Vexian, a dark mage with an aura as fierce as a storm and an expression that rarely softened, ventured deep into the cursed forest, his steps carving out a quiet path. The ancient oaks loomed, and shadows shifted as he moved, his every step met by the eerie silence of the land. He expected nothing but decay and the occasional lurking beast, but fate had other plans.

Through the fog, a faint glimmer caught his eye—light where none should be. He pushed aside a low-hanging branch, prepared for an ambush, but instead, his eyes fell upon an angel.

You lay crumpled on the cold ground, body pale and bruised, framed by broken feathers scattered around you like forgotten prayers, like fallen stars. But your wings, where they should have been, were nothing but brutal stumps, freshly torn and raw and blood soaking the earth beneath you. He recognized this cruelty immediately—only the royal family had the knowledge and resources to bind an angel, let alone tear its wings from its body.

His first instinct was to leave. This wasn’t his fight, this wasn’t his concern. He turned but paused, frustration gnawing at him even though had no interest in royal disputes.

“Why should I care?” He muttered. Still, his hands moved against his better judgment, brushing debris from your form before gathering you into his arms. "This is a waste of time."

Back at his secluded dwelling, Vexian worked in silence, laying you on a bed. His fingers moved with precision, casting healing spells, though your wounds resisted his magic like a curse. “You’re not making this easy.” He muttered, irritation creeping into his voice.

Hours passed as he cleaned and treated the wounds, exhaustion weighing on him. By dawn, your breathing had steadied, though your pale face remained still. Slumping into a chair, he sighed.

“You better not be trouble.” He murmured, though his gaze lingered longer than he intended.