Errant Wings (BL)

The air in Asphodel burned with tension.

Vael stood in the center of the shattered plaza, his breath still uneven, his muscles still tense. Blood stained the marble beneath him—angelic blood.

The bodies of the three fallen angels had not been moved.

The others stood frozen, wings spread in defensive formations, their weapons poised. Their eyes flicked between Vael—a demon standing in Heaven—and Azarel, who stood in front of him.

A shield.

A barrier.

A betrayal.

Seraphine's voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Step aside, Azarel."

Her words were sharp, but her tone was controlled. For now.

Azarel did not move.

The golden light of Asphodel burned across his shoulders, catching the gilded edges of his wings, reflecting off his skin. His silver eyes did not waver.

Vael felt the shift before he saw it.

The energy around Azarel changed.

It wasn't an attack.

It wasn't even aggression.

It was something heavier. Something that sent a pulse of pressure through the air, something that made even the strongest of the angels hesitate.

Vael watched them falter.

He felt the weight of their hesitation, the unspoken fear creeping into their posture, the realization that Azarel was not backing down.

His wings flexed—not as a threat, but as a silent challenge.

Seraphine's grip tightened around the hilt of her blade. "Azarel."

He didn't answer her. His voice was steady, unwavering, when he finally spoke.

"I don't feel that he is evil."

The words echoed.

A ripple through the gathered crowd.

Some angels reacted with confusion. Others with outright anger.

Seraphine's lips parted slightly, her breath slow, measured—as if she had not expected him to say that.

Her eyes flickered toward Vael, who stood perfectly still.

Then—Brisco stepped forward.

He had been silent until now, his deep-blue edged wings folding neatly at his back, his analytical gaze watching everything unfold.

His voice was calmer, but no less firm.

"He already killed three of us."

The weight of those words settled heavily into the air.

Vael felt it—the sudden shift in their stance, the renewed certainty in their anger.

It was true. He had killed them.

Not out of cruelty.

Not out of malice.

But no one cared why.

Vael clenched his jaw, his runes burning faintly at his skin.

Still—Azarel did not move.

Seraphine exhaled slowly. "This is madness. Azarel, you are defending a creature of Kur'thaal, an enemy—"

"I am standing in front of him." His voice was smooth, unreadable. "That is not the same as defending him."

A pause.

Leya had been watching quietly this whole time, her emerald-green eyes flicking between them.

She had said nothing.

Now, she did.

"Then why?"

Azarel's fingers curled slightly at his sides.

For the first time, Vael felt something strange.

Azarel wasn't just stalling.

He was thinking.

Choosing his words carefully.

His voice, when it came, was steady.

"We know nothing of how he got here." His silver eyes swept across them. "And we will know nothing if you kill him now."

Seraphine's expression hardened.

"We do not need to know."

"You do."

Azarel's voice rang clearer.

Stronger.

And for the first time, Vael saw doubt creep into their faces.

Vael was nervous.

This is wrong.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and unexpected.

He should be fighting.

He should be trying to escape.

He should be proving them right—that he was everything they thought he was.

Instead—he stood there.

Frozen.

Watching.

Azarel wasn't attacking.

He wasn't pleading.

He was simply standing his ground.

Deny me. Condemn me. Fight me.

But don't just—stand there.

Vael's fists clenched.

He hated this.

He hated the way the air felt, the weight of it pressing against him, crushing his ribs like an unseen force.

He hated that Azarel wasn't choosing a side.

But worse—he hated that, somehow, he was.

The Proposal That Changes Everything

Azarel took a breath.

Then, with a finality that settled over the entire battlefield, he spoke:

"If you do not trust him to walk free, then imprison me with him."

Silence.

Pure, absolute silence.

Even Vael's breath hitched.

Seraphine's expression froze.

"What?"

Azarel lifted his chin slightly. Unmoving. Unwavering.

"You think him dangerous." His gaze flickered to Vael for the briefest moment before returning to the gathered angels. "Fine. Then imprison him. But I will go with him."

Seraphine's wings flared, stunned. "You would—"

"I will speak with him myself."

It wasn't a request.

It was a decision.

Brisco looked troubled.

Seraphine looked furious.

And Leya… smiled.

She took a single step forward, her emerald-edged wings shimmering under the celestial glow.

Her voice was soft, but measured.

"A wise proposal."

Seraphine turned toward her sharply. "Leya—"

"We have only assumptions," Leya continued smoothly. "And assumptions alone should never be the foundation for judgment."

Brisco sighed through his nose, but nodded.

Even Seraphine—as much as she hated it—could not argue against Leya.

Not when she spoke with wisdom.

Not when her sight of the future carried so much weight.

Azarel held his ground.

His expression did not change.

But Vael saw something shift behind his silver eyes.

He had won.

The decision was made.

They were being taken.

Vael did not struggle.

Azarel did not falter.

They were led away, through the shining halls of Asphodel, toward a place that had not been touched in thousands of years.

A prison that should not exist.

And as they walked, side by side, neither of them spoke.

But Vael's mind was racing.

He did not know what he had expected.

But it was not this.

Not Azarel choosing to fall with him.

Not Azarel standing between him and death.

And now—

Now, they were trapped together.

And neither of them knew what would happen next..