Azarel did not need to look to know she had arrived.
The air shifted the moment he stepped into the academy courtyard—subtle, almost polite, but unmistakable. Divine energy always carried restraint. Discipline. Control.
He hated it.
Students moved aside as he walked, heads lowering instinctively. Whispers followed him like shadows.
"Young Master…"
The title was spoken with fear, respect, and something close to reverence. Azarel ignored it. Titles meant nothing here. Power did.
His gaze lifted—and there she was.
Human form. Carefully chosen. Dark hair, calm posture, nothing excessive. No wings. No glow. No obvious mark of Heaven.
But Azarel saw through lies for a living.
Cupid, he thought coolly. And not a low-ranking one.
He stopped walking.
This was no accident.
Heaven did not send its own to Earth without reason—and certainly not to his territory, his school, his carefully balanced domain of controlled chaos.
His jaw tightened.
Why now?
He scanned the courtyard again, noting the lack of divine guards, seals, or restrictions. Interesting. She was moving freely. Observing. Studying.
Not hiding.
That made her dangerous.
Azarel turned away before she could sense his attention. Let her think she had arrived unnoticed. Let her believe she had the advantage.
As he entered the academy halls, his thoughts sharpened.
They think I'm breaking the balance of love.
The idea almost amused him.
Hell did not govern love. Hell governed consequence.
Humans destroyed their own bonds far better than demons ever could. Lies. Fear. Pride. Choice. He merely… nudged truth into the open.
So why send a Cupid?
And not just any Cupid.
One who remembered herself. One with control. One walking openly.
Azarel clenched his hand, shadows curling briefly around his fingers before retreating.
A warning, he decided. Or a test.
He glanced toward the upper levels of the academy, where the veil between worlds thinned slightly. Heaven always watched from above. Hell watched from within.
"If this is a message," he murmured under his breath, "you should have written it clearer."
He stopped near a tall window overlooking the grounds.
She was still there.
Not watching him.
Not chasing him.
Talking calmly. Settling in. As if she planned to stay.
That unsettled him more than hostility ever could.
What is your true purpose, Cupid?
And why send you to me?
Azarel's lips curved into a slow, thoughtful smile.
"Very well," he whispered. "Let's see who blinks first."
Above them, unseen and unacknowledged, the balance of love and destruction trembled—
not because it was breaking,
but because it was about to change.