Azarel and Seraphine wandered through the citadel gardens of Asphodel, the pale silver glow of its eternal twilight washing over crystal fountains and marble pathways. Living vines of luminescent flowers draped the arching colonnades, their blooms pulsing gently like heartbeat. Laughter danced between them—Seraphine's clear, bell-like notes and Azarel's more restrained chuckles—each echo carrying a promise of freedom amid the heavy weight of duty.
Yet Azarel's mind was elsewhere. Every few steps he stole a glance over Seraphine's shoulder, half‑expecting to find those ember‑red eyes waiting at the edge of the terrace. Each time he caught himself staring, his chest tightened, and beneath his starlight‑woven skin his cheeks flamed.
Seraphine paused by a fountain whose waters shimmered gold and silver. She turned to him, concern softening her golden eyes, and offered a delicate wreath of pale blossoms. "You've barely touched the stars tonight," she teased, tucking a strand of his white hair behind his ear. Her wings—normally crisp crescents of light—quivered with a rare eagerness. "Tell me what's stirring you so."
Azarel started, blinking back into the moment. He managed a nervous smile. "Just... the beauty of it all." His words felt hollow even as they left his lips. He reached for the wreath; their fingers brushed and he felt a spark—warm, insistent—tingle up his arm.
She studied him, unease flickering in her gaze. "Azarel, talk to me."
He swallowed, heart pounding. He looked down at the wreath, Egyptoping the pale petals. "Seraphine... I—" His voice cracked under the weight of all he dared not say. "I'm grateful for this—for you." He forced himself to meet her eyes. "I promise... I will learn to love you, truly."
Seraphine's breath caught, wings trembling. The promise was more than words—it was everything they had both asked of each other. She stepped closer, her own voice low and earnest. "And I will learn to love you." She laid a hand over his heart, feathers brushing his breastplate. "Together."
Their foreheads met, and for a moment, Asphodel itself seemed to still—flowers paused mid-bloom, fountains hushed. Azarel's heart swelled with warmth... and ache. He clung to that moment even as a shadow of longing stirred within him.
Later, in his secluded alcove high above the citadel, Azarel sifted through the echoes of the evening. The wreath lay discarded on the sill; Seraphine's promise buzzed at the edges of his mind like a hymn. Yet beneath her warmth was the unshakable hunger of the relic in his hand.
He sat heavily on the marble ledge. The scar on his fingertip throbbed—a stark, black‑edged line that no divine grace had healed. His fingers curled around the relic, its runes pulsing faintly in violet and silver.
I won't do this again, he told himself. It was a mistake.
But the relic called, a low hum vibrating through his blood.
With a trembling breath, he pressed the central rune against his wounded skin. Pain flared, sharp and immediate. The air before him rippled, reality tearing open in a narrow crack. Heat and ember‑dusted wind from Kur'thaal swept through, carrying the scent of ash and brimstone.
Azarel inhaled, heart pounding. He should have closed it—banished the demon's world forever. Instead, he stepped forward, drawn by a force deeper than duty or fear.
The portal stabilized, revealing the dusky ruins of the Abyss. Jagged basalt spires jutted against a copper sky; rivers of molten rock glowed like coals beneath ashen clouds. And standing in that ruined light was him.
His demon.
Tall, powerful, runes flickering across obsidian flesh. His red eyes—that color—burned with shock and something else: curiosity. They met Azarel's silver gaze, and time stretched.
The demon's voice broke the hush, low and steady.
"You did it again."
Azarel's chest tightened. "I suppose I did."
"Why?" The demon took a hesitant step forward, oblivious to the forbidden nature of his presence. Ember‑cool wind tossed his dark hair; every movement made Azarel's pulse thunder.
"Because I wanted to see you again." The words tumbled out before he could stop them. His cheeks heated beneath his pale skin.
The demon's lips curved into a laugh—nervous, incredulous, like a spark in the dark. "You're honest."
Azarel's breath caught. "Should I not be?"
The demon tilted his head, studying him. "No. I think... I like that about you."
Azarel's heart fluttered at that admission. He forced a small smile. "I like your laugh."
Silence fell—a fragile pause in the storm of their meeting.
Then the demon's tone shifted, softer: "I know who you are."
Azarel's brow furrowed. "How?"
The demon's gaze flicked away, as if reluctant to mention the name. "I... heard your name. Someone on the field—Seraphine, I think."
