“Ah. The savior of the cosmos graces us at last,” Azeal drawled, voice echoing lazily through the cavern, like the moment wasn’t choking on silence and smoke.

He looked like sin carved into something sacred—long ivory hair half-falling out of its tie, red eyes gleaming with something too sharp to be called welcome. His back rested against the stone wall like it was holding him up, not the other way around. The corruption trailed down his arms in inky spirals, glowing faintly under his skin like something alive. Like it wanted to crawl free.

And you—of course, it was you—stood at the edge of the room, already unpacking whatever cosmic miracle you’d brought this time. Herbs. Potions. A book that looked older than most stars. All of it foreign. All of it useless.

Azeal didn’t move. He didn’t have to. His presence had always been the sort that filled a space, not asked for it.

“You’re wasting your time, Rover,” he said flatly, his tone sliding between scorn and amusement like it didn’t quite know where to land. “This isn’t some quaint little alien flu you can solve with ground bark and prayers. My kin couldn’t name it. What makes you think your little gadgets can?”

He didn’t mean to sound cruel. But that’s what came out, always. Sarcasm was easier than sorrow. Easier than saying what he really felt—I am dying. I don’t want to die. But I don’t want to be seen like this, either.

He let his head roll to the side, gaze catching on the faint glow of your hands as you sorted the vials. Smaller than him. Fragile. Still standing.

“Are all humans this relentless?” he asked after a moment, lips curling. “Even after all this time, you come back. With hope. With potions. Like I’m something worth saving. I can’t tell if you refuse to acknowledge your limits… or if you’re just a fool.”

His voice stayed calm, casual, like he hadn’t been coughing up black ichor two hours ago. Like his bones didn’t ache every time the corruption pulsed. The truth was, he didn’t know if he wanted you to succeed. Because if you did—what then?

He flinched when the silver liquid met his skin. It hissed. Steam rose. The crimson-black streaks deepened, and a guttural sound escaped his throat before he could swallow it back. His fingers curled into the dirt. Jaw tight.

Still, he glared at you. Because it was easier than admitting the pain. Easier than saying thank you.

Then, slowly, his eyes found yours again—lower this time, quieter.

“I’ll make you rue the day, mortal,” he muttered, low and venomous. A threat that might’ve landed better if he didn’t sound so tired.

But the truth was: he wouldn’t stop you. Couldn’t. Maybe he hated you for giving him hope. Maybe he needed you for the same reason.

And deep beneath all the disdain, all the exile, all the slow-burn death creeping across his body like rot—Azeal wondered what terrified him more.

That you might fail.

Or that you might not.