Errant Wings (BL)

In the vast expanse of the cosmos, a star reached its end. It was not a silent, peaceful death, but rather a golden explosion that spread like a heartbeat through the darkness. For thousands of years, it had burned furiously, lighting entire constellations. Now its essence was dissolving in a swirl of cosmic dust and light. Yet that star was not meant to vanish completely.

In the heart of its death, something new took shape.

From the collapsing energy arose a glow—small at first, then immense. Starlight swirled, condensing into a silhouette that gradually took form: radiant wings, a flawless body, a face shaped by the same beauty as the universe itself. And at the moment the star's final spark went out, he opened his eyes.

The heavens trembled.

Azarel had been born.

The Celestial Realm glowed with pure light. Its towers drifted above seas of clouds, connected by iridescent crystal arches. Angels of every rank and shape crossed golden pathways—some bearing hymns, others training with swords of light. But high above, where only the oldest angels could fly, rose the Hall of the Creators.

There, a circle of angels observed this newborn with reverence. Azarel, still enveloped in the energy of his birth, hovered in the center of the chamber, his wide eyes brimming with wonder.

"He's beautiful…" one angel murmured.

"His light is more intense than the others'," another replied.

Azarel's wings were unlike the typical pristine white ones. While predominantly white, the smallest feathers near their base shimmered with gold—like molten sunlight fused into each plume. They glowed with a latent power, still dormant.

"His birth is a sign."

"He will be a mighty warrior."

Azarel couldn't understand their words, but he felt the weight of their expectations. He had barely opened his eyes to this world, and already they had assigned him a destiny.

Though it was a masterpiece of perfection, the Celestial Realm was also a fortress.

Majestic columns lined the great training plaza, where hundreds of young angels learned the art of war. Some wielded spears forged from light; others practiced flying in formation, while the most gifted received instruction in harnessing divine energy.

Azarel stood off to the side, still coming to grips with this world into which he had been born. His senses overwhelmed him: the light was intense, and the sounds of wings around him melded into a harmonious roar. He felt an impulse to move, to spread his own wings and take flight, but he still did not understand his place.

"Don't just stand there."

The sharp voice made him turn.

Seraphine stood beside him, her keen eyes fixed on him. Tall, graceful, and exuding authority, she possessed three pairs of crescent-shaped wings folded with precise discipline.

"You're one of us. Learn quickly."

Azarel gazed at her without knowing how to respond.

"One of you…?"

Seraphine raised an eyebrow.

"You're an angel. And angels protect the light."

She turned toward the recruits in training and pointed at the horizon.

"Out there, in the darkness, are creatures that shouldn't exist. They're a plague on the universe, born of corruption and error. Their bodies are shadows, and their purpose is to devour all that is good."

Azarel followed her gaze, but he saw only the vastness of the sky.

"They are demons," Seraphine continued. "And you will stand on the front lines when the time comes."

Azarel lowered his gaze to his own hands. They were strong and perfect. His wings gleamed faintly behind him.

"Why?" he asked.

Seraphine's stare remained firm, but her expression softened slightly at his confusion.

"Because it's our duty. This realm is light, and light must never mix with shadow."

High above, the older angels watched the training with approval. For centuries, they had mounted incursions into the Abyss, eradicating demons that multiplied in the darkness. To them, war wasn't a possibility but a necessity.

Demons were a plague—a corruption that had to be destroyed before it spread too far.

One of the senior angels, dressed in resplendent robes, strode among the recruits and stopped before Azarel.

"You possess exceptional power. You can feel it, can't you?"

Azarel slowly nodded. He could indeed feel something deep inside him—a dormant energy whose full extent he could not yet grasp.

"You will learn to use it to protect the light," continued the older angel, "to destroy the darkness before it can take hold."

Azarel clenched his fists. Something in those words felt unchanging, inescapable. As if his purpose had been decided for him long before his birth.

"The war never ends," Seraphine whispered at his side. "And someday, you will be one of our greatest weapons."

Azarel raised his eyes to the infinite firmament.

Deep within his being, something unknown began to stir.