Four moon cycles remained until Azarel's union with Seraphine—an alliance decreed at the dawn of a new era, heralded by astronomers as the "Rising of the Celestial Phoenix," when a newborn star flared into existence in the constellation of the Silver Swan. Two cycles past, they had celebrated their engagement beneath a canopy of living light, to the wonder of all Asphodel. Yet since that night, Azarel's dreams had been invaded by that demon, and every waking hour his thoughts returned to the fracture in reality—and the price he had paid to glimpse beyond it.
Azarel's morning began on the polished marble of the training grounds, where each breath felt like a vow to Asphodel's light. He practiced precise spear‑forms beneath the pale glow, runes along his arms flaring with each strike.
He paused mid‑lunge at the soft footfalls behind him. Turning, he found Seraphine and Fahy approaching across the courtyard. Seraphine's wings—normally crisp crescents of light—trembled with a rare eagerness. In her hands she bore a folded garment of deep onyx, streaked with veins of shimmering silver.
Azarel lowered his spear in surprise. "Seraphine?"
She smiled, a rare softness in her golden eyes. "I wished to bring you this," she said, extending the sword. "A gift of unity—for our coming marriage."
Fahy offered him an encouraging nod from behind Seraphine's side.
Seraphine offered the tunic with a gentle smile. "For you," she said, voice steady yet warm. "Fashioned from celestial minerals—stronger than any armor you've known, and yet light as dawn's first breath." Fahy stood watch, her emerald‑rimmed wings fluttering in approval.
Azarel's silver eyes widened. He unfolded the tunic and held it up; the dark fabric caught the light, revealing a subtle pattern of stars and runes woven into every fiber. When he slipped it over his head, the minerals molded to his form, granting him an aura of quiet power.
Overcome, Azarel set aside his spear and drew Seraphine into a swift embrace. The tunic's warmth pressed between them as he held her. Seraphine's initial surprise melted into a shy flush; she rested her cheek against his chestplate, wings fluttering in gentle rhythm.
He straightened at last, hands still on her shoulders. "It's perfect," he whispered. "Thank you."
Seraphine brushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear, her smile soft. "May it protect you—and remind you that we face this future together."
With the new armor settled to his body, Azarel felt a surge of resolve—and in that moment, he felt something, similar to guilt.
Night in Asphodel was never truly dark. A soft, silver glow suffused the marble corridors, as if the very stones retained the light of the stars. Azarel slipped through these halls with silent certainty, though his heart thundered beneath breastplate and cloak. He reached his alcove—his sanctuary—high above the grand halls, shielded from prying eyes.
His fingertip throbbed where the relic's blade had nicked him once more. He pressed it against his lips, tasting metallic warmth, but did not withdraw. The scar was his secret. He welcomed its dull ache; it reminded him of the power he had bargained for—and of the hunger that lay beyond.
He seated himself on the carved obsidian sill. In his lap rested the relic: a fragment of alien metal, etched with runes that pulsed in violet and silver. Azarel drew a deep breath, exhaled, and closed his eyes. The hesitation that once gripped him had long since died away.
With a practiced motion, he raised his wounded finger and pressed it to the central rune. The relic awakened with a low hum; the air around it shimmered as if caught between two worlds.
A thin crack split the darkness before him—an iridescent fracture in reality.
The portal opened.
A gust of hot, dry wind washed across his cheek, carrying the acrid scent of ember and stone. Azarel's silver eyes fluttered open. Beyond the rift lay Kur'thaal's desolate expanse: jagged spires of black basalt, rivers of molten rock, a sky bruised by perpetual war.
The vision was clearer than ever—sharper, deeper—suggesting the relic had learned to obey, granting him a fuller glimpse with each summoning.
He felt a pull in his chest: an ache that was equal parts dread and longing. For months he had watched this empty world as a silent observer. But tonight... tonight would change everything.
Because tonight, he was not alone.
