The Relic

The battlefield was silent now.

The angels had withdrawn, their celestial radiance vanishing beyond the storm-choked skies of Kur'thaal. The war cries had faded. The embers of battle still glowed in the cracks of the shattered earth, but no more blood was being spilled.

And yet, he did not leave.

He hovered just above the ruined ground, wings spread wide, breath slow and measured. He should have followed the others. He should have returned to Asphodel without hesitation.

But something held him back.

A whisper in his bones. A feeling in his chest. A pull.

His silver eyes swept over the wreckage. The broken weapons, the scorched remains of battle, the deep scars carved into the blackened stone.

And then—

Something glowed.

He landed carefully, his golden-touched wings folding behind him. The relic sat half-buried in the ash, pulsing faintly, as if responding to his presence.

It was small—but it called to him.

Kneeling, he reached out, brushing the soot away.

The metal beneath his fingertips was cold. Unfamiliar.

And then—

It hummed.

A pulse of energy rippled through him. It wasn't hostile. It wasn't painful. But it was wrong.

This relic was not of Asphodel.

And yet, it did not feel like it belonged entirely to Kur'thaal either.

What are you?

His fingers curled around it, lifting it carefully. The runes etched into its surface glowed faintly, shifting, shifting—as if alive.

A fragment of a lost power. A piece of something greater.

He didn't know why, but he knew this should not be here.

He was being watched.

From the jagged cliffs that loomed over the battlefield, a pair of red eyes narrowed.

The demon stood still, his body wrapped in shifting darkness, his runes dimmed to keep him hidden.

He had been following the battle.

And now—he was following him.

The angel.

For a long moment, he simply looked.

At the way the angel moved. The way the light caught on the golden edges of his pristine white wings. The way his silver hair gleamed even in the dying embers of war.

He had seen many angels before. Killed them. Fought them. Hated them.

But this one was different.

There was something unnatural about him. Something perfect.

A beauty that didn't belong to this world—or any world.

The demon exhaled slowly, keeping his aura pressed tight around him, resisting the urge to move. He didn't know why he stayed.

Maybe it was curiosity.

Maybe it was something else.

"Azarel!"

A sharp voice shattered the quiet.

The demon tensed. His red eyes flickered.

Azarel.

That was his name.

Azarel turned sharply, his grip tightening around the relic.

Seraphine landed beside him, her golden eyes blazing. Her armor was still smeared with battle, her blade still glowing with traces of celestial fire.

"What are you doing here alone?" she demanded, scanning their surroundings for any lingering threats.

Azarel straightened. "I—"

His gaze flickered toward the relic.

He wasn't sure how to explain it.

I felt something. It called to me.

None of those answers would satisfy her.

Seraphine frowned. Her wings rustled in agitation. "You vanished after the retreat. Do you know how reckless that was?"

Azarel exhaled, forcing himself to look at her directly. "I had to see something."

Seraphine's eyes sharpened. "See what?"

Azarel hesitated. Then, carefully, he lifted the relic.

Seraphine stilled.

Her gaze locked onto it, and for the first time since she arrived—something like hesitation flickered across her face.

She stepped forward, reaching out, but the moment her fingers hovered near it—she flinched.

The air around them shuddered.

Azarel saw it then. The briefest flicker of light, like something unseen reacting to her touch—rejecting her.

Seraphine pulled her hand back sharply.

"…That," she said, her voice quieter now, "is not ours."

Azarel's grip tightened. He already knew that.

He didn't know why, but—he felt like he wasn't supposed to be holding it either.

Seraphine's expression darkened. "We're leaving. Now."

Azarel hesitated. His gaze drifted—just for a moment.

To the cliffs above.

To the place where he thought—**felt—**that someone was watching him.

But when he looked—

There was nothing.

The wind howled against the crumbling spires, the battlefield still smoldering beneath the weight of its destruction.

If someone had been there—they were gone now.

Still, the unease in his chest refused to fade.

Seraphine didn't give him the chance to linger. She grasped his arm, pulling him away.

"This is reckless," she muttered as they took off into the skies. "We don't bring things from the Abyss back to Asphodel."

Azarel said nothing.

He didn't tell her that he didn't think this relic came from the Abyss at all.

Far Below, in the Ashen Darkness

Vael's fingers twitched.

The angel was gone now.

And yet, his presence remained.

Vael exhaled slowly, his breath uneven. His runes still pulsed faintly, reacting to the relic's energy even from a distance.

That had never happened before.

Not with any object. Not with anything.

So why—

Why did this one feel different?

His thoughts were interrupted by the shifting shadows behind him.

A presence. Familiar.

Lilith.

Her golden eyes gleamed softly in the darkness as she stepped forward, her presence effortlessly commanding.

She glanced toward where the angel had disappeared, then looked at him.

And she smiled.

"You followed him."

Vael said nothing.

Lilith chuckled. "Good."

She turned, walking deeper into the Abyss, her voice drifting through the still air.

"Let him take it."

Vael stiffened. "What?"

Lilith didn't stop.

"He was meant to find it," she murmured.

Vael frowned. "You planted it."

Lilith's smirk widened. "No, dear one." She cast him a knowing glance over her shoulder.

"I made sure Varasha did."

Vael's blood ran cold.

His runes flickered wildly.

He turned, looking toward the place where the angel had vanished.

Azarel had taken the relic.

And Lilith had wanted him to.

Why?

The Abyss offered no answers.

Only silence.