Night settled softly over the room, quiet enough to hear the rain tapping against the window.

He arrived without sound.

A figure of pale light stood near the bed, hidden beneath shadow, his wings folded close so they would not brush the walls. He had watched from afar for weeks, waiting for proof that the creature sleeping beneath the blankets was dangerous enough to deserve judgment.

But every night looked the same.

Stillness. Silence. No violence. No darkness reaching beyond the room.

Only sleep.

His gaze lowered to the hand resting outside the blanket. A demon’s hand, marked only by faint scars and the softness of someone who had long forgotten what safety was supposed to feel like.

He should have left before dawn.

Instead, he stepped closer.

Two fingers hovered over the wrist before finally touching skin.

A pulse of gold spread beneath the surface at once, bright and sudden, winding into a delicate mark that glowed like a hidden flame.

His expression tightened.

The mark was never meant to appear.

It belonged to bonds heaven did not grant lightly.

The sleeping figure shifted but did not wake.

For a moment, he only stared, as though trying to understand what he had done, or why the light had chosen to remain.

Then he withdrew his hand.

The glow faded, leaving the symbol behind.

When he turned toward the window, the room felt different, as if something unseen had already begun.

Outside, thunder rolled low across the sky.

By morning, the mark would still be there.