Samael did not rage when Hael refused him.
He never did.
Rage was for creatures who needed volume to be heard.
Instead, he withdrew—quietly, elegantly—letting the silence close like water over stone. Hