Errant Wings (BL)

Kur'thaal was not a wasteland devoid of order—it was a realm governed by an ancient, unwritten law of survival. Strength ruled above all else, and those who could not fend for themselves either perished or became subservient to those who could. Unlike the pristine structure of Asphodel, where duty and purpose were assigned at birth, demons forged their own paths—sometimes with blood, sometimes with cunning, but never without cost.

At the highest ranks of Kur'thaal's fractured society stood the powerful demon lords—beings of immense strength who carved their own dominions from the Abyss. Beneath them, legions of lesser demons, warbands, and sorcerers vied for favor or sought to overthrow their superiors in a brutal game of dominance.

At the bottom of this chaotic structure were the forsaken ones—weak, malformed creatures who lurked in the deep caverns, scavenging and hiding from both angels and their own kin. These wretches were the remnants of failed experiments, outcasts from demon bloodlines, or those too feeble to claim power for themselves.

Among all these, however, one figure did not fit within the mold of Kur'thaal's hierarchy.

Vael.

Vael had always been different.

Born without wings, neither angel nor true demon, he had never sought to rule, nor did he relish unnecessary bloodshed. Yet, despite his lack of aggression, no demon dared call him weak. His body, etched with shimmering runes, housed a power few understood and many feared. His magic was his own, drawn from neither Asphodel nor Kur'thaal, and the way he moved, fought, and vanished into shadows made him both respected and distrusted.

Some saw him as a phantom. Others, as a reminder of what they could never be.

But the truth was simpler—Vael had never truly belonged anywhere.

Tonight, he walked the streets of the Abyss, if they could even be called streets. Narrow, winding paths carved into the rock twisted unpredictably through the crumbling cityscape of Kur'thaal's inner territories. Markets of crude metal and bone lay beneath archways dripping with molten slag, where demons bartered for weapons, spells, or slaves. The scent of burning sulfur mixed with iron filled the air, and distant screams or laughter echoed from unseen places.

Vael moved through it all like a shadow, his bare feet making no sound on the cracked stone. His red eyes flickered in the dim glow of the city's eternal embers, and though many demons stopped to watch him pass, none dared to speak.

He was looking for something.

Or rather, he was trying to forget something.

He had not spoken of it—not to Lilith, not to Nethros, not even to himself.

That pull he had felt last night.

It had awakened something in him.

A thread had been tugged, something deep in his core, and he couldn't ignore it. He had spent the entire day wandering through Kur'thaal, attempting to shake off the strange sensation that had lingered in his runes ever since the portal had flickered open.

He knew it had not been a mistake.

Someone had touched the Abyss.

And they had touched him.

"Vael."

A voice pulled him from his thoughts.

He turned to see a merchant demon, an old, hunched figure with four arms and a face concealed behind a cracked iron mask. His wares were spread across a rickety table—small vials of cursed blood, shards of fallen angel blades, runestones stolen from deep within the Abyss.

Vael regarded him cautiously. "You know my name, yet I don't know yours."

The merchant chuckled, a dry rasp of a sound. "Names are chains, boy. You wear yours like a loose thread, always ready to be pulled away."

Vael narrowed his eyes. He had no patience for riddles tonight. "What do you want?"

The merchant tilted his head. "The better question is—what do you want? You look lost. And demons who are lost tend to find themselves... in very dangerous places."

For a moment, Vael considered ignoring him, but something about the old demon unsettled him. He was about to leave when the merchant murmured:

"I've felt it too. The shift in the air. Something touched our world last night. Something... different."

Vael froze.

His hand curled into a fist, and for the first time, uncertainty flickered in his crimson gaze.

The merchant laughed again, softer this time. "You see? Even you cannot deny it. Something is changing, Vael. And I think it has already started pulling you toward it."

Vael left the market with his thoughts in turmoil.

The moment he had stepped away, the pull had strengthened.

It was as if the Abyss itself was whispering to him, nudging him toward something unseen. And he knew—knew—that whatever had happened last night would happen again.

He should have felt anger. A breach into Kur'thaal was a threat. If an angel had opened a portal, it was likely a precursor to an attack.

But that wasn't what unnerved him.

What unsettled him was the fact that when the connection had formed—when the world had trembled and his runes had answered the call—

It had not felt like an invasion.

It had felt like an invitation.

Vael clenched his jaw, his breath coming faster. He turned his gaze to the ashen sky, where the perpetual twilight of Kur'thaal stretched endlessly above.

Somewhere beyond it, in the unreachable radiance of Asphodel, someone had touched the Abyss and left a mark on him.

He needed to find out who.

And why.

Because whatever this was…

It wasn't over.