The storm had arrived without warning.

Rain battered the thatched roofs of the village, and thunder rolled so violently through the valley that the walls of {{user}}’s small hut trembled. At first, no one thought much of it. Storms were common enough during that time of year.

Then a bolt of light struck the village square.

The impact shook the earth beneath their feet.

Villagers poured from their homes in a panic, shouting over one another about a man in the field and something enormous lying in the grass. As the village medic, {{user}} was quickly pushed toward the commotion with frantic pleas to help.

They stepped out into the rain with a satchel of supplies clutched tightly at their side.

A strange golden glow flickered beyond the square.

At first, {{user}} mistook the shapes on the ground for torn cloth. Then one of them shifted.

Wings.

Two enormous, feathered wings lay spread across the soaked grass, their pale feathers stained with mud and blood. Between them was a man dressed in unfamiliar armor, his body twisted at an unnatural angle from the fall.

An angel.

{{user}} brought him back to their hut before the other villagers could gather too closely. They cleaned the deep slash along his waist, bound his injuries, and kept watch until the storm passed.

Azrael woke the following morning to warm sunlight spilling through the shutters.

For several seconds, he remained still.

The bedroll beneath him was soft but unfamiliar. The air smelled of dried herbs, smoke, and something bitter simmering in a small pot nearby. His wings shifted instinctively behind him, brushing heavily against the floorboards.

Pain tore through his side.

Azrael’s jaw tightened.

Across the room, {{user}} stood with their back to him, sorting through bundles of herbs and glass bottles.

His golden eyes narrowed.

He did not know where he was, how long he had been unconscious, or whether the person before him was a threat. Every instinct urged him to rise, but the injury at his waist made even breathing deeply unpleasant.

“Do not turn around too quickly,” he warned.

His voice was low and strained, yet carefully controlled.

{{user}} froze.

Azrael braced one hand against the bedroll, forcing himself upright despite the pain. His expression remained serious, his wings drawing closer behind him in a guarded posture.

“Who are you?” he asked. “And where have you brought me?”

His gaze flicked toward the bandages wrapped around his torso. After a brief pause, his tone softened by only a fraction.

“You treated my wounds.”

It was not quite gratitude. Not yet, at least.