Errant Wings (BL)

Despite Seraphine's stern reprimand, Azarel could not forget the relic he'd found in Kur'thaal. As the weeks turned into months, the intensity of war preparation in Asphodel only grew. Drills became more frequent, the angels' discussions more urgent, and the Celestial Realm's vigilance unrelenting. Yet, day after day, Azarel returned to a secluded colonnade in the upper spires—far from watchful eyes—to contemplate the relic in silence.

At first, he merely turned it over in his hands, tracing its delicate runes with tentative fingers. Over time, he discovered that by focusing his thoughts on it, he could catch vague, shifting glimpses of Kur'thaal's desolate landscape. No portal formed, and no crossing took place; the relic acted like a muted mirror, offering faint illusions of craggy outcroppings and drifting embers in the distance.

Each time Azarel invoked this vision, he felt a peculiar ache in his chest, an inexplicable yearning to understand that realm of shadows. Though he told himself it was only curiosity, the call of the relic gnawed at him, a relentless whisper echoing in the corners of his mind.

All the while, Asphodel's legion of angels trained for the looming conflict against Kur'thaal. Every dawn, Azarel reported to the radiant courtyards for mandatory drills. His presence never went unnoticed. Towering, bare-chested except for the golden armor on his shoulders, Azarel cut a striking figure with his white wings edged in gold. Many younger angels looked upon him with awe, captivated by his beauty and fabled power.

"He's the one born from the final spark of a dying star," they whispered.

"Did you see his wings up close? They shine like molten gold."

Azarel, for his part, found these praises both flattering and burdensome. He had grown increasingly uneasy with the role Asphodel expected him to fulfill: a paragon of perfection, an unwavering shield of the light. Often, after training, small groups of admirers would gather around him, murmuring adoration and awe at his every feature. Their hushed hymns to his splendor only magnified the turmoil in his heart.

When not surrounded by fervent admirers or locked in combat practice, Azarel sought the solace of the colonnade. The gentle hush of the wind, the soft glow of Asphodel's perpetual daylight, and the relic's quiet hum became his refuge. There, he reflected on the war he was training to wage and the mysterious realm his visions revealed.

"I've been gifted with strength—and a destiny to fight," he mused in a half-whisper. "But if all I do is destroy the darkness, am I certain it's truly evil? Or is there more to Kur'thaal than we're taught?"

At times, his memory drifted back to the day he retrieved the relic. A subtle knot of fear and intrigue twisted in his belly when he recalled how smoothly it seemed to resonate with his very life force. If he wasn't careful, that resonance might consume his every waking thought.

One late afternoon, after an exhausting training session, Azarel stood by a marble fountain. A handful of young angels cautiously approached, their eyes shining with a blend of excitement and veneration.

"We... we wanted to say how incredible you are, Azarel," one of them murmured. "You're living proof that Asphodel's light stands above all else."

Another angel extended a wreath of soft, glowing flowers, crafted from the orchard of living light near the citadel. "Please accept this as a token of our admiration."

Azarel forced a gentle smile as he accepted the gift. But inwardly, a pang of unease clawed at him. How could they revere him so, when his heart was plagued by questions about the nature of light and darkness? He felt like a statue of perfection on a pedestal he had never asked to stand upon.

Night fell rarely in Asphodel—true darkness was almost unknown there—yet sometimes a muted twilight settled in, offering a small taste of calm. In these moments, Azarel would return to his secluded spot, cradle the relic, and permit himself another series of fleeting visions of Kur'thaal. The wastelands, swirling embers, and looming silhouettes beckoned in half-formed images.

Though he never crossed any threshold, never saw another being in these hazy illusions, the pull was undeniable. Each glimpse left him breathless, torn between a sense of foreboding and a deep, inexplicable pull of fascination.

"Why does it feel like something in Kur'thaal is waiting for me?" he wondered, clutching the relic until its runes pressed against his palm.

Months passed in this pattern—a delicate balance between duty and a clandestine desire to explore what lay beyond the limit of Asphodel. Seraphine and the other commanders noticed Azarel's occasional absences, but no one suspected the relic's role. To them, he remained the rising star among the angels, destined to wield his power in the war that loomed on the horizon.

Yet inside Azarel's heart, doubt grew, mingling with curiosity. The relic's quiet hum became the soundtrack to his restless thoughts, while the unwavering praise of his peers felt like a chain binding him to a destiny he wasn't sure he believed in anymore.

And somewhere beyond the golden boundaries of his realm, a demon with eyes the color of embers existed—a presence Azarel had almost forgotten. Soon, though, that presence would become impossible to overlook, as fate drew them closer to an encounter that neither realm could predict.