Errant Wings (BL)

Azarel had known Seraphine long enough to recognize when something was wrong.

She was waiting for him.

Not with her usual rigid stance, not with the cold fury she had wielded in the Council.

But calm.

That was what unsettled him the most.

She stood alone on the balcony of the eastern spire, the golden horizon stretching endlessly behind her. For a moment, she seemed almost at peace—almost.

But Azarel knew better.

"You're avoiding me."

Seraphine's voice was quiet, measured.

Azarel hesitated before stepping forward, his wings shifting slightly. He didn't answer.

She exhaled through her nose.

"I am not here to argue with you."

Azarel's silver gaze flickered toward her.

"Then why are you here?"

Seraphine turned her head slightly, studying him.

"Because I am trying to understand."

There was something unspoken between them, something that had always been there but had never needed words.

They had fought together. Killed together. Stood side by side when the darkness threatened to consume Asphodel.

Seraphine had never questioned him before.

And yet, here they were.

"I don't trust him," she said plainly.

She didn't need to say his name.

Azarel looked away.

Seraphine exhaled.

"But I trust you."

That made Azarel freeze.

"Seraphine—"

"Let me help you."

Her voice was quiet, genuine.

Azarel's jaw tensed.

Help.

What did that even mean?

What was there to help with, when he didn't even know what he was doing?

Seraphine continued, softer now.

"You don't have to carry this alone, Azarel. Whatever this is—whatever you're feeling—" she hesitated, "you can tell me."

Azarel's breath came slower.

She had never spoken to him like this before.

Not as a commander. Not as a warrior.

But as something closer to a friend.

And for the first time, Azarel wanted to tell her.

Wanted to say that he didn't know why he had touched Vael's face, why he couldn't stop thinking about him, why the thought of losing him made something in his chest tighten painfully.

But he didn't.

Because how could he?

Before he could answer—before he could even try—a shift in the air made them both turn.

A shadow moved at the edge of the corridor.

Not a shadow.

Fahy.

She stepped forward silently, her ethereal form drifting like a whisper.

She did not speak aloud.

She never did.

But when her voice slipped into their minds, it was not gentle.

"I heard you."

Azarel's entire body went still.

Seraphine's expression darkened.

"Fahy," she said sharply, "this is not—"

"I heard him."

Azarel's breath caught.

The way she said it—soft, deliberate, certain.

As if she had seen something neither of them had.

Seraphine straightened, her wings shifting.

"Explain yourself."

Fahy's gaze did not move from Azarel.

Then—her voice entered his mind alone.

"You have already chosen."

Azarel's heart stopped.

Fahy turned away without another word, disappearing into the halls of Asphodel as swiftly as she had come.

The silence left behind was deafening.

Seraphine's gaze burned into him.

"Azarel."

He did not answer.

Because he did not know what to say.

Because he wanted to cry.

Wanted to break apart in that moment, to sink to his knees and bury his face in his hands.

Because it was true.

And he wasn't ready to admit it.

Not to Seraphine.

Not to Fahy.

Not even to himself.