gold of fleeting conviction. He should have retreated. He should have let the portal collapse and returned to Kur'thaal's embrace.
He did neither.
Instead, Vael stepped forward—one, two, three measured strides—until the cool marble of Asphodel pressed beneath his foot. The world jolted as though waking from a dream. The angel's gaze flickered with something unreadable, but he did not step back.
Vael's heart thundered. The rift behind him wavered, hungry for closure, but he held the portal open with the force of his will. The runes etched into his skin shone with defiance. I deserve this, he told himself. I deserve to know.
He closed the final distance. Azarel's wings shifted, casting a halo of ethereal light over them both. Vael's raw, smoky aura brushed against the angel's purity, and for a moment, their energies tangled—fire and frost, shadow and dawn.
Then he reached out.
Vael's fingers, warmed by Abyssal fury, trembled as he lifted a hand to Azarel's cheek. His runes pulsed in time with the angel's racing pulse. Every line on Azarel's face was a map of forbidden wonders: the curve of his jaw, the gentle slope of his cheekbone, the soft crease at the corner of his mouth.
He touched the skin, and it was warmer than lava, smoother than obsidian. Azarel's breath hitched, a sound like silver bells in the hush. Vael's touch lingered, feather‑light, as he traced the angel's lips with his thumb. A flicker crossed Azarel's silver eyes—surprise, recognition, longing?—and he did not pull away.
Vael closed his own eyes as sensation flooded him: the electric thrill of trespass, the sweet ache of connection, the dizzying promise of something far deeper than hatred or war. His aura ignited: molten red flared around his core, violet eddied at his fingertips, and streaks of silver lanced through his hair. His runes danced across his flesh, a living tapestry of need and wonder.
This is wrong.
He whispered the thought at the edge of consciousness. But he could not wrench his hand away.
Azarel's wings brushed against Vael's forearm, feathers soft as a prayer. Vael felt a tremor pass through him: the angel's aura—pure gold and alabaster—anchoring his swirling storm. In that suspended second, time lost all meaning.
Then the moment shattered. Vael drew back with a gasp, his fingertips tingling from the heat of the angel's skin. Azarel stood radiant and mute, eyes bright with echoes of that intimate touch.
Vael's chest heaved, runes flickering erratically as he turned. Each step away felt like tearing a limb from his soul. Behind him, the portal collapsed with a final crackle, sucking the light back into the Abyss.
He landed on the black stone of Kur'thaal with the weight of centuries on his shoulders. The air here enveloped him in familiar darkness, yet it felt emptier without the angel's glow. Vael's aura, once a storm of color, dimmed to a reluctant violet. The warmth on his fingertips lingered—a phantom scar etched into his memory.
He remained motionless as the portal echoed closed, heart pounding in the sudden quiet. Outside, demons stirred in their warrens, sensing only the tremor of battle that had not come. None would know why the Abyss had pulsed with such strange energy tonight.
Vael exhaled, forcing the tumult in his chest into stillness. His runes glowed softly, a silent testament to the moment that had changed him. He could taste the angel's warmth on his lips, could hear that whispered breath rattling in his mind.
This was a mistake.
He thought again, but the words tasted hollow.
Vael flexed his fingers, watching the runes blink against his skin. He felt both a conqueror and a supplicant, a predator and a worshiper. His heart hammered with questions he dared not voice: What had he done? What would Azarel think? Would the angel ever forgive this trespass?
Yet beneath the question lay another, darker and more urgent: Why did it feel so right?
Vael turned toward the depths of Kur'thaal, where the fires of forges and the cries of warbands awaited. He would carry this secret into every battle, into every dark corner of the Abyss. The demon who had known only shadows had now tasted light—and craved it beyond all reason.
He clenched his jaw, let his aura settle into a steady indigo glow. The pull was gone, replaced by a hollow ache that only memory could fill. He would not open the portal again... not yet.
But he knew he would.
Because once you cross the boundary between worlds, there is no turning back.
And he—the angel that should not have stepped into his realm—would haunt Vael's every thought until they met again.