The night he tells you, the air feels different.
Not tense.
Not heavy.
Reverent.
Like something old has sat down quietly and is waiting to be acknowledged.
You're in the living room, lights off, only the faint glow of the city bleeding through the windows. You're sitting on the floor with your back against the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, exhausted from another brutal day of training.
Your body still hums with residual power. It feels like static beneath your skin—uncomfortable, but alive.
He stands a few feet away.
Watching you.
Not with the careful vigilance of a guardian.
But with something closer to awe.
"You've crossed a threshold," he says quietly.
You glance up. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he replies, "that something which was closed to you is no longer closed."
Your pulse ticks faster. "You're being vague on purpose."
"Yes," he admits. "Because this is dangerous to explain."
"Dangerous to who?"
"To me."
That makes you sit up.
"You're scaring me."
"I know."
He kneels in front of you, bringing himself level with your eyes. For a moment, the room seems to dim around him, as if reality itself is leaning in to listen.
"There are laws," he says. "Older than gods. Older than fear. They govern what beings like me are allowed to give and what mortals are allowed to take."
"And?" you whisper.
"And one of those laws is this: my name was not meant to be known."
Your throat goes dry.
"Why?"
"Because names are not labels," he says. "They are keys."
Your chest tightens.
"A name," he continues, "is a doorway into the true self. If someone knows it, they can call you, bind you, summon you, even destroy you."
You stare at him. "Then why are you telling me this?"
"Because," he replies softly, "you have unlocked the door to it."
A chill runs through you.
"What do you mean?"
"When you first felt me," he says, "you were empty. Open. A hollow vessel. That was how I could exist near you without tearing your mind apart."
You remember that first night. The terror. The presence. The way something had settled inside you like a shadow that refused to leave.
"But now," he continues, "you are not hollow anymore. You have filled that space with awareness. With will. With something that is… yours."
Your hands tremble.
"You've awakened," he says. "Spiritually. You have stepped into the part of yourself that can touch things beyond the physical."
"And that lets me… what?"
"Perceive me," he replies. "Not just as a presence. Not just as a force. But as a being."
The room feels suddenly too small.
"You're saying I can see you for what you really are."
"Yes."
"And that gives me access to your name."
"Yes."
You swallow hard. "And you don't want me to have it."
"I am terrified for you to have it," he admits.
Silence stretches between you.
Finally you whisper, "Tell me anyway."
His eyes flicker.
"Once you know it, I cannot take it back."
"I know."
"If you speak it aloud," he says, "I will be bound to you in ways even I do not fully control."
"I won't abuse it."
"That is what everyone says before they do."
You reach out slowly, gently touching his wrist. His skin is warm. Real.
"I'm not everyone."
For a long moment, he doesn't move.
Then he exhales, a sound like something ancient letting go.
"Very well," he says. "Listen carefully. This name is a sound. It is a meaning. But it has a form in your language."
Your heart pounds.
"My name," he whispers, "is Azael."
The word settles into the room.
Not loudly.
But deeply.
You feel it resonate in your chest, like a bell struck somewhere inside your bones.
Azael.
You repeat it silently, afraid to let it touch your tongue.
"What did I just do?" you ask.
"You claimed me," he replies quietly.
Your eyes widen. "I didn't mean—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "But intention is not what binds. Recognition is."
The world feels slightly tilted.
"So… you're mine now?"
He gives a small, sad smile. "I was already yours. You just didn't know it."
A shiver runs through you.
"What does this change?"
"Everything," he says. "And nothing."
"Explain."
"If you call my name," he says, "I will come. No matter where I am. No matter what I am doing. No matter what it costs me."
"That's… not fair."
"No," he agrees. "But it is the law."
You stare at him, stunned.
"And if I'm in danger?"
"Then I will burn the world to reach you," Azael says softly.
Fear and something else twist together in your chest.
"You're not supposed to say things like that."
"I am not supposed to let you know my name either."
You look away, overwhelmed.
"So that's it?" you murmur. "I can just… say it?"
"Yes."
"And you'll have to listen."
"Always."
You feel the weight of it then.
Not power.
Responsibility.
"You trusted me with this," you whisper.
"I did," he says. "Because if anyone deserves to know who I truly am… it is you."
Outside, thunder rolls distantly.
Somewhere far away—
Something hears his name spoken for the first time in centuries.
And it does not like it.