The Life Beneath the Ashes

Kur'thaal was not a wasteland devoid of order—it was a realm governed by an ancient, unwritten law of survival. Strength ruled above all else, and those who could not fend for themselves either perished or became subservient to those who could. Unlike the pristine structure of Asphodel, where duty and purpose were assigned at birth, demons forged their own paths—sometimes with blood, sometimes with cunning, but never without cost.

At the highest ranks of Kur'thaal's fractured society stood the powerful demon lords—beings of immense strength who carved their own dominions from the Abyss. Beneath them, legions of lesser demons, warbands, and sorcerers vied for favor or sought to overthrow their superiors in a brutal game of dominance.

At the bottom of this chaotic structure were the forsaken ones—weak, malformed creatures who lurked in the deep caverns, scavenging and hiding from both angels and their own kin. These wretches were the remnants of failed experiments, outcasts from demon bloodlines, or those too feeble to claim power for themselves.

Among all these, however, one figure did not fit within the mold of Kur'thaal's hierarchy.

Vael.

Vael had always been different.

Born of a dark hole in the galaxy, an ancient black hole in the far reaches of the universe, he had fallen into Asphodel's lands with nothing but the vast, empty void that had birthed him. The angels, seeing his appearance—wingless, with a form that seemed out of place among them—were hesitant, reluctant even to acknowledge his presence at first. He could float, yes, but he had no wings to grace the heavens.

He was an anomaly, rejected from the moment of his creation. His mere existence was an insult to their perfect order. And so, despite being born of something that wasn't meant to be, Vael was cast aside. Queen Rishe herself had spoken the words: "You can work in the distant reaches of the realm, away from the eyes of important entities."

The words stung with the weight of rejection, but they had been more than words. They had been the foundation of his life in Asphodel—a life of solitude and ridicule.

Vael remembered the whispers, the glances behind his back, and the cruel words of the angels who mocked him for not being like them. He was not worthy of their attention, not worthy of their time. He was born of nothing, and that's all they could see him as. A broken piece of their perfect world, someone who didn't belong.

He had learned early on to ignore the taunts, to fight back against the scorn. He had learned how to blend into the background, hiding away from the gaze of others, only venturing into the light when necessary. But one day, he could no longer stand it. He could no longer bear the weight of their eyes on him, the constant feeling of being less than, inferior.

So, he decided to leave.

Not Asphodel, but the path they had forced him to walk. He left the reach of the angels, the perfect halls of Asphodel's pure lands, and ventured into the depths of Kur'thaal.

Life there had not been easy.

In Kur'thaal, survival was a daily struggle. The Abyss was cruel, its denizens vicious, and Vael had learned that only the strongest survived. He fought for everything—food, shelter, a place to belong. And it was there, in the heart of Kur'thaal, that he killed his first high-ranked demon. It was a brutal, bloody battle, but it had earned him respect. A reputation.

Soon after, he was summoned by Lilith herself. The Queen of the Abyss had seen something in him. She had recognized his strength, even in its raw, untapped form.

She had taught him the ancient runes of the Abyss, teaching him how to tap into the powers that flowed through the very core of the demon realm. She had trained him, refined him, and in return, he had gained power unlike any other demon. He had earned his place among the high-ranked demons, those who ruled the Abyss with iron fists.

But despite all his power, all his victories, something was missing.

For nearly 700 years, Vael had lived in Kur'thaal, fighting, learning, and growing stronger with every passing day. But in the last century, something had changed inside him. He began to feel... empty. A void that no amount of power could fill. He fought without purpose, learned without direction, and his once burning desire for strength had faded into the background of his existence.

Then, everything changed.

The day he saw the angel.

Azarel.

Vael had never been one to obsess over anything—except survival, and perhaps the occasional power struggle—but Azarel had stirred something in him. The way he moved, the way his white wings gleamed, how his silver eyes seemed to hold the very essence of light itself—perfect, unattainable. Something in Vael longed to understand him, to know more. To know what it was about him that had drawn him to him with such force.

It wasn't just curiosity.

It was something deeper. Something primal.

