Wounded Wings

The halls of Asphodel had never known true silence—not the kind that descended when Seraphine returned.

She did not fly in, radiant and defiant as always. She collapsed through the portal, her wings shredded, her body scorched with strange energy no healer could identify. Light bled from her wounds, but it did not regenerate. Her skin, once unmarred, now bore fractures that shimmered like glass—fragile, irreversible.

Angels rushed to her aid. Cries rang out.

"She's hurt—get the healers!"

But when Queen Rishe arrived, flanked by Claude and Brisco, the room fell quiet once more.

Seraphine—one of their strongest, their unwavering, their untouchable—lay broken before them.

Brisco knelt beside her. "These wounds… they weren't made by demonic magic."

Claude stepped forward, his gaze narrowing. "They were made by light."

Leya arrived moments later, and her breath hitched. "Amplified light," she whispered. "Only one being could do this."

They all knew.

Azarel.

He had crossed a line they didn't know existed.

And now, Asphodel understood something too late:

They had vastly underestimated him.

Queen Rishe lifted one hand, her violet eyes scanning the crowd of angels that had gathered in panic and awe. Her voice was soft, but absolute.

"Leave us."

No one questioned her.

Not when her tone cut like a blade. Not when Seraphine—Seraphine—lay crumpled and bloodied before their eyes.

The angels backed away in a wave of rustling wings and concerned glances. Within moments, the chamber was empty—save for Rishe, Brisco, Nathaniel, and the broken commander on the marble floor.

Brisco stood slowly. "We need to hear it from you," he said, voice uncharacteristically gentle. "What happened?"

Nathaniel's expression was tight, his fists clenched at his sides. "Was it him?"

Seraphine didn't answer at first.

She sat upright with effort, her entire body trembling from the exertion. Her wings, once pristine crescents of glowing white, now hung limp and burned—fractured at the edges, blackened in places where the light refused to return.

Her voice was hoarse. "He… didn't hesitate."

Brisco leaned forward. "You found him?"

She nodded.

Rishe stepped closer, regal and composed, yet her eyes betrayed a flicker of something ancient—something concerned. "Tell us everything."

Seraphine looked away, staring at the marble veins beneath her. "I found him in the outer cliffs of Kur'thaal. Vael was with him."

Nathaniel's expression darkened.

"I tried to talk to him. I told him to come back. I begged him." Her voice cracked on the last word. "He listened. He did. But not as Azarel. Not anymore."

Brisco's jaw tensed. "What did he say?"

"That he wouldn't return if it meant leaving Vael behind." She laughed bitterly, and the sound cut like glass. "He asked me if we would ever accept Vael. And when I couldn't answer… he made his choice."

A silence heavier than stone settled over the chamber.

Then Rishe asked, "You fought."

Seraphine nodded, eyes filled with something she couldn't name. "He didn't want to. He tried to stop me. But when I attacked—he didn't hold back."

Her hands curled tightly in her lap. "He was stronger than I've ever seen him. Stronger than I thought possible. He wasn't just using light anymore."

Brisco knelt again, his voice low. "Amplification?"

"Not just that," she whispered. "He used his surroundings, sound, force, emotion… He amplified everything. His power overwhelmed me—like I was drowning in a storm I couldn't touch. I don't know how I made it out."

Nathaniel's face twisted into something unreadable—part rage, part disbelief. "Are you saying there's no one in Asphodel who can stop him now?"

Seraphine didn't answer.

Her silence was the loudest answer of all.

Brisco stood, eyes wide with calculation. "If he's figured out how to channel his gift fully… and if he's no longer bound by Asphodel's rules or expectations…"

"He's not the same," Seraphine said quietly. "Not just in power. In spirit. He… chose Vael. Not Kur'thaal. Not the war. Him."

Rishe stepped beside her, voice steady. "And now?"

Seraphine's eyes shone with unshed tears. "Now… I don't know who he is anymore."

Nathaniel finally spoke again, low and grim. "Then we must prepare for the possibility that the next time we face Azarel—"

"Lioren," Seraphine corrected bitterly. "That's what they call him now. Lioren."

Rishe's gaze didn't waver. "—that the next time we face him, we may be facing something Asphodel has never seen before."

Brisco whispered, "A force beyond prophecy."

The three stood in the quiet chamber, watching Seraphine—once their strongest—shattered by the one they had once called brother.

And above them, the judgment of Asphodel trembled.