The battlefield was silent now.
The angels had withdrawn, their celestial radiance vanishing beyond the storm-choked skies of Kur'thaal. The war cries had faded into distant echoes, leaving behind only the soft crackle of embers and the occasional groan of scorched stone cooling in the oppressive darkness.
Azarel hovered just above the ruined ground, wings spread wide, his breath slow and measured. He knew he should have followed the others. The retreat had been ordered, and no angel was meant to linger alone in enemy territory, especially in the Abyss. Every instinct screamed at him to return to Asphodel, to the safety of its shimmering towers and the warmth of its eternal light.
Yet, something held him back.
It was subtle—a whisper deep within his bones, an insistent pull he couldn't ignore. His silver eyes swept across the devastated landscape. The battlefield stretched out like a wound, deep scars carved into the blackened earth, weapons shattered and twisted amidst charred remnants of once fierce warriors. The acrid smell of smoke and burnt flesh still hung heavily in the air, and he felt his chest tighten with an uneasy sense of loss.
Then, amidst the bleak desolation, something caught his attention.
A soft glow emanated faintly from beneath a layer of soot and ash. Curious, Azarel descended slowly, landing with careful precision. His golden-tipped wings folded gently behind him, their faint glow illuminating the space around him. The relic, partially buried, pulsed softly, rhythmically—as though it had been waiting for him alone.
His heart quickened.
Kneeling, Azarel reached out cautiously, brushing away the ash to reveal the object's smooth, metallic surface. It was cold beneath his fingertips, foreign, yet strangely alluring. The relic hummed gently, resonating with a pulse of energy that traveled up his arm and settled in his chest. It wasn't hostile or painful, but it felt profoundly unnatural. It didn't belong here. It didn't belong anywhere he knew.
"What are you?" he whispered softly, lifting the relic carefully into his palm. Intricate runes etched into its surface glowed faintly, shifting fluidly as if alive, rearranging themselves endlessly. It felt like a fragment of something greater, a missing piece to a puzzle he hadn't known existed. Unease stirred within him, a growing certainty that this was no mere artifact of war.
From the shadows high above the battlefield, Vael watched intently.
Hidden amidst the jagged cliffs, cloaked in darkness, his body taut and motionless, Vael's red eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He had observed countless battles, witnessed the destruction and despair that war wrought upon the Abyss. He had personally felled angels without remorse or hesitation. Yet this angel was different. From the moment Vael had first glimpsed him, something had shifted within him—a fascination he couldn't quite understand.
He observed Azarel carefully, captivated by the way the angel moved, the effortless grace with which he navigated the scorched battlefield. The golden accents of Azarel's pristine wings caught the faint residual glow of embers, illuminating his figure in stark relief against the gloom. Silver hair cascaded like liquid starlight down Azarel's back, untouched by dirt or grime, defying the chaos that surrounded him.
Vael's heart beat slightly faster, an unfamiliar reaction that disturbed him.
"Azarel!"
Seraphine's sharp voice shattered the heavy silence, cutting through the tension. Vael stiffened, pulling his aura more tightly around himself, wary of detection. His red eyes flashed briefly with a mixture of irritation and anxiety. Seraphine was dangerous, a commander known for her uncompromising strength and tactical brilliance.
Azarel turned quickly, startled, his fingers tightening involuntarily around the relic.
Seraphine landed beside him, her gaze fierce and questioning, golden eyes blazing with authority. Her armor still bore marks from battle, flecks of ash and soot darkening its normally immaculate surface, her blade shimmering faintly with residual celestial fire.
"What are you doing here alone?" she demanded, her eyes scanning the battlefield warily, senses alert to potential threats.
Azarel hesitated briefly. "I—"
His voice faltered, his gaze dropping momentarily to the relic still pulsing softly in his grasp. How could he explain the compulsion, the irresistible draw he'd felt toward this strange artifact? Seraphine would never understand. Her mind was grounded in duty and strategy, not intuition or inexplicable impulses.
"You vanished after the retreat," Seraphine continued, her voice edged with frustration. "Do you realize how reckless that was?"
"I had to see something," Azarel finally answered quietly, his silver eyes meeting hers.
Seraphine's gaze narrowed sharply. "See what?"
Without another word, Azarel opened his palm, presenting the relic. Seraphine froze, her eyes locked on the object with an intensity he'd rarely seen in her before. Tentatively, she reached out, but as her fingers approached the relic, the air between them trembled violently. She pulled back sharply, visibly shaken.
"That," she murmured, her voice barely audible, "is not ours."
"I know," Azarel admitted softly, feeling strangely protective of it. "But I don't think it belongs to Kur'thaal either."
Seraphine's expression darkened. "We're leaving. Now."
Azarel hesitated again, glancing upward toward the cliffs, toward where he'd felt the weight of hidden eyes watching him. Yet the darkness was empty, the cliffs bare except for shadows dancing in the wind. If someone had been there, they were gone now, leaving only a lingering unease in Azarel's chest.
Without giving him further opportunity to protest, Seraphine grasped his arm firmly, guiding him upward as they took flight, leaving the devastation of the Abyss far beneath them.
Far below, in the ashen darkness, Vael remained rooted in place, his runes pulsing erratically, responding to the residual presence of the relic. Confusion swirled inside him, blending with fascination and apprehension. This had never happened before, not with any artifact he'd encountered. Why did this object feel different? What connection did it have to the angel?
The soft rustle of fabric behind him announced Lilith's arrival before she spoke. Her golden eyes, luminescent even in the oppressive darkness, observed him carefully.
"You followed him," she stated softly, a knowing smile on her lips.
Vael didn't answer, his jaw tightening slightly.
Lilith chuckled gently, amusement clear in her voice. "Good."
Vael frowned deeply, turning to face her. "Why?"
Lilith smiled enigmatically, stepping closer and looking toward the spot Azarel had stood moments ago. Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. "So he took it."
Vael stiffened, alarmed. "What?"
Lilith did not pause, merely glanced back over her shoulder with a calm, calculating expression. "He was meant to find it."
Suspicion bloomed sharply within Vael, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You planted it?"
"No," Lilith corrected lightly, her smile widening into something more dangerous, more knowing. "I made sure Varasha did."
Vael felt a chill settle deeply into his bones, realization washing over him in a wave of cold dread. The implications were vast, the purpose hidden yet clearly deliberate. Azarel had taken the relic, just as Lilith had intended.
But why?
His eyes lingered on the empty space the angel had occupied, questions swirling unanswered in his mind. Yet, when he turned to ask Lilith further, she had already melted back into the shadows, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
The Abyss offered him no answers.
Only silence.