Vael's thoughts began to fixate on Azarel in a way he didn't understand. The pull he had felt, not only from the relic but also from Azarel himself, had awakened a desire he could not ignore. Every time he thought about Azarel, he could feel the same strange yearning that had been buried in him for centuries.

Azarel was perfect. The way his wings cut through the air, the way his body was sculpted with the grace of an immortal being, the way he was revered by all those around him on the battlefield. Azarel had everything—power, beauty, respect, a future.

And yet...

Vael couldn't help but wonder—what would happen if they met again? Would he look back at him like before? Was it just curiosity, or was it something else entirely?

He clenched his fists, feeling the runes on his skin pulse with a force he couldn't explain.

Why did it have to be him?!

The demon who could not belong. The one who had been discarded by both his kind and Asphodel's. And yet, as he thought about Azarel, the emptiness in his chest grew heavier. His heart began to beat faster, and something inside him stirred—a feeling that had long been dormant, something he had tried to suppress for years.

The more he thought about the angel, the more he realized how much he yearned to know him, to understand why the connection felt so undeniable.

Perhaps, for the first time, he felt like he wasn't alone in this world.

But that would come at a cost.

Everything did in Kur'thaal.

And that... was something Vael was willing to face.

Tonight, he walked the streets of the Abyss, if they could even be called streets. Narrow, winding paths carved into the rock twisted unpredictably through the crumbling cityscape of Kur'thaal's inner territories. Markets of crude metal and bone lay beneath archways dripping with molten slag, where demons bartered for weapons, spells, or slaves. The scent of burning sulfur mixed with iron filled the air, and distant screams or laughter echoed from unseen places.

Vael moved through it all like a shadow, his bare feet making no sound on the cracked stone. His red eyes flickered in the dim glow of the city's eternal embers, and though many demons stopped to watch him pass, none dared to speak.

He was looking for something.

Or rather, he was trying to forget something.

He had not spoken of it—not to Lilith, not to Nethros, not even to himself.

That pull he had felt last night.

It had awakened something in him.

A thread had been tugged, something deep in his core, and he couldn't ignore it. He had spent the entire day wandering through Kur'thaal, attempting to shake off the strange sensation that had lingered in his runes ever since the portal had flickered open.

He knew it had not been a mistake.

Someone had touched the Abyss.

And they had touched him.

"Vael."

A voice pulled him from his thoughts.

He turned to see a merchant demon, an old, hunched figure with four arms and a face concealed behind a cracked iron mask. His wares were spread across a rickety table—small vials of cursed blood, shards of fallen angel blades, runestones stolen from deep within the Abyss.

Vael regarded him cautiously. "You know my name, yet I don't know yours."

The merchant chuckled, a dry rasp of a sound. "Names are chains, boy. You wear yours like a loose thread, always ready to be pulled away."

Vael narrowed his eyes. He had no patience for riddles tonight. "What do you want?"

The merchant tilted his head. "The better question is—what do you want? You look lost. And demons who are lost tend to find themselves... in very dangerous places."

For a moment, Vael considered ignoring him, but something about the old demon unsettled him. He was about to leave when the merchant murmured:

"I've felt it too. The shift in the air. Something touched our world last night. Something... different."

Vael froze.

His hand curled into a fist, and for the first time, uncertainty flickered in his crimson gaze.

The merchant laughed again, softer this time. "You see? Even you cannot deny it. Something is changing, Vael. And I think it has already started pulling you toward it."

Vael left the market with his thoughts in turmoil.

The moment he had stepped away, the pull had strengthened.

It was as if the Abyss itself was whispering to him, nudging him toward something unseen. And he knew—knew—that whatever had happened last night would happen again.

He should have felt anger. A breach into Kur'thaal was a threat. If an angel had opened a portal, it was likely a precursor to an attack.

But that wasn't what unnerved him.

What unsettled him was the fact that when the connection had formed—when the world had trembled and his runes had answered the call—

It had not felt like an invasion.

It had felt like an invitation.

Vael clenched his jaw, his breath coming faster. He turned his gaze to the ashen sky, where the perpetual twilight of Kur'thaal stretched endlessly above.

Somewhere beyond it, in the unreachable radiance of Asphodel, someone had touched the Abyss and left a mark on him.

He needed to find out who.

And why.Because whatever this was...

It wasn't over.