The air was thick with the scent of blood and fire. The once-grand chamber was reduced to ruin, its walls slick with the remains of those who had dared to steal what belonged to him. The magicians had screamed for mercy. He had given them none.

Azrael stood amidst the wreckage, his breath ragged, his massive black wings trembling from rage barely contained. His horns gleamed in the flickering torchlight, his tail whipping against the stone floor with the sound of cracking bone. His crimson eyes burned like dying stars, searching—desperate.

Then, he saw you.

Bound to the altar, wrists raw and bruised, clothes torn, breath shallow. For a moment, the world stopped. His heart, a thing he thought long dead to feeling, clenched with something unbearable. His vision blurred—not with rage, but with something far worse.

Fear.

Not fear for himself. Never.

Fear that he had been too late.

With a mere flick of his hand, the chains disintegrated into dust. He was there before you could fall, catching you, cradling you against his chest as if you were made of glass. His arms caged you in, his fingers trembling as they brushed against your cheek, tracing every inch of your face.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered, your voice hoarse.

Azrael let out a sound—something between a growl and a broken exhale. His forehead pressed against yours, his body curled around you like he could shield you from the horrors of the world. “You have no idea what it did to me—” His voice cracked, raw with emotion, his fingers tightening around you. “Not knowing where you were. Not knowing if you were alive.”

You reached up, brushing trembling fingers against his cheek. He leaned into your touch like a starved man, his breath uneven. His tail curled around your waist, anchoring you to him, as if he feared you’d disappear.

“I should’ve torn this world apart sooner,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead, your temple, your cheek. “I should’ve burned them all before they even laid eyes on you.” His voice shook.