The Call of Darkness

Alone, Azarel ventured into the secluded corner of the forest, the dense trees parting like a curtain to reveal a quiet, untouched clearing. The soft rustle of leaves filled the air, and for a fleeting moment, he felt an eerie silence—an emptiness—as though he was the only being in the entire realm. His heart raced slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of the unsettling events that had weighed on him.

Then, he saw it.

There, in the distance, a faint flicker—a shadow. A shape so familiar yet so impossible to grasp. His breath caught in his throat, a knot of tension tightening in his chest.

His demon, the only one he could only think about. 

The same shadowy figure he had seen in his vision— that demon whose presence had disturbed him, whose essence haunted the corners of his mind, was standing before him. And this time, it wasn't just an illusion, nor was it a fleeting glimpse. No. This time, the figure was real. Tangible. Close. And Azarel's heart pounded, each beat almost painfully loud as it reverberated through his chest.

His wings unfurled instinctively behind him, each beat stretching the air around him, as he stepped forward. He couldn't explain it, but he was drawn toward that figure. The demon moved with fluid grace, his movements almost hypnotic, like a dance that Azarel could not look away from. His muscles rippled with each step, his body carved like a living work of art—built for destruction, yet carrying a strange beauty that pulled at Azarel in ways he couldn't define.

Azarel took another step forward, but just as his hand reached out, the figure turned.

Their eyes locked.

The world around Azarel seemed to freeze in place. His breath caught in his throat, the air heavy, thick with the weight of the moment. The faint rustle of wind faded into silence as he stood there, motionless. The pull between them, that undeniable connection, vibrated in the air. It was a magnetic force, drawing them together despite the impossible gulf that lay between them. For a heartbeat, Azarel felt as though he could see into the very core of the demon, felt something deep stir in his own chest—a recognition, a longing.

But before Azarel could take another step, the vision shattered like glass. The demon, vanished into the trees, his shadow slipping away, leaving only the eerie silence behind him. The pulse in Azarel's chest thudded painfully in his ears, and his breath came in shallow gasps as he stood alone in the clearing.

The forest around him felt distant, unreal. His mind whirled in a fog of confusion, his thoughts racing as the echo of the demon's presence lingered in his mind. What had just happened? What was that pull? Why did his heart race like this every time his thoughts drifted back to that fleeting encounter?

The wind whispered softly through the leaves, a calming lullaby to the war-torn soul inside him. He stood still for a long moment, the relic still warm in his hand, its surface faintly glowing as if reacting to the emotions stirring within him. He should return to the party, to Seraphine and the others. He had a duty to fulfill. Yet, some force inside him—some inexplicable feeling—urged him to stay. To understand.

With a deep breath, he turned, walking back toward the bustling festivities, but before he could take another step, a voice stopped him.

"Azarel?"

The voice was soft, laced with concern yet tinged with curiosity. Azarel turned sharply, startled by the sudden interruption. His gaze met Seraphine's. She stood just beyond the trees, her presence as graceful and composed as always, yet there was a glimmer of worry in her golden eyes.

"You look troubled," she said softly, stepping closer to him. Her voice was warm, concerned, but also sharp with the edge of command she always carried. "Everything alright?"

Azarel hesitated, his heart still pounding, the lingering uncertainty clouding his mind. How could he explain the conflicting emotions swirling inside him? How could he tell her about the demon, the strange pull that seemed to tug at his very soul?

"I'm fine," Azarel replied, offering her a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Just... needed a moment alone."

Seraphine's brow furrowed slightly, and she studied him carefully, sensing that something was off. But she didn't press him further. Instead, she nodded, her gaze softening.

"Well, the others are waiting. We should go back. The night is still young, and there's much to celebrate."

Azarel nodded, still clutching the relic in his hand, its weight heavy with the mysteries it held. He followed Seraphine back to the gathering, his mind not fully present. The festivities buzzed around him, but his thoughts drifted back to the fleeting image of Vael. It lingered, like a shadow on the edge of his perception.

And despite the celebration around him, Azarel couldn't shake the unease in his chest. The sensation of having seen the demon, of having felt that impossible connection, didn't fade. Instead, it pulsed beneath his skin, an ever-present reminder of something he couldn't yet grasp.

Back in his alcove, Azarel found himself alone again. He sank into the edge of his bed, his fingers automatically tracing the runes on the relic. The faint glow of the markings illuminated the quiet room, casting eerie shadows against the stone walls. The memories of that vision—the desolate landscape of Kur'thaal—flashed in his mind.

At first, it had been nothing more than curiosity. A distant intrigue. But now, the pull was undeniable. It was something deeper. Something more persistent. His thoughts drifted to the vision he had witnessed—of Kur'thaal. Of the embers. Of the endless shadow.

But now, something felt wrong.

Azarel's heart beat unevenly, and the relic in his hand began to hum softly. It pulsed with an energy that was inescapable.

A sudden chill ran down his spine, and he closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. But the unease only deepened. Something was calling him. Something darker, something far more pressing than he could have ever anticipated.

His fingers clenched around the relic as its runes began to glow brighter, responding to the tension in the air. The world around him seemed to thicken, as if the very fabric of the Celestial Realm was pulling away from him. For a moment, he thought he could hear the faint whispers of something from beyond Asphodel—a distant hum, a low murmur that sent a shiver down his spine.

Azarel's breath hitched, and before he could react, a thin line of light cut through the air in front of him. His eyes snapped open.

The air shimmered, and before him, a portal appeared. Small at first, no wider than an arm's length, but unmistakable. Through it, he could see the scorched grounds of Kur'thaal—the Abyss. The air that slipped through the rift was hot, thick with the howling winds of that distant land. Azarel felt a surge of energy from the relic, its hum growing louder, more insistent.

His pulse raced in his chest as the sight before him solidified. His thoughts spun, his mind unable to grasp what was happening. What was this? What was he seeing?

Azarel stepped forward, closer to the portal, but his instincts screamed at him to pull away. He couldn't explain it, but he felt drawn to it. His body moved closer of its own accord, his hand reaching out to the relic again.

The portal flickered, reacting to his presence. The runes on the relic flared, and the portal grew larger, stabilizing before his eyes. Azarel's heart pounded as the wind from Kur'thaal rushed through the rift, carrying with it the scent of fire and death. The image of the world beyond was no longer just a vision—it was tangible. Real. He could feel the weight of it.

And then, as if sensing something from the other side, the air around him trembled.

Azarel felt it. Someone was watching him.

A connection.

His thoughts scattered, and before he could pull away, he pressed his finger to the relic once more. A sharp sting shot through him, the relic biting into his skin, and a drop of blood fell onto its surface.

The portal brightened. The rift widened.

For the first time in his life, Azarel felt like something had reached into his very soul. A presence beyond the rift—a pull that had connected them across worlds.

In the Abyss, Vael stood motionless, his red eyes narrowing as the force of the connection reached him. His runes flared violently, as if recognizing the energy that had disturbed the boundary between worlds. The feeling was undeniable.

Azarel stood frozen, his chest tightening. The relic pulsed in his hand, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw Vael through the portal—through the rift—standing on the other side, watching him.

And in that moment, something shifted.

The connection was real.

And Azarel knew that this was only the beginning.