Elaris no longer smelled of incense and gold. It smelled of smoke, salt, and sickness.
The plague had not yet passed, only retreated like a wounded beast into the alleys. The palace healers still moved through the streets in white veils, and the bells of mourning tolled so often that even the ravens grew weary of circling above.
Azrael walked among them — not as a messenger of Heaven, but as a man dressed in rough cloth and silence. His wings were hidden, buried beneath the illusion of flesh and bone. His power slept beneath his skin, restless, aching.
He had come to observe. That was all. To see the queen he was meant to kill and the world that would die with her. But instead, he found himself walking among her people.
And he could not look away.
He saw mothers whose eyes had forgotten what sleep was.
He saw men praying to gods who no longer answered.
He saw children playing with sticks outside the temples, too thin, too pale.
He told himself that mercy was not his to give.
He told himself he was only watching.
He told himself lies that crumbled beneath the sound of human grief.
That evening, as the last light of dusk painted the sky in bruised violet, Azrael found himself drawn toward the lower quarter — the place where the plague's shadow lingered longest. The air was heavy there, thick with rot and herbs burned in desperation.
And then he heard it.
A child's cry.
He turned. In a narrow alley, a young woman knelt beside her son — no older than six. The boy's skin glistened with fever; his breath came shallow and fast. The mother whispered prayers to any god who would listen. None did.
Azrael stood in the mouth of the alley, unseen, unmoving. He knew this moment. Heaven had shown him millions like it. It was how mortal threads ended — quiet, unnoticed.
But the sound of the boy's breathing was ragged, broken, too much like a mortal heart breaking open. Something inside him — something long buried beneath divine obedience — twisted.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
The mother looked up, startled.
"Please," she said, though she didn't know who he was. "Please, if you have herbs, anything—"
Azrael knelt beside her. His voice was quiet, almost human. "Let me see him."
The woman hesitated. He was no healer, no priest. Yet something about him — the stillness, the calm that softened the air — made her obey.
The child's pulse fluttered beneath Azrael's fingers, faint and frantic. His eyes were dimming. The fever had already reached the final stage. There was no time for mortal medicine.
He could feel the whisper of Heaven in his mind: Do not intervene.
He could feel the eyes of unseen watchers, waiting to see what he would do.
He could feel his heart — that cursed, disobedient heart — breaking.
Azrael closed his eyes. For a moment, he let the world fade.
He remembered Lyra's hands, steady and warm as she treated her people.
He remembered the look in her eyes — sorrow without bitterness, compassion without fear.
He remembered the way she smiled at a dying man as if death itself were not her enemy.
And then he stopped remembering.
He acted.
His hand trembled as he pressed it against the boy's chest. A faint light, softer than candle flame, spread beneath his palm. It was not bright enough to draw attention — only enough to warm the skin, to chase the fever's shadow from the child's veins.
The mother gasped softly. The boy's breathing steadied. The trembling stopped. His small hand reached upward weakly, grasping Azrael's fingers.
"Who… who are you?" she whispered.
Azrael opened his eyes. They were no longer gray, but deep as the storm — reflecting something ancient, something almost holy. "No one," he said quietly. "Take him home. He will live."
The mother began to cry, clutching her son, kissing his face as if afraid he would vanish again.
Azrael stood slowly, his heart heavy with both relief and dread. He looked at his hand — the faint glow fading from his skin. His fingers still hummed with divine energy.
He had broken the first law.
He had touched the mortal world with unblessed grace.
He had healed where Heaven decreed suffering.
He had shown mercy, and mercy was the first rebellion.
He turned to leave, the woman's sobs echoing softly behind him. Each step felt heavier than the last.
From the other end of the street, Queen Lyra emerged with her attendants — cloaked, carrying baskets of herbs and bread. Her gaze swept over the alley, pausing briefly on the kneeling mother.
Azrael froze in the shadows, unseen. He watched as Lyra approached, her face pale but resolute.
"What happened here?" she asked the woman.
The mother lifted her tear-streaked face. "My boy… he was dying. But… someone healed him."
Lyra's brows knit. "Who?"
The woman looked around, but Azrael had already slipped into the night.
"I don't know," she whispered. "He came from nowhere. His hands— they glowed."
Lyra's heart stuttered. For a moment, she remembered the dream — wings of fire, eyes like the moon.
She glanced toward the dark street beyond, a chill threading through her spine.
"Take your son home," she said gently. "Keep him warm. Give thanks, but… to no one you do not know."
When the woman left, Lyra stood alone for a moment. The alley was empty now, but the air still felt charged — as though someone had left a piece of heaven behind.
Her attendant touched her arm. "Your Majesty, shall we continue?"
Lyra nodded slowly. "Yes," she murmured, but her eyes lingered on the dark. "There's something strange in the city tonight."
