Azarel dreamed of him again.
In that half–light between sleep and waking, the demon's presence was a living flame. Azarel stood on a precipice of black stone, the air crackling with heat and the scent of scorched metal. Kur'thaal's heavens above him were roiling clouds of ash and ember, however, that beautiful demon moved towards him as if walking on air. His red eyes glowed like molten rubies, rimmed with flickers of violet that matched the runes on his skin.
The demon's bare torso was a tapestry of glowing markings, shifting in color as if reflecting his every heartbeat. His body covered by black scars, each one a testament to battles Azarel could scarcely imagine. Yet in that dream‑realm, the scars were beautiful—intricate lines of silver light that pulsed in time with his breath. His arms, sculpted like living obsidian, rippled with every movement.
"Azarel," the demon murmured, his voice low and caress that sent tremors through Azarel's chest, "you should not be here."
Azarel's heart thundered. He reached out. His fingertips brushed the demon's cheek—warm, alive, impossibly close. The runes on the demon's skin flared, bathing them both in shifting light. Azarel's wings unfurled, white and gold, but the brilliance was swallowed by the demon's aura of darkness.
"Why not?" Azarel whispered, and found himself drawn unwillingly into the demon's orbit.
The demon's smile was both tender and feral. He reached out—and Azarel's world ignited. Their foreheads met; the aura around them surged, flooding Azarel with warmth and danger. "Because there is no place for angels in the Abyss."
The world trembled. Fire roared beneath Azarel's feet. He tried to pull back, but the demon's hand caught his wrist, silken yet unyielding.
Then a sudden crack of thunder ripped the dream apart, and Azarel woke with a gasp, tangled in silk sheets that smelled faintly of incense. His heart pounded so violently that he feared it might burst free of his ribcage. Moonlight pooled on the marble floor. The scar on his fingertip throbbed.
He sat up, chest heaving, and stared at the rings of smoke drifting from the brazier at the corner of the alcove. The perpetual glow of Asphodel's crystal lamps cast shifting patterns of gold across the white marble walls. In the hush before dawn, only his own ragged breathing cut through the silence.
And there, on his finger, was the scar—a thin, pale line across the very tip of his index.
Angels did not bear scars. Their flesh, woven of starlight and pure essence, healed in an instant. A blade might rend their armor, fire might blacken their skin, but true wounds faded before tears could form. And yet, here was proof that something unnatural had carved itself into him.
Azarel pressed the fingertip against his palm, feeling the pinch of lingering pain. His blood, speculated to flow like liquid sunlight, had answered the relic's call once more.
He rose, letting his wings unfold behind him in a soft rustle. White feathers edged with gold caught the brazier's glow. Even at rest, his form was perfection—muscles shaped like carved alabaster, the curve of his breastplate rising to meet the hollow of his throat. But tonight, in the aftermath of that dream, the lines of his body felt empty without his demon's warmth.
It was only a dream, he told himself. Nothing more.
Yet the memory lingered—an ache a hundred times sharper than the scar on his finger.
Azarel rose, letting his wings unfold behind him in a rush of gold and white. He crossed to the alcove's window, looking out over Asphodel's sea of golden towers and floating gardens. Below, the cloud‑sea glowed with eternal light—a light that felt a world away from the demon's world of ruin and embers. A faint breeze drifted in, carrying the distant song of the temple choirs preparing for dawn's first hymn. It was a sound of purity and purpose. A world away from the crackle of flame and stone he had seen in his sleep.
Azarel closed his eyes, drawing in the sounds and scents of home. Yet all he could see was shadow. All he could feel was the demon's heat.
He let the breeze soothe him, willing his heart to slow, willing the scar to fade. Instead, the relic throbbed in his pocket, its runes pulsing with silent insistence. He reached down, retrieving it from the folds of his cloak.
The metal was cool—too cool, somehow, for Asphodel. Its surface rippled with alien runes that gleamed in silver and violet. In recent weeks, Azarel had grown accustomed to the relic's touch, but never to the price it demanded. Each time he opened that portal—torn brief as a breath—he bled a drop of his divine essence. Each drop left that thin wound across his finger.
He turned the relic over in his palm. Tracing a rune with his fingernail, he braced for the echo of vision—and felt none. He allowed himself a small measure of relief: the artifact was dormant...for now.