Azarel's breath caught. Figures emerged from the fringes of the portal's light. Not distant phantoms, but one single form: tall, sinewy, chiseled in shadow and muscle.
The demon stepped closer, each footfall so quiet he scarcely heard it, yet the portal trembled beneath the weight of his presence.
Azarel had faced lesser demons in fleeting raids—scavengers, beasts of the lower pits. But this was him: a being of unguarded power. His skin bore runes that glimmered in the portal's glow; his red eyes burned like dying embers fringed in violet. Black hair fell in loose locks around a face at once perilous and beautiful—a beauty that seethed with danger.
Azarel's own aura shuddered. His wings twitched behind him, golden-tipped feathers stirring in the heated air.
He realized, with a jolt, that he should close the portal. He should sound the alarm. He should summon Seraphine and the host of Asphodel.
But he did not move.
Because the demon was not attacking. He was simply... watching.
And Azarel found himself rooted to the sill, heart pounding, unable to look away.
For a heartbeat, they held each other's gaze. The portal's edges flickered with unsteady light, as though the world itself trembled at their silent communion. Azarel saw the demon's chest rise and fall: each inhalation a testament to raw, living power. His runes pulsed in time with Azarel's own racing heartbeat.
Then the demon lifted a scarred hand, moving with deliberate slowness through the portal's threshold—and into Asphodel.
Azarel's muscles tensed, but he remained still. The demon's foot touched Asphodel's marble floor as though the ground belonged to him. In that instant, the sanctity of the Celestial Realm felt to Azarel as fragile as smoke.
A hush fell over the alcove: neither angelic nor demonic, but the charged silence of worlds colliding.
The demon did not seize a weapon. He did not roar a challenge. Instead, he closed the final gap, standing before Azarel less than a breath's length away. Azarel's aura—pure silver and gold moments before—shivered into violet, crimson, and abrupt flashes of indigo.
Azarel's pulse thundered in his ears. His mind scrambled for command—wordless, hopeless.
The demon's red eyes softened fractionally. Then, with measured precision, he raised that hand and brushed fingertips against Azarel's cheek.
The touch was feather‑light... and undeniable.
Azarel's breath caught in his throat. The world tilted on its axis of light and shadow as the demon's thumb traced the line of his jaw. His touch carried warmth, curiosity, a promise Azarel could scarcely name.
It was not violence. But it was invasion.
And it was intoxicating.
The moment stretched to an eternity. Azarel's wings twitched once, but he did not draw them in. He did not cry out. He merely leaned into the contact, as if the demon's curious caress were the only anchor left in a universe gone mad.
In that suspended heartbeat, Azarel saw depths in those ember eyes: hunger, wonder, a glimmer of recognition. A connection that went beyond war. Beyond realm.
Then the demon withdrew his hand. The warmth faded, leaving Azarel's cheek tingling as though etched by flame.
Azarel dared to look up—and the demon inclined his head in silent farewell. Without another word, he stepped backward, retraced his path through the portal's breach, and vanished into the void.
The relic quivered violently in Azarel's grasp, as though startled by the demon's retreat. The fracture in reality collapsed inward with a sound like distant thunder, and the portal shimmered out of existence.
Azarel found himself alone once more.
He remained motionless, the echo of the demon's touch still flaming on his skin. The alcove's silver glow felt suddenly cold. His heart pounded so fiercely that he thought the marble would crack beneath him.
Slowly, he brought a trembling hand to his cheek. Where the demon's fingers had lingered, Azarel could almost still feel the phantom warmth. His silver eyes glistened as he pressed the scar on his fingertip—a dull reminder of every drop of blood he had surrendered to the relic.
He had expected visions. He had expected secrets. He had even expected to stand on the brink of madness.
But never this.
A demon stepping out of the Abyss.
A touch that spoke louder than any war‑cry.
A silence heavier than any clash of blades.
And now... there was no undoing it.
Azarel closed his eyes and exhaled, resolving that if destiny had drawn them together, he would not shy away. The price of scars and stolen visions would pale beside what his heart demanded next.