Azarel awoke before the first pale light touched Asphodel's horizons. Through his alcove's high, arched window, he watched the pearlescent mists recede from the marble spires, revealing a city already stirring with quiet purpose. He rose slowly, muscle memory guiding each motion even as his mind replayed last night's forbidden communion. The scar on his fingertip throbbed—a permanent reminder of the price he paid for each glimpse into Kur'thaal.
He dressed in the black tunic Seraphine had gifted him: woven from celestial minerals, light as dawn's breath yet stronger than any armor he had known. As he slipped it on, the runic pattern along the seams pulsed faintly, as though greeting his touch. His wings flexed behind him, silver-gold feathers folding neatly into the tunic's high collar. Despite its comfort, he felt exposed—an angel marked by a demon's warmth.
He had been lost in thought when the summons arrived.
Two young angels—apprentices, their eagerness barely contained beneath polished armor—approached him with bowed heads, the eternal light of Asphodel glinting off their gilded pauldrons.
"Azarel," one said softly.
He turned, his silver eyes steady, though his pulse quickened.
"Lady Leya requests your presence," the second added.
Azarel's brows rose. Leya—Leya of the Emerald Vision—one of Asphodel's ten greatest seers, graced with the gift of second sight. To be summoned by her was an honor and a threat in equal measure. He nodded once, silent, and the two angels stepped aside to guide him.
They crossed the citadel in hushed halls carved of quartz and pearl-white marble, every pillar and arch suffused with the soft glimmer of starlight. Azarel's footsteps were soundless, his mind already racing with questions: Why now? What has she foreseen?
At last they emerged into an enclosed garden—a sanctified grove untouched by war. Emerald vines clung to crystalline trellises, silver blossoms drifted like lanterns on a gentle breeze, and a golden fountain sang its eternal hymn. The air here tasted of promise and peace, a stark contrast to the clangor of battle.
And there, beneath a moonlit arch, stood Leya.
Tall and lithe, she wore robes of deep green that shimmered with motes of light, as though the nature itself had clothed her. Her hair, spun of purest gold, cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves. But it was her wings that commanded Azarel's attention: pure white like his own, yet where his were tipped in gold, hers glowed with deep emerald at the base—evidence of her unique gift.
Her gaze found him the moment he stepped into the garden, and he felt the weight of her sight—piercing, knowing, relentless.
"Azarel," she greeted, voice like a gentle breeze stirring silver leaves.
"Lady Leya," he replied, bowing his head with courtesy. His heart thundered against his ribs. How much does she see? he wondered.
She dismissed the apprentices with the slightest wave of her hand; they vanished like shadows at dawn. Then Leya stepped forward, her emerald-green eyes studying him intently.
"You seem troubled," she said.
Azarel's throat tightened. How could he confess the tumult of his soul—to admit he longed for the touch of a demon? He straightened his shoulders. "I am well," he said evenly. "What do you wish of me?"
Leya's lips curved in a knowing smile. "You summoned me not for pleasantries, but for vision. I sense your thoughts drift beyond our realm." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "Your presence wavers... as though you stand between two worlds."
Azarel's heart lurched. He swallowed, wishing fervently that his heart did not betray him with every beat. "I serve Asphodel faithfully," he said quietly. "My mind is clear."
Her smile deepened, but her eyes softened only marginally. She stepped closer, so near that he could make out each silver fleck in her iris. "Let me see," she murmured.
He shook his head, forced breath tight in his chest. "No," he replied, voice hushed but firm. "I cannot."
Leya inclined her head. "Why not?"
Azarel hesitated—words lodged in his throat. He pictured Seraphine's hopeful face, Vael's proud smile, even his sensual form, and all the conflicting loyalties that tore at him. "Because some truths one must discover alone," he said finally.
Leya studied him as though weighing each syllable. "You fear what lies ahead," she observed. "Personal fear can cloud judgment—yet revelation need not destroy you."
Her tone held no accusation, only gentle coaxing. Azarel exhaled, fighting the urge to back away. "I cannot risk... exposure."
Leya's gaze flickered with understanding. "You carry wounds— invisible ones." She held out a hand, palm up, her wings rustling in the night breeze. "Trust me. Let me hold your hand, and I will show you but a sliver of what is to come."
Azarel felt the world tilt. He knew that once Leya's gift touched his spirit, nothing would be hidden. Every faltering step, every forbidden act, would be laid bare. His pulse hammered. "I... I appreciate your offer," he stammered, "but it is not for me."