But every time he laid down to sleep, the dream came back. The demon's touch, his muscles, his voice like molten thunder. He would wake with sweat on his skin and longing in his soul. And each morning, he wondered how long he could resist the relic's summons. How long before the scar drove him mad.
Outside, the light in Asphodel grew softer, shifting from silver to rose. He dressed in simple white tunic and gold‑trimmed boots, drew his wing‑straps tight across his shoulders, and made his way down to the training grounds.
The courtyards of Asphodel soared on floating isles of marble, bridged by arches of shimmering crystal. Celestial fountains sang of perpetual renewal, and gardens of glassy blooms drifted in the eternal breeze. Here, angels drilled with spears of condensed light, honing every movement to razor‑sharp grace.
Azarel joined them without hesitation, masking his inner turmoil beneath a veneer of discipline. He moved through each exercise with uncanny precision, the relic's image pushed to the edges of his mind. Spear thrust, leap, pivot: each motion unfurled the brilliance of his origin, strength born from the dying spark of a star.
His instructor, a veteran seraph with wings like wrought silver, watched him closely. "Your form is flawless, Azarel," he praised, voice firm. "Your power grows with each moon cycle."
Azarel dipped his head. "Thank you."
Yet every time he heard his words, he thought of that demon's cold smile. Of molten runes and naked muscle. He felt the relic burn in his cloak, and his scar throbbed, reminding him that perfection came at a cost.
After drills, he walked among his comrades, offering polite words of encouragement. Young angels crowded around him, starry‑eyed at his every move, but he could not meet their gazes. Instead, he sought solitude beneath a colonnade of pearl‑white pillars.
Here, he cradled the relic once more. On the wall behind him, ancient murals depicted the first war against Kur'thaal—the birth of the celestial host, the forging of spears from cosmic fire, the sealing of the Abyss's gates. Each image told of victory, of order triumphing over chaos.
Azarel studied the murals as he held the relic, feeling the weight of history pressing in on him. If the angels had built that wall of divine will, then no demon could breach it. And yet...
His fingertips itched at the runes. He pressed the relic's rune of opening, and at once, the air before him shimmered. Golden light fell away, revealing embers drifting in ashen air. His demon's world: jagged spires of black stone, rivers of molten rock, a sky scorched by battle.
Azarel clenched his fists, the spear at his hip trembling with power. Not yet, he thought, and the vision collapsed.
But the ache remained. The relic's song—the soft humming like distant drums—venomed his blood with desire. He slid the artifact back into his pocket, knowing he would return tonight, despite himself.
At dusk, the citadel's domes glowed with molten gold. Azarel returned to his alcove by a winding stair of quartz. He undressed, letting his wings fold around him like a cloak. He stood bare‑chested before a polished obsidian shard—his mirror.
In its surface, he saw the line on his finger, stark against skin of starlight. He ran a fingertip along the scar, feeling heat and guilt combine in his chest. This wound marks me as traitor, he thought. Not to Asphodel—but to myself.
He lay on his bed of silken clouds, clutching the relic to his heart. Sleep came on feathered wings, and once more he drifted into that sensual haze.
The demon waited for him by a river of mercury, moonlight dancing off its ripples. He beckoned, voice low: "Come."
Azarel emerged from the river's edge, droplets of silver clinging to his skin. His wings dipped in the liquid light. The muscled demon approached, trailing molten footprints that fizzed and smoked. He cupped Azarel's face with hands traced in shadow and flame. "You returned," he murmured, lips brushing Azarel's.
Their kiss was fire and ice. The demon's tongue pressed against the scar on Azarel's fingertip, drawing a gasp of pleasure and pain. Azarel's runes flared white with new longing as he pressed into the demon's embrace.
"Don't hide from me," he whispered, voice thick with promise. "Let me see you."
Azarel's heart thundered. "I—"
The world shuddered, and Azarel awoke once more—sweat beading at his brow, ragged breaths shaking his chest. The alcove was quiet but for his own panting.
He pressed his scar again and swore: tonight, he would cross the threshold. He would step into Kur'thaal's embrace. He would see that beautiful demon alive and whole.
He rose, golden wings stretching wide. The relic pulsed in his hand like a living thing. A single rune glowed bright.
Once more, he thought, we will meet.
And with that vow on his lips, he touched the symbol—and the air before him split open in a thin fracture of light.
Azarel stepped forward, heart ablaze, ready to pay the price of scars for the promise of forbidden desire.