The portal was gone.
The night fell silent once more, yet the echoes of what had transpired refused to fade. Azarel sat motionless in his alcove, his celestial wings folded tensely behind him, each feather vibrating with the memory of that forbidden touch. The marble sill beneath him was cool, but the warmth on his cheek still smoldered, as if the demon's fingertip had imprinted its heat upon his very flesh.
He drew in a shuddering breath. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out even the distant hum of Asphodel's eternal lights. Slowly, trembling fingers lifted to the spot where the demon's hand had brushed his skin. He pressed the pad of his finger against his cheek and let his palm fall back to his lap. The phantom warmth pulsed still, a reminder that what had happened was neither dream nor illusion.
Azarel's gaze dropped to his other hand, where the relic lay—cold, alien metal etched with runes that pulsed softly in violet and silver. He closed his hand around it, feeling the faint throb of its power beneath his palm. The runes flickered weaker than before, drained by his last summoning. He forced himself to stand, each movement deliberate, as if by remaining too long he risked succumbing once more to that memory.
When he looked down at his fingertip, his breath caught. The scar was deeper now, darker around the edges. A thin line of obsidian black had traced itself along the laceration, a sign that this wound was no ordinary cut. Angels did not bear scars—not from blades, not from the passage of centuries. And yet, this wound refused to heal. It marked him with something forbidden, something that belonged neither to Asphodel nor to Kur'thaal.
He swallowed hard and stepped away from the alcove. The grand corridor stretched before him, arches of crystalline light shimmering against walls of pearl-white marble. The silence here was as flawless as carved stone—pure, undisturbed, unknowing of the transgression that had just occurred within its bounds. Azarel moved through it, each footfall echoing faintly, until he reached one of the broad windows that overlooked Asphodel's cloud-sea.
Below, gardens floated on vapor—silver blossoms drifting against a tapestry of starlight. Celestial fountains sang in soft droplets, and distant spires gleamed like distant suns. Four moon cycles remained until his union with Seraphine, an alliance to be celebrated at the dawning of the "Rising of the Celestial Phoenix," when the newly born star in the Silver Swan would blaze across the heavens. Two cycles past, they had pledged themselves beneath living light and the wonder of all Asphodel's hosts. Yet now, beneath all this serene beauty, Azarel's heart felt as turbulent as the Abyss itself.
A shiver passed through him, and he turned away from the window. He needed motion, needed air to scatter the memory's weight. He strode down the corridor, his white-and-gold breastplate clinking softly with each step. He nearly walked past her—until her voice, like a gentle breeze, pulled him back.
"Azarel?"
He halted, surprised by the soft lilt of concern. She stepped into the corridor's glow—a fellow angel he had seen in passing but never spoken to until now. She was tall, willowy; her wings mirrored his own pure white feathers but were edged in deep emerald green—Leya, he recalled, from the Council's outer guard.
He straightened, smoothing his expression into calm. "Leya," he said. "Good evening."
Her eyes—green as new leaves—studied him with gentle intensity. "You seem troubled." She inclined her head. "I've never seen you move so swiftly through these halls. What weighs on you?"
Azarel's throat tightened. The lie hovered on his lips—"I am fine"—but something in her gaze made falsehood sting. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, recalling the phantom warmth on his cheek, the silent communion with a demon he could neither name nor condemn fully.
When he opened them again, his voice trembled only slightly. "I... appreciate your concern, Leya. Everything is in order." He offered a half-smile that did not reach his silver eyes.
She did not press him further. Instead, she placed a slender hand on his arm, her touch cool and calming. "Very well," she said softly. "If ever you need someone to speak with—" She paused, searching his face. "—know that I will be here."
Azarel swallowed, mind racing. He inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you."
As she withdrew, he felt the echo of her kindness linger in the air. He watched her glide away on silent wings, and for a moment, he envied her serenity.
The corridor fell silent once more. Azarel's pulse thundered in his ears as he resumed his walk, pressing his back against the marble wall. He closed his eyes, letting Leya's gentle compassion soothe the rawness inside him. But the scar on his finger burned like a brand, and the memory of that touch—soft, curious, undeniable—beat in his mind like a relentless drum.
What had he done?
He could not punish the relic; its power was innate to its design. He could not undo the demon's crossing, nor erase the trace of warmth on his cheek. And worst of all, he found that he did not wish to.
Azarel slid to a halt as the corridor opened onto a quiet balcony, moonlight pooling on its pale stone floor. He sat at its edge, legs dangling into the night air. Beyond, the city's spires glimmered, but all he could see was the Infernal horizon of Kur'thaal—black mountains bleeding embers into a sky of storms.
He lifted his hand to his cheek once more, where phantom heat still lingered. The wound there throbbed with the relic's lingering magic—and with the memory of a touch that had bridged worlds.
He let out a long breath, releasing the tension from his shoulders. In the hush before dawn, he whispered to the empty air, "Why?"
No answer came, only the soft murmur of distant fountains and the quiet pulse of the realm he had nearly betrayed. Azarel folded his wings around himself like a cloak and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he would don his new tunic of celestial minerals, practice spear-forms at dawn, and pledge himself once more to the light of Asphodel.
But tonight, he would dream of shadow—and of a demon's ember eyes waiting for him beyond the veil.