Fallen Light

The tower's stone walls were cool against Vael's back as he leaned against them, arms crossed, watching Azarel with something caught between amusement and curiosity. The angel—no, not an angel anymore—stood in the dim light of the chamber, adjusting the loose fabric Vael had given him to wear.

"This feels… strange," Azarel muttered, pulling at the dark tunic. His silver armor, woven from the remnants of stardust, lay discarded at his feet. The soft white cloak that had once hung from his waist was now folded neatly beside it—a symbol of Asphodel he could no longer claim.

Vael smirked. "You look like less of a glowing target now."

Azarel sighed, giving up on trying to adjust the clothes. They were simple, stitched from dark Abyssal threads, the kind demons wore to blend into the shifting shadows of Kur'thaal. His fingers traced the material absently before his gaze flickered up to Vael.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked, voice low.

Vael tilted his head, watching him. "You'd rather walk around shining like a star in the depths of the Abyss? You do realize where you are, right?"

Azarel exhaled, resigned. He reached up, beginning to unfasten the last piece of his celestial attire—the thin straps that held his chest plate in place. But then, as he moved to shrug it off, his fingers hesitated.

A faint color rose to his cheeks.

His silver eyes flicked toward Vael, then away.

"Turn around," he muttered.

Vael arched a brow. "Seriously?"

Azarel's shoulders tensed. "Just—just do it."

A chuckle rumbled in Vael's throat, but he pushed off the wall and turned, facing the cold stone. "Fine," he said, voice laced with amusement. "But if you needed help undressing, you could've just asked."

"Shut up," Azarel shot back.

Vael smirked, resting his palms against the rough surface in front of him. He heard the soft rustling of fabric behind him as Azarel changed, each movement deliberate, careful. He could picture it without turning—Azarel's bare back shifting as he pulled the tunic over his head, the lean strength in his body as he adjusted the way the dark fabric draped over his form.

The sound of his breathing, steady yet uncertain, filled the silence.

Vael exhaled slowly, focusing on the stone beneath his fingertips.

But then… he risked a glance.

Just a small one.

His head barely turned, his gaze flickering to the side for the briefest moment.

And there he was.

Azarel—without his golden armor, without the weight of Asphodel's light upon him—looked… different. Not weaker. Not lesser. Just different.

His body, sculpted with an ethereal kind of strength, carried no unnecessary weight. His skin, always kissed with a faint celestial glow, now stood stark against the dark fabric clinging to him. The sharp lines of his collarbones disappeared beneath the neckline, and his silver hair, ever untamed, cast soft shadows over his face.

Beautiful.

Vael swallowed hard, jerking his gaze away before he was caught.

"Are you done?" he asked, voice forcibly nonchalant.

Azarel huffed. "Yes."

Vael turned back around, letting his eyes sweep over him fully now, this time without hesitation. "Much better," he admitted.

Azarel rolled his eyes. "Glad to have your approval."

Vael only smirked.

They left the tower, stepping into the dim light of Kur'thaal's shifting skies. The vast landscape stretched before them, jagged terrain bathed in ember light, veins of molten rock pulsing beneath the surface like the heartbeat of the Abyss itself.

Azarel took a few steps forward—and immediately stumbled.

Vael caught him by the wrist before he could fully lose his balance.

The angel—no, the former angel—scowled. "Damn it."

Vael raised a brow. "Not used to walking without your wings, are you?"

Azarel exhaled sharply, irritated. "I've always had them. It's… unnatural to feel so off-balance."

Vael held onto his wrist a second longer than necessary before finally releasing him. "You'll get used to it."

Azarel muttered something under his breath but said nothing more.

They climbed the exterior of the tower, reaching one of the higher ledges that overlooked the land. From here, the city in the valley below came into view—a vast network of black stone structures, illuminated only by the occasional flicker of infernal light.

Vael gestured toward it. "That's the city of Kur'thaal. The center of everything here."

Azarel nodded, his silver gaze fixed on the horizon. His mind, however, was distracted—drifting between the weight of Vael's words and the unfamiliar sensation of his own body adjusting to this new existence.

Then, Vael's voice broke through his thoughts.

"You need a new name."

Azarel blinked, turning to face him. "What?"

Vael leaned against the stone railing, arms crossed. "You heard me. You can't go around using your angelic name here. 'Azarel' is too… Asphodel. Too recognizable."

Azarel frowned slightly, considering.

"What would you call me, then?" he asked, tilting his head.

Vael studied him for a long moment, then exhaled, gaze flickering toward the horizon. "In the old tongue of Kur'thaal, there's a word—Lioren."

Azarel watched him, silent, waiting for an explanation.

Vael's voice was softer when he spoke again. "It means fallen light." His crimson eyes met Azarel's silver ones, something unreadable in his expression. "I think it fits."

Azarel inhaled sharply.

Fallen light.

The name settled in his chest, heavy and yet… right.

Not a condemnation. Not an insult.

A truth.

He was not what he once was. He had fallen—not in the way Asphodel would have defined it, not in disgrace or failure, but in choice. In defiance. In something new.

He rolled the name over in his mind. Lioren.

It tasted foreign, but not unwelcome.

He exhaled slowly, nodding once. "Lioren."

Vael's lips quirked slightly. "So you accept it?"

Azarel—Lioren—tilted his head. "Do I have a choice?"

Vael chuckled. "Not really."

A beat of silence passed.

Then, softly—Lioren spoke.

"Thank you."

Vael blinked, as if caught off guard by the sincerity of the words.

But he only smirked, shaking his head. "Don't thank me yet, Lioren." The name rolled off his tongue easily, as if it had always belonged to him. "You haven't even seen the worst of this place."

Lioren huffed a quiet laugh. "I look forward to it."

Vael grinned. "Then let's not waste any more time."

And with that, the former angel took his first step forward—not as Azarel, the warrior of Asphodel.

But as Lioren, the fallen light of Kur'thaal.