Azael (POV)
The forest moved with the sound of pursuit.
He could hear them—faint ripples of celestial energy whispering through the trees like distant bells. The air shimmered with unseen power, and every note struck something deep inside him, something that once sang in unison with theirs.
Now, it burned.
Azael pressed a hand to his chest, where faint light pulsed beneath the skin. It was the mark of his fall—half memory, half wound. His wings ached to spread, to fight, but each beat would draw their hunters closer.
"Keep low," he said quietly.
Elara nodded, clutching her satchel. Her breathing was quick, shallow, but her steps were sure. She didn't ask how he knew which way to go—she just followed. That trust both comforted and frightened him.
"Are they near?" she whispered.
Azael closed his eyes briefly, feeling the hum of the world around them. "Closer than they should be."
Branches snapped somewhere behind. He stopped, instincts flaring. His hand shot out before he could think, pulling Elara against a tree. Her heartbeat pounded through his arm where he held her, quick and fragile.
"They're not men," he murmured. "Don't make a sound."
The forest grew utterly still. Then, faintly, the shimmer of light moved through the trees—angelic sentinels, faceless and radiant, scanning for traces of his fall. Their presence warped the air, bending shadows toward light.
Elara stiffened, but Azael leaned close, his lips near her ear. "They can sense fear. Breathe slowly."
She did as he said, trembling slightly. He could feel the faint tremor of her body against his—warm, human, alive. He shut his eyes. For a moment, he remembered what it meant to be a guardian, not a weapon.
When the sentinels passed, the light receded like mist, and Azael finally exhaled. "We move," he said softly. "Now."
They ran—down narrow paths, through patches of wild moss and roots slick with rain. The world blurred around them.
The further they went, the heavier the air became. Azael could feel the pull of the old sanctuary—the temple where heaven's voice once spoke to him. It called faintly still, a forgotten echo.
"Are you sure it's safe?" Elara asked between breaths.
"No," Azael said truthfully. "But it's the only place that remembers me."
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Elara (POV)
Her legs ached. Her lungs burned. But she didn't dare slow down.
Every glimpse of Azael ahead of her was both terrifying and beautiful—his movements impossibly fluid, almost inhuman. The faint glow beneath his skin shimmered each time he looked back to make sure she was still there.
There was a moment when she nearly tripped, and he caught her hand without even turning. The warmth of his touch steadied her instantly.
"Don't stop," he said. "We're close."
"How do you know?" she asked.
He looked up toward the sky, where clouds churned like waves. "Because Heaven wants to close it before I reach it."
Lightning cracked overhead.
The ground shook, and Elara stumbled again—but this time Azael lifted her effortlessly, wings unfurling with a blinding surge of light.
For an instant, she forgot to breathe.
They weren't just wings—they were alive, feathers edged with molten gold, every movement trailing light like fireflies in motion. He leapt over a fallen tree, carrying her as if she weighed nothing.
When they landed, she stared up at him in awe. "You said they would sense you if you flew."
"They already do," he said quietly. "Now it's a race."
He set her down gently and pointed ahead. Through the trees, she could see the faint outline of stone pillars rising from the mist—ruins covered in vines, glowing faintly with runes she didn't understand.
"The temple," he said.
They ran the final stretch together. The moment Azael stepped onto the cracked stone, a surge of energy rippled through the ground. The ancient symbols flared to life.
Elara shielded her eyes. "What's happening?"
"Heaven remembers me," Azael said grimly. "And it doesn't forgive."
A blinding beam of light speared down from the clouds, striking the forest behind them. The air exploded with divine sound—chords of judgment. Azael turned, spreading his wings wide, shielding her as the shockwave hit.
Feathers scattered into the wind like fragments of stars.
When the light finally dimmed, Elara opened her eyes to see Azael kneeling, breath ragged, one wing scorched.
She dropped beside him. "You're hurt!"
"It's nothing," he said through gritted teeth. But the glow in his veins flickered weakly.
Without thinking, she pressed her hands over his heart, feeling the faint thrum beneath. "You're lying."
He looked up at her, pain and awe mingling in his eyes. "You shouldn't care."
"I can't help it," she said softly. "You fell to save someone once. Maybe you're meant to be saved too."
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other—the storm around them fading into quiet, the light above softening into twilight gold.
Azael closed his eyes, leaning back against the temple wall. "Then perhaps I fell in the right place."
Elara smiled faintly. "Rest. I'll keep watch."
As he drifted toward sleep, the temple's glow dimmed, as though even Heaven dared not disturb this fragile peace.
And for the first time since his fall, the world was silent.