The storm had passed by morning.
Sunlight streamed through the cracks in Elara's shutters, painting her small cottage in pale gold. The air smelled of rain and damp earth — clean, but heavy with something she couldn't name. She stirred awake on the old chair beside her bed, where she had dozed off sometime after dragging that strange man from the forest.
Her gaze flicked to him.
He was still there — lying on her bed, motionless, like a fallen statue carved from light and shadow. The torn fabric of his shirt revealed faint markings that shimmered beneath his skin — not tattoos, but something otherworldly, glowing softly as if with each heartbeat.
Elara swallowed hard. Had she really brought him here? A stranger with wings? She had bandaged his wounds as best as she could, but part of her still thought she might have dreamt it all.
Then his wings moved.
It was the smallest motion — a shift, a tremor — but it made her freeze. One of the dark feathers slipped loose, drifting to the floor. She bent slowly and picked it up. It was warm to the touch, impossibly soft, and when the light hit it just right, she could see faint gold running through the black.
No bird in the forest had feathers like this.
Before she could stop herself, her hand brushed against his arm — and his eyes snapped open.
Silver. Bright and sharp, like lightning caught in glass.
Elara stumbled back with a gasp, her chair scraping across the wooden floor. "You're awake."
He sat up too quickly, grimacing as pain twisted across his features. His eyes darted around the room, alert and wary. "Where am I?"
"My home," she said, clutching the feather. "You were hurt. I—I found you in the woods last night."
He looked down at himself, at the torn bandages, then at her. For a long, silent moment, neither spoke.
"You shouldn't have brought me here," he said finally, his voice low and rough.
"Shouldn't I have?" she replied softly. "You were dying."
He looked away, the tension in his shoulders tightening. "You don't understand what I am."
Elara hesitated. "Then tell me."
He met her gaze again, and something flickered behind his eyes — not anger, but fear. "If I tell you, you'll wish you hadn't asked."
Silence fell again, broken only by the gentle creak of the cottage and the birds outside returning after the rain. Elara set the feather down carefully. "Then I won't ask. But you should eat something."
A faint, almost disbelieving smile touched his lips — the first she'd seen. "You're not afraid of me."
"Oh, I am," she said truthfully. "But fear doesn't mean I'll turn away."
He studied her, as if trying to understand how someone could say that and mean it. Humans, he thought, were strange creatures — fragile, finite, yet capable of warmth even when faced with things that should terrify them.
She rose, moving toward the small hearth where a pot of broth simmered. The scent of herbs filled the air. He watched her quietly, his expression softening for just a heartbeat before his chest tightened again.
He shouldn't be here. Every rule he'd ever known warned him against this — against being seen, against feeling. But the way she moved, unguarded yet careful, reminded him of something he had almost forgotten: gentleness.
Elara turned back to him, holding a wooden bowl. "It's not much," she said. "But it's warm."
He took it slowly, their fingers brushing. A jolt ran through him — a spark of light beneath his skin that made him pull away quickly. She didn't seem to notice, but he did.
The mark of heaven still lived in him, and it reacted to her touch.
He ate in silence, though every sense of his was aware of her — her heartbeat, steady but quick; the faint trace of lavender in her hair; the quiet strength in her eyes.
Finally, he set the bowl aside. "What's your name?"
"Elara," she said. "And you?"
He hesitated. Names had power. His true name was not meant for mortal tongues. "Azael," he said at last, choosing honesty despite himself.
She smiled faintly. "It suits you."
He almost laughed — a dry, quiet sound. "You don't even know what it means."
"No," she admitted. "But it sounds… right."
He looked down, a shadow crossing his face. "It means the fallen."
Her smile faded, but not out of fear. "Then maybe you can rise again."
Something in his chest stirred — a flicker of light, faint but undeniable. He looked at her as if seeing something more than a mortal woman — perhaps the reason the heavens themselves still wept.
But before he could reply, a sudden sound echoed from outside — a sharp crack, like wings cutting through air.
Azael's expression hardened instantly. His eyes glowed faintly. "They've found me."
Elara blinked. "Who—?"
"Stay inside," he said, standing, wincing from the pain but forcing himself upright. His wings flared briefly, catching the sunlight before he drew them back, hidden once more.
Elara's heart raced. "You can't go out there! You're still—"
He turned to her, his voice soft but urgent. "If I don't, you'll be in danger. They'll destroy anything that shelters me."
The fear in her chest deepened — not for herself, but for him. "Then I'm not letting you face them alone."
Azael stared at her in disbelief. She was trembling, terrified, yet still defiant. Something within him — something ancient and broken — recognized that kind of courage.
He exhaled shakily. "You really are impossible."
"I've been told that," she said, her lips trembling into a small, brave smile.
Outside, the light dimmed again. Shadows fell over the cottage, and the air grew colder. Azael's gaze lifted toward the sky as faint, echoing voices whispered through the clouds.
"The fallen walks among them."
"The seal weakens."
"He must not be redeemed."
And for the first time since his fall, Azael felt something more dangerous than fear or pain — hope.
He looked back at Elara. "Stay close to me."
And as thunder rolled once more across the horizon, she did.