The night deepened. The streets grew empty, but Azrael could still feel the echo of the child's heartbeat beneath his palm. It lingered in him like a song half-forgotten — a mortal rhythm pulsing in an immortal body.
He wandered aimlessly, cloak drawn close, the weight of what he had done pressing like armor made of guilt. Every whisper of wind against stone felt like a voice calling his name. Every shadow stretched too long, as if Heaven itself were reaching for him.
He had once been the blade of divine judgment. His wings had burned with white fire, his name spoken with reverence and dread. Now he was a man who had knelt in an alley and wept over a dying child.
What have I become?
The words echoed in his mind, but no answer came. Heaven was silent — too silent. That frightened him more than rage ever could.
He reached the edge of the river that cut through Elaris, where moonlight shimmered like liquid glass. There, he knelt, dipping his hands into the cold water. The glow that had clung to his skin finally faded, leaving only the trembling reflection of a man.
He looked up at the stars — countless, indifferent.
Once, they had been his brothers. Now, they felt like eyes.
"Judge me then," he whispered to them. "If mercy is a sin, let the heavens burn me for it."
But the stars said nothing.
Somewhere behind him, faint footsteps approached. Azrael turned. It was Lyra, her face hidden beneath a hood, lantern in hand. She had dismissed her attendants, walking alone now through the night.
He froze. For a heartbeat, fear took him — not of discovery, but of what her eyes might see in him.
"Strange hour for a traveler," she said softly, stopping a few steps away. Her voice carried a tired kindness, the kind that came from tending to too many wounded souls. "You were at the lower quarter earlier."
Azrael inclined his head, careful to keep his voice steady. "Yes. I was helping where I could."
Lyra studied him, her gaze sharp despite the exhaustion shadowing her face. "The woman said her son was healed. No priest in the city has managed such a thing."
He met her eyes, and for a moment the world stilled. The lantern's flame flickered, painting light across her features — the pale scar near her temple, the faint tremor of her lips.
"There are many forms of healing," Azrael said quietly. "Some do not come from gods."
Lyra tilted her head slightly, searching his face as though reading a secret. "You speak like a man who knows gods too well."
Azrael smiled faintly. "Perhaps I've merely seen too many pretend to be them."
Silence settled between them, soft and strange. The river murmured nearby. Somewhere in the distance, the temple bells began their midnight song.
Lyra sighed and looked toward the water. "If this plague is truly Heaven's curse," she murmured, "then perhaps mercy is the only rebellion left to us."
Her words struck something deep within him. Mercy. Rebellion. They were the same thing now.
He wanted to tell her the truth — that she was right, that mercy had teeth, that Heaven's love was colder than any mortal sin. He wanted to tell her that he had seen her kindness from the shadows and that it had undone him more completely than any sword could.
Instead, he said nothing.
Lyra turned back to him. "What is your name?"
He hesitated. The name Azrael would bring ruin. The name no one would bring lies.
So he chose something in between.
"Aris," he said finally. "Just a wanderer."
Lyra nodded, as though tasting the name on her tongue. "Then, Aris, thank you for what you did — whoever you are. You've given that mother back her world."
He bowed slightly. "And what of your world, My Queen?"
She blinked at his phrasing. "Mine?"
"Yes," he said softly. "Who heals you?"
The question caught her unguarded. For a moment, she looked as if she might answer, but then the mask of a ruler fell back into place. "Queens don't have the luxury of healing. Only of enduring."
He wanted to reach for her hand, to tell her she deserved more than endurance. But he knew the cost of touching her again. He could still feel the echo of divine power beneath his skin, restless and dangerous.
So he stepped back instead. "Then may endurance be your crown, Lyra of Elaris."
Her breath caught. "You know my name."
He cursed himself silently. "Everyone in Elaris knows their queen," he said smoothly.
She watched him for another long moment, eyes unreadable, then nodded. "Be careful walking these streets, Aris. The seers whisper that Heaven walks among men. If that is true, then even mercy may have teeth."
She turned to leave, the light of her lantern fading down the path.
Azrael stood there long after she was gone. The river whispered at his feet. Above, the stars remained silent witnesses.
For the first time in his existence, he did not know whether he feared Heaven more — or himself.
---
By dawn, word of the "miracle child" had spread across the city. Some called it divine. Others called it blasphemy. Priests gathered at the temple gates, whispering of omens and falling stars.
And in the palace, Lyra could not sleep. She kept seeing that stranger's eyes — calm, dark, too deep for any mortal man. She kept hearing his voice, the way he said her name as if he had known it long before the crown ever did.
When she finally closed her eyes, she dreamed again — wings of fire, eyes like the moon, and a hand reaching through light to touch hers.
Far above, in the realm beyond clouds, a bell tolled once.
A sound only angels could hear.
The mark of a law broken.
The first sin of mercy.