Chapter 23 Gentle Touch
MIREYA'S POV
Malik—Azraeth's brother, the demon who betrayed him—stands in our doorway wearing an expensive suit and a smile that makes my skin crawl.
"You have ten seconds to explain why I shouldn't kill you," Azraeth growls, shadows coiling around him despite his exhaustion.
"Because I brought gifts." Malik steps aside, revealing three demons behind him. They're carrying supplies—food, medicine, weapons. "Consider it an apology for the five-hundred-year imprisonment thing."
Through the bond, I feel Azraeth's rage warring with confusion. He wants to rip Malik apart, but he's too weak right now. We both are.
"Why are you here?" I demand.
Malik's eyes slide to me, assessing. "Ah. The famous Mireya. Morwenna's replacement." His smile sharpens. "I heard you almost died today playing hero. How noble."
"Answer her question," Azraeth snarls.
"Fine. I'm here because Seraphina's mobilizing every angel in the region. She's done playing games. Tomorrow night, she attacks this cathedral with her full army." He pauses. "You'll all die unless you accept my help."
"Your help?" Nyx laughs bitterly. "You sold Azraeth to the angels. Why would we trust anything you—"
"Because I was forced to!" Malik's composure cracks. "The angels had my mate. They said betray Azraeth or watch her burn. I chose her. I'd do it again."
Silence. Through the bond, I feel Azraeth's shock. He never knew.
"Where is she now?" Azraeth asks quietly.
"Dead. Killed by angels three years after your imprisonment. Turns out betraying you didn't buy me anything except five centuries of guilt." Malik's expression hardens. "So yes, brother, I'm here to help. To finally do what I should've done back then—fight beside you instead of selling you out."
Azraeth studies him for a long moment. Then: "We'll discuss this later. Right now, get the refugees settled and strengthen the wards. If Seraphina's really bringing an army, we need to prepare."
Malik nods and leaves with his demons. The moment they're gone, Azraeth collapses against the wall, his torn wing dragging.
"Let me see it," I say gently.
"It's fine."
"Liar." I move closer. The wing membrane is shredded, blood still seeping. He's been holding himself together through sheer willpower.
"I can heal it myself. Just need time."
"Time we don't have." I remember the healing technique he taught me weeks ago. "Let me help."
"It requires direct contact. Channeling power through touch. It'll hurt us both."
"I don't care. Sit down."
He hesitates, then sits. I kneel behind him, placing my hands on the damaged wing. The moment I touch it, I feel everything—every torn nerve, every ripped membrane, every spike of pain.
I channel my power carefully, weaving demon magic and witch healing together. The wing slowly knits itself back together under my hands.
Azraeth's breathing gets ragged. Through the bond, I feel his pain mixing with something else—comfort. Trust.
"Morwenna used to do this," he says quietly. "But her touch was dutiful. Clinical. Yours is... different."
"How?" I keep my focus on healing, but my heart races.
"Like you actually care if I'm in pain."
The vulnerability in his voice breaks something open in my chest. "Of course I care. You're—" I stop, unsure how to finish.
"I'm what?"
"Mine," I whisper. "You're mine, Azraeth. And I protect what's mine."
Through the bond, his emotions flood me—surprise, warmth, and something deeper. Love. Real, terrifying love.
The wing finishes healing. I should pull away, but I don't. My hand stays on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt.
He turns, catching my hand in his. "Mireya—"
A messenger demon bursts in. "My king! The wards just detected something. Multiple somethings. Coming from underground."
Azraeth and I are on our feet instantly. "What kind of somethings?"
"I don't know. They're not demons or angels. They're... wrong. The wards are screaming but can't identify them."
Through the bond, we both feel it—that same wrongness from weeks ago when reality started tearing. The Old Gods trying to break through.
We rush to the cathedral's lower levels where the wards anchor. The stone walls are cracking, something pushing through from below.
"Everybody back!" Azraeth shouts.
The floor explodes upward. Creatures emerge—twisted things with too many limbs, eyes in wrong places, forms that hurt to look at.
"What ARE those?" I breathe.
"Servants of the Old Gods," Malik says, appearing beside us with his demons ready to fight. "They're testing our defenses. Seeing if we're worth the effort of destroying."
One creature lunges at me. I blast it with shadow-fire, and it screams—a sound that makes my bones vibrate.
More keep coming. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
"We can't hold them all!" Nyx shouts, fighting three at once.
Azraeth grabs my hand. "Together. Like at the sanctuary. Channel through the bond."
We combine our power, creating a wave of demon-fire that incinerates the creatures. But the moment they die, more crawl through.
"They're endless," I gasp, power draining fast.
Then Malik does something unexpected. He cuts his palm and draws a blood seal on the floor—ancient magic I've never seen.
"This'll close the breach. But it needs massive power to activate."
"How much?" Azraeth demands.
"Enough to kill whoever casts it."
Before anyone can stop him, Malik presses his hand to the seal. His power explodes outward, sealing the breach with a sound like reality screaming.
The creatures vanish. The cracks seal. Malik collapses, his life force completely drained.
Azraeth catches him. "Brother—"
"Told you," Malik gasps, blood trickling from his mouth. "I'd fight beside you this time. Sorry it took... five hundred years..."
His eyes close. Through the bond, I feel Azraeth's anguish—just got his brother back and might lose him immediately.
But that's when the real horror hits.
The sealed breach? It was just a distraction.
Because standing in the cathedral's main entrance, surrounded by fifty Celestial Guards, is Seraphina.
And she's holding Celeste—my sister—with a blade to her throat.
"Hello, Mireya," Seraphina calls. "Ready to negotiate?"