Kur’thaal

The air of Kur'thaal pressed against Azarel's skin like a living thing, heavy and searing, filled with the scent of sulfur and burning embers. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before—not like the holy, ever-lightened air of Asphodel, nor the battlefield where he had first glimpsed this realm. This was not war.

This was something else.

Azarel stood at the edge of a crumbling ridge, gazing at the land that now stretched endlessly before him. The abyssal sky churned overhead, streaked with veins of molten light that cracked and reformed as if the heavens themselves were breaking apart. The ground beneath his feet was rough, uneven, pulsing with heat from deep within the earth. There was no softness here. No divine glow. Only darkness, only shifting shadows, only a world that did not welcome him—but did not reject him either.

He exhaled slowly. This is where I am now.

Behind him, Vael was silent, his presence tense and unreadable. Azarel could feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken conflict simmering beneath his skin. Vael's aura had been flickering erratically since they had arrived—violent crimsons, deep violets, flashes of ember-bright gold. He had yet to find stillness.

Neither of them had spoken since their last conversation.

Azarel finally turned, meeting Vael's gaze. The demon had been staring at him the entire time, his expression shadowed beneath the shifting light. His runic markings pulsed subtly along his bare skin, restless, his muscles coiled with a tension that refused to leave him.

He's angry.

Azarel could feel it in the air between them, in the rigid way Vael held himself, in the sharp flickers of heat that radiated off his aura. He had known it was coming—the storm that had been building from the moment they left Asphodel. Still, he waited, letting Vael be the one to break the silence.

It didn't take long.

Vael's voice was rough when it finally came. "You shouldn't be here."

Azarel's expression remained calm. "I am."

Vael let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "You don't get it, do you?" He took a step closer, his presence an inferno. "You don't belong here, Azarel. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Azarel didn't move. "I know exactly what I've done."

Vael's jaw clenched, frustration sparking in his eyes. "You left. You just—left. You threw away everything."

Vael's entire body went rigid.

His mind rebelled against the words, against the truth of them, against the way they made his pulse roar in his ears. This isn't how this was supposed to happen. Azarel was supposed to stay in his golden kingdom, untouchable, untouching. He wasn't supposed to follow him here. He wasn't supposed to throw away Asphodel for a demon.

He wasn't supposed to choose him.

Vael's breath came rough. "You—" He forced the words through clenched teeth, shaking his head. "You don't know what you've done."

Azarel was silent for a moment, then, his voice calm. "Then show me."

Vael stilled.

Azarel stepped even closer, close enough that Vael could feel the unnatural warmth of his skin against the Abyss's cold. "Show me what Kur'thaal really is. Show me what I left Heaven for."

Vael let out a breath, harsh and uneven. This idiot.

Azarel had no idea what he had walked into. He had no idea what awaited him in the depths of the Abyss—what Nethros would do if he saw him, what Lilith had planned, what kind of things thrived in the shadows that even demons feared.

But if Azarel wanted to know—

Then Vael would make him understand.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Fine," he muttered. "You want to see Kur'thaal? You want to know what you gave up your paradise for?"

He turned sharply, his aura still burning, his expression unreadable. "Then keep up, angel."

Without another word, he took off, disappearing into the darkness, the wind pulling at his hair, his runes lighting the air around him.

Azarel didn't hesitate.

He followed.

The heat of Kur'thaal pressed against them, thick and unwavering, as Vael led Azarel deeper into the Abyss. Their flight had been silent at first—Azarel adjusting to the strange, weightless sensation of being truly free, and Vael struggling to process what the angel's presence now meant.

It was only when they approached the remnants of the old city, its darkened ruins bathed in the red glow of distant embers, that Vael spoke.

"This is where I spend most of my time." His voice was even, but there was a note of something softer beneath it.

Azarel followed his gaze, scanning the twisted structures of black stone and jagged spires. "It's… different," he admitted. Asphodel had been light, grand, open. Kur'thaal was the opposite—shadowed, broken, yet strangely alive in its own way.

Vael smirked. "You don't have to lie. It's nothing like your perfect Heaven."

Azarel tilted his head, considering. "No," he murmured. "But I think I prefer it."

