The storm raged long after Zethra's wings had burst forth, as if the heavens themselves were unsettled by what had crawled out of his blood.
Ezagone held onto his brother's hand like a lifeline. The black wings stretched behind Zethra, brushing the ceiling, blotting out the candlelight with their terrible shadow. But Zethra's crimson eyes, though fierce, still softened when they turned toward him.
"I told you I was a man now," Zethra muttered, voice ragged but carrying that same old smirk. "Wings included."
Ezagone gawked. His jaw hung loose. "…You look like a peacock that went through a funeral."
Zethra barked out a laugh that nearly broke into a groan. The black feathers trembled. "Maybe one day, when it happens to you. You'll probably sprout fluffy white chicken wings."
Ezagone squeezed his hand harder. "And yet, here I am, still the pretty one of the family."
Their laughter—shaky, raw—cut through the suffocating tension.
But then Martha appeared in the doorway.
The widow's face was pale as chalk, her eyes wide as she took in the sight of her boy—her boy—with wings that belonged to no saint.
"By the saints…" she whispered, clutching the doorframe. "No… no, this can't…"
Ezagone rushed to her, trying to block her view. "Martha, listen—it's not what you think—"
Her hand trembled as she raised it. "Eza… my sweet child… I always knew you two weren't ordinary. But this…" Her voice cracked. "This is something the town cannot forgive."
Zethra dragged himself upright, wings curling around him like a cloak of night. "Don't look at me like that," he said. His voice was calm, but his fists shook. "I'm still me. I'm still your Zethra."
Tears spilled down Martha's cheeks. "You are, but the world won't see it that way."
Ezagone's throat tightened. He understood. The cathedral priests would call Zethra a devil spawn. The neighbors would spit and curse. Hunters would come.
And they did not have to wait long.
A sound split the storm—a tolling, not of the cathedral bell, but of something harsher, metallic. Ezagone froze. Zethra's crimson eyes narrowed.
"They've found us," he muttered.
"Who?" Ezagone demanded.
Before Zethra could answer, Martha gasped. She staggered back as the front window cracked, a faint glow seeping through. Voices, low and chanting, echoed outside.
Angelic runes.
Ezagone's heart dropped. "They're here for you."
"No," Zethra said, his black wings spreading wide. "They're here for us."
---
The house shook as the door burst open. Figures cloaked in white and gold stormed in, their faces hidden behind masks shaped like serene angels. Their weapons glowed faintly—swords of light, spears inscribed with prayers.
The leader's voice was cold. "By the decree of the Concord, we claim the devil-blooded for judgment."
Zethra smirked, though his breath came ragged. "Judgment? Didn't even bring me a cake first. Some birthday."
Ezagone stepped in front of him, fists clenched though he had no weapon, no wings. "You'll have to go through me."
The masked hunters paused, surprised. "You? A mortal?"
Zethra's laughter rang sharp. "That's the joke of the century. My brother? Mortal? Please. He's a walking sermon and sarcasm stuffed into one body. If you don't kill him, he'll talk you to death."
Ezagone elbowed him. "Not the time."
"Always the time," Zethra grinned.
The hunters advanced. Martha sobbed, clutching her apron. "No! Don't hurt them, please! They're just boys!"
Ezagone turned, voice hard. "Martha—stay back." His chest ached. He knew what this meant. If they stayed, Martha would be dragged into this. Their quiet life was over.
One hunter lunged.
And then something in zethra broke…
He moved faster than Ezagone thought possible. His wings lashed out, feathers sharp as blades, knocking the man aside. A spear of light sliced across his shoulder, but the wound sealed almost instantly, black fire sizzling around it. It was almost like an impulsive action, something natural to him, something he was always meant to do.
The devil lady's voice purred in his mind. "Yes… that's it. Feel it. Wield it. Protect what is yours."
Zethra roared, his fist slamming into the floor. Shadows burst forth, flinging two hunters against the walls.
Ezagone stared. His brother looked terrifying—yet magnificent.
Still, there were too many of them.
The leader raised his glowing blade. "Submit, devil spawn. You cannot win."
"Win?" Zethra's grin widened, crimson eyes alight. "Didn't plan to win."
Ezagone blinked.
"Take Martha, you should both leave." Zethra said, jerking his chin toward the ba
Ezagone's heart lurched. "I'm not leaving you!"
Zethra's smirk softened. "Didn't say you'd leave me. Just said you'd save Martha while I distract these idiots. We're brothers, right? We don't ditch each other. Ever."
The hunters attacked again.
Ezagone moved without thinking. He grabbed Martha's trembling hands. "Come on! We'll meet him outside!"
"No—no!" she cried. "You'll be killed! Both of you!"
Ezagone forced a smile. "Relax, Martha. Zethra's too stubborn to die. He'd argue with Death itself until it gave up."
Zethra's laughter echoed as black feathers filled the room. "Damn right."
Ezagone dragged Martha out into the storm. His chest burned, not from exertion, but from something else—something stirring. For a heartbeat, he thought he felt heat between his shoulder blades, like wings waiting to unfurl.
But the sensation passed.
He stumbled into the rain, Martha clinging to him, and glanced back. Through the doorway, he saw Zethra standing tall, black wings spread wide, a devil against holy hunters.
And he thought—no matter what, no matter how hunted they became, he would never leave his brother's side.
Not for Heaven. Not for Hell. Not for anyone.
---
That night would become the first of many.
And though Ezagone did not yet know it, their journey had already begun.
Because once you sprout wings, there's no going back.