Leya's eyes softened with pity—not for him, but for his burdens. "So be it," she said softly. She stepped back, folding her hands. "But know this: time will not wait for your secrets. The future comes for all."
Azarel bowed his head, pain and relief mingling in his chest. "Thank you," he whispered.
She nodded once, then turned away, her robes swirling like dark water. "Walk carefully, Azarel. Your path lies between sun and shadow."
And with that, she vanished among the vines and fountains, leaving Azarel alone beneath the sun's pale glow.
He lingered a moment, heart pounding, before summoning the strength to turn and leave. Each footstep away from Leya's garden felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of her gaze clung to his shoulders. She would watch him from afar now, he knew—sensing every slip, every secret breath drawn toward darkness.
Rising wings carried him swiftly back to his alcove, mind spinning. The scar on his finger throbbed in rhythm with the warning in his heart: Be careful. Be vigilant. They will see.
Azarel pressed a palm to his cheek where the demon's touch still ghosted on his skin. The relic lay on his sill, silent and pulsing with violet light. He picked it up, feeling its alien weight in his hand.
He closed his eyes, breathing deep. Every fiber of his being screamed to open the portal again, to seek the demon's presence one more time. Yet he had a promise to honor—to Seraphine, to himself, to Asphodel itself.
His wings drooped as uncertainty seized him. He traced the relic's central rune with trembling fingers, but could not bring himself to summon the crack in reality. Instead, he set the artifact aside and sank onto his bed of silken clouds.
Starlight filtered through the window, painting the room in pale silver. Azarel stared at his scarred fingertip, his heart torn between love and duty, light and shadow. Leya's words echoed in his mind: Your path lies between sun and shadow.
He knew he must choose carefully. The dawn would come with its duties and expectations, but tonight, in the hush before morning, Azarel allowed himself one moment of honest fear—and one vow to guard his secrets with every breath.
For Asphodel—and for the unknown demon who waited beyond the veil—he would walk the narrow line between worlds, hoping to find a way to honor every promise he had made.
Azarel's feet echoed hollowly down the pearl‑white corridor as he fled the garden, heart pounding with the weight of Leya's unspoken truths. By the time he reached his alcove, pale dawn light was seeping through the high window, painting the marble floor in ghostly stripes. He didn't pause. He vaulted over the sill and slammed the heavy door shut behind him, the click of the latch echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.
For a moment, he simply stood, chest heaving. Then the floodgates broke.
Tears coursed down his cheeks in scalding rivulets, and with a roar of frustration he swept his arm across the carved obsidian table. It shattered in a spray of black shards, each fragment skittering across the marble like fleeing sparks. Azarel's wings quivered, white‑gold feathers fanning out as if to steady him, but he stormed past, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms.
He tossed aside the scraps of rune‑etched parchment that covered the surface—battle plans, stratagems for the coming war—all meaningless now. "What are you becoming?" he hissed at his own reflection in the polished obsidian shard he grasped from the wreckage. His silver eyes, usually so steady, trembled with an ache that felt like a blade turned inward. "An angel who betrays his vows... who courts a demon's shadow."
He sank to his knees in the debris, wings folding around him like a cloak. The scar on his fingertip throbbed—a dull pulse in time with the tumult in his chest. He pressed his bleeding finger to his lips, tasting iron and regret. "I don't recognize myself," he whispered, voice raw. "I should feel only responsability... only purpose. Yet all I feel is him."
He closed his eyes, letting memory burn him anew: Vael's ember‑red gaze, the brush of cold fingertips against his cheek, the way his runes had pulsed with longing. Azarel inhaled sharply and spoke into the hush of the alcove.
He pressed his palm to the floor, shards biting into his skin. "I hate that I crave you. I hate that your name reverberates through my bones like a hymn I cannot unhear." His tears fell onto broken obsidian, each droplet sizzling like a prayer offered in war. "I am an angel of light, yet my soul burns for shadow. I am sworn to bind the Abyss—yet you've undone me with a single look."
Azarel rose unsteadily, wings unfolding in a slow arc. He paced among the ruins of the table, voice growing stronger with each confession. "If longing for you is a sin, then I embrace damnation. If loving you costs me everything... then I will pay that price a thousand times over. For in your eyes I see the only truth that matters: that even an angel can be lost—and found—in the tender darkness of another's embrace."
He pressed his forehead to the cool marble of the windowsill, sunlight fracturing across his skin like scattered stars. "I don't know what I am becoming," he admitted, voice barely a whisper. "But I know I want to be with you." He closed his eyes and let that promise settle deep within him—an ember of hope that no blade, no decree, no fear could ever fully extinguish.