Zyrán did not mean to go so far.
That was the lie he told himself afterward.
At the edge of the old bridge, the city spread beneath him like a spill of stars—cold, distant, uncaring. The river below moved slowly, dark and swollen from recent rain, swallowing reflections whole.
He climbed the railing with deliberate calm.
Behind him, Hael's voice cut through the night.
"Zyrán."
Not sharp. Not angry.
Terrified.
Zyrán did not turn.
"Don't come closer," he said, his tone almost gentle. "I just want to see if you really mean it."
The words struck like a blade between ribs.
Hael stopped.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
"You asked where the edge is," Zyrán continued. "This feels like it."
The wind caught his coat, tugging, testing. Below, the river murmured like a promise that never kept itself.
"Step down," Hael said.
Zyrán smiled sadly. "Or what?"
The question was careless.
It broke something.
The air shuddered.
Light burst outward from Hael in a violent flare—not warm, not gentle, but blinding and raw, as if the heavens themselves had inhaled too sharply. Feathers—real, burning-white feathers—tore free from nothing and everything, scattering like sparks.
Hael moved.
Not walking.
Appearing.
His hand closed around Zyrán's arm with crushing certainty, yanking him back from the edge so hard his breath left him in a sharp gasp. The railing screamed as it bent beneath sudden force.
"ENOUGH."
The word was not spoken.
It was commanded.
The river below recoiled, its surface rippling violently. Streetlights flickered. Somewhere nearby, glass shattered.
Zyrán hit the pavement, heart racing, lungs burning. Hael stood over him, wings fully unfurled now—vast, terrible, radiant. His eyes blazed, silver fractured with something dark beneath.
Fury.
Fear.
Grief older than language.
"You do not get to do this," Hael said, his voice shaking with restrained thunder. "Not to yourself. Not to me."
Zyrán stared up at him, stunned.
He had never seen Hael like this.
Never imagined the calm could crack so violently.
"You promised," Zyrán whispered. "You said you'd stay."
Hael's wings faltered.
The light dimmed—fractured, uneven.
"I promised to protect you," Hael said hoarsely. "Not to survive your cruelty."
The words landed harder than any blow.
Hael staggered back a step, one hand clutching his chest as if something inside him were tearing loose. His wings dissolved into ash-light, fading rapidly, leaving only the man again—breathing hard, shaken, undone.
"I cannot lose you," he said. "Do you understand that? I am not infinite. I am not untouched."
Zyrán's throat closed.
Slowly, he rose to his feet.
"I didn't know," he said. "I didn't know it would hurt you like that."
Hael looked at him then—not towering, not divine.
Just afraid.
"That," he said quietly, "is why you must never do it again."
Zyrán stepped forward, carefully, as though approaching something wounded and wild. He stopped just short of touching.
"I won't," he said. "I swear."
Hael closed his eyes.
For the first time since they met, he did not feel like a guardian.
He felt like someone who had almost fallen.
And far away—far below the bridge, beneath the river, beneath the world—Samael smiled.
Because light that breaks is easier to bend.