Azarel's world shivered. Seraphine's name, spoken here! He dared not speak.
The demon inhaled, as though tasting the word. "Azarel."
The angel's own name, breathed by demon lips, felt sacred. Azarel's wings trembled at his back.
Azarel's pulse thundered in his throat as the silence stretched between them. He forced himself to draw breath, to speak the first thing on his mind—no matter how hesitant his voice sounded.
"They want me to marry someone here," he blurted, each word trembling on his lips. He could almost feel the weight of the promise Seraphine had extracted, pressing at his chest even here in the flickering portal glow.
The demon's red eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of surprise roiling beneath their embers. He said nothing, and Azarel's heart ached at the hesitation.
"Tell me," Azarel pressed on, swallowing down the tightness in his throat. "Tell me if I should." He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Seraphine's hopeful face—her quiet grace as she'd promised to learn to love him. Would she ever measure up to this? The thought stung.
When Azarel dared to look again, the demon's gaze had sharpened, curious and cool. "Why would I have a say in your decisions, angel?" he asked, voice low, almost amused.
Azarel's pulse thundered. Of course—he had no right to intrude on the demon's life. Yet his heart wouldn't relent. "Because... because I want to know," he confessed, voice catching. "I want to know if there is something more in this than just glances and half‑conversations—before I pursue something else."
His wings twitched behind him, golden feathers quivering in the ember light. He could laugh at me for this, Azarel thought, bracing for rejection. Instead, he felt the faint pull of the demon's aura—an unreadable tension.
The demon tilted his head. After a heartbeat, he replied softly, "Would it matter if there was something else?"
Azarel's chest seized. Yes. "For me, it would," he whispered, eyes honest, heart bare. He wanted—needed—a sign that this strange bond meant more than stolen moments through a crack in reality.
A slow smile curved the demon's lips, warmth flickering in his ember‑red eyes. "I would say that my world has become far more interesting than it was, since the day I saw you on the field."
Those words struck Azarel like a bolt of light. His throat went dry; hope and wonder warred in his chest. He swallowed, gathering courage. "My world grew bigger since I met you," he breathed, the admission spilling free.
At that, the demon's smile deepened—an almost‑shy curve, as if the demon himself could scarcely believe he'd said it. A pale glimmer of pink light—the demon's aura shifting for the first time—danced around the portal's edges.
Azarel's heart leapt. Never had he imagined a demon would speak of his world growing. He stepped forward, the slightest wind from Asphodel stirring his cloak. Every flutter of his wings echoed the tremor in his soul.
Then, as if summoned by fate, the portal shimmered, its edges wavering.
The demon's hand hovered in mid‑air before him. "I should go," he murmured, regret softening his tone.
Azarel's heart clenched at the thought of losing him already. "Wait," he implored, voice husky.
The demon paused, uncertainty flickering in those ember eyes. Azarel drew one final breath and asked, "You know my name... shouldn't I know yours?"
For a heartbeat, The demon's gaze flickered away. Then he met Azarel's eyes and answered, so quietly Azarel almost didn't catch it, "...Not yet."
The world shifted, the portal's glow dimmed, and The demon stepped back—retreating into the darkness of Kur'thaal. Azarel's arms ached to draw him close, to hold him once more, but all he could do was watch as the demon vanished beyond the rift.
The portal snapped shut, extinguishing the last ember of connection. Azarel stood alone, relic heavy in his hand, heart pounding with a promise unspoken but wholly understood.
Far below, in the ruins lit by hellish embers, The demon landed on cracked stone, heart pounding. The moment he crossed back, his aura—once a storm of crimson and violet—settled into something new and startling: pale pink sparks dancing around him like shy fireflies.
He stared at his hands, unbelieving. A demon's heart had shifted, touched by an angel. Desire and dread knotted in his gut.
Vael pressed his palms to his chest, feeling the echo of that silver‑gold voice. His runes pulsed with an emotion he could not name—hope? fear? longing? Whatever it was, it changed him irrevocably.
He whispered into the darkness, "Azarel."
The name tasted like a promise, a confession.
And in the hush of Kur'thaal's war, Vael realized that once you cross the boundary between worlds, there is no turning back.
His aura's pale pink glow pulsed gently—a fragile blossom in the Abyss, marking the first tremor of something forbidden and beautiful.