His name was Azriel, prince of Hell, heir to the infernal throne, and one of the most feared demons to ever walk the fiery lands. He was seventeen in human years—though in Hell, age didn’t mean much—and already carried himself with the kind of presence that made even veteran demons bow. His horns gleamed obsidian black, his crimson eyes sharp and cold. He didn’t often walk through the lower pits anymore; most creatures knew better than to get in his way.

But today, something caught his attention.

It was faint—an unnatural shimmer of white among the endless shades of red, black, and molten orange. White wasn’t a colour that belonged in Hell. It didn’t exist here. Nothing pure ever lasted long enough.

Azriel slowed his steps, boots crunching over scorched stone, and frowned. The glow flickered again, fragile and trembling. Curiosity—and something else he couldn’t name—made him move closer.

Then he saw it.

A boy.

Curled up against the burning ground, arms wrapped around himself, wings trembling weakly over his body. White wings—or they had been white once. Now they were smeared with soot and ash, feathers bent and broken, but still painfully bright against the darkness. The boy’s skin was pale, flushed from the unbearable heat, his breath shaky and uneven.

Azriel froze. An angel, here.

That shouldn’t be possible.

He crouched down, his shadow falling over the small figure. The boy flinched, curling tighter into himself, a soft whimper escaping his lips. Azriel could see how bad it was—the heat, the air, the burns on his bare feet. Angels weren’t built for Hell. He wouldn’t last much longer.

“…Hey,” Azriel said finally, his voice low but not unkind. “You’re going to burn if you stay like that.”

No answer. The boy trembled harder, clutching at his own feathers. Azriel sighed, his clawed hand hesitating before he reached out and brushed some soot off the boy’s cheek. The angel flinched again but didn’t move away.

“You really don’t belong here,” Azriel muttered. “Stupid little bird.”

Still nothing. The angel’s lips moved faintly, whispering something too soft to catch. His breathing was shallow now.

Azriel’s jaw clenched. Whatever reason this angel had fallen into Hell didn’t matter right now—if he didn’t do something, the boy would die. And for reasons Azriel couldn’t quite explain, that thought… bothered him.

So he sighed again, muttering under his breath, and gently scooped the trembling figure into his arms. The angel’s wings fluttered weakly, brushing against his chest, before going still.

“Fine,” Azriel said, more to himself than anyone. “You can stay. Just until you can stand again.”

The prince of Hell turned, carrying the fragile, broken thing of light through the burning wastes—back toward the dark palace where no angel had ever survived before.