The angel's divine eye glistened, tears falling silently, its warped wing twitching as it struggled to rise, its voice a broken rasp.
"You… can't," it rasped, its voice broken, a hymn fractured by centuries of abandonment. "The voice promised… if your light dies… I go home."
Azareel leaned closer, his silver eyes steady, his voice gentle but firm.
"What if I can take you home without that? What if there's another way?" he asked, his empathy a beacon, his presence a soothing light that made the angel's milky eye flicker with a spark of hope.
The angel's body trembled, its beautiful half leaning forward, its voice a whisper of longing.
"Home… I miss the light. The choir. The warmth. I want to go home," it said, its voice cracking, tears falling from both eyes now—the divine one clear and pure, the warped one milky and tainted, streaming down its melted face in a heartbreaking cascade.
Azareel opened his mouth to answer, his silver eyes softening, his hand reaching out—