Vael's smirk faded slightly, his fingers curling at his sides. He said nothing as they reached the base of an old tower, one of the few structures still standing strong among the ruins. It loomed above them, sharp and dark, its edges glimmering faintly with ancient runic inscriptions.

Vael landed first, stepping through the arched entrance. "Come inside."

Azarel hesitated before following. The interior of the tower was exactly as he expected—rugged, functional, yet unmistakably Vael's. Weapons lined the walls, old maps were scattered across a stone table, and the scent of molten rock and aged parchment filled the space. It was a soldier's home. A warrior's sanctuary.

Azarel turned slightly as Vael walked to the far end of the chamber. "Your wings," the demon said suddenly, not turning to face him. "They can't stay like that."

Azarel frowned, glancing at his own back. His pristine white wings—so stark against the dark of Kur'thaal—were still fully extended, a luminous beacon in the Abyss. He exhaled slowly. "You're right."

Vael finally looked at him. "I can help."

Azarel raised an eyebrow. "How?"

Vael stepped closer, and for the first time since they arrived, his expression grew serious. "Runes."

Azarel's gaze flickered over the glowing markings that ran along Vael's arms, shifting and pulsing with his power. "You mean like the ones you use?"

"Not exactly." Vael gestured toward a small, stone-carved bench. "Sit."

Azarel didn't move. "Explain first."

Vael sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "They won't remove your wings," he clarified. "They'll store them. Hide them. Like a seal."

Azarel's wings twitched instinctively. "And?"

"It will hurt." Vael's tone was blunt. "The runes have to be carved into your skin, and the magic of the Abyss is… different from yours."

Azarel studied him carefully. "You've done this before?"

Vael smirked faintly. "Not exactly. But I know how to do it."

A long silence stretched between them. Then—slowly, deliberately—Azarel reached up and unclasped the golden plates of his armor, letting them fall away. The cool air of the tower touched his bare skin, and for a moment, he could feel Vael's gaze trailing over him, lingering.

Vael exhaled sharply, forcing his focus back to the task. He moved to retrieve a small dagger, the blade infused with the energy of his own runes, and turned back toward Azarel.

"Come closer."

Azarel obeyed, stepping toward him. Their chests nearly brushed, the heat between them palpable. Vael's breathing slowed. The golden light of the angel's skin, the way his muscles tensed slightly under his touch—it was… distracting.

He ignored it. Or at least, he tried to.

"This will sting," Vael murmured, his fingers ghosting over the smooth expanse of Azarel's back, searching for the right place to carve the symbols. Azarel didn't move, but he felt him tense slightly under his touch.

"Just do it," the angel muttered.

Vael's lips curled faintly. "As you wish."

Then, he started.

The first incision was shallow, precise, just enough for the rune's glow to emerge. Azarel's jaw clenched, his breath sharp, but he did not make a sound. Vael continued, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he traced the markings, each line sinking into the angel's flesh like threads of burning ink.

Azarel's wings shuddered, reacting to the process, but he held still. The pain was there—dull at first, then sharp, then dull again. But more than that, he felt something deeper, something ancient weaving into his body, settling in his bones.

Vael, for his part, was focused, but his mind betrayed him in flickering moments.

The warmth of Azarel's skin beneath his fingers. The way his muscles twitched slightly under the blade. The steady rise and fall of his breath.

It was… maddening.

He clenched his teeth, forcing his thoughts away. This wasn't the time.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last rune was complete. Vael stepped back, exhaling, and Azarel flexed his shoulders.

The reaction was immediate.

The runes ignited with a soft, dark glow, sinking fully into his skin. His wings shimmered, flickering like light bending through glass—then, suddenly, they vanished.

Azarel exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. The weight was gone, the familiar sensation of his wings now hidden beneath the runes' seal. He reached back instinctively, but there was nothing there.

Vael nodded in approval. "It worked."

Azarel turned to him, his silver eyes unreadable. Then, after a beat, he smirked slightly. "You didn't just do that so you could touch me, did you?"

Vael's expression faltered for a fraction of a second before he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, angel."

Azarel chuckled, stretching his shoulders, adjusting to the new sensation. "I'll take your word for it."

But as they stood there, the silence between them was charged with something unspoken.

Something neither of them was ready to name.

And for now—that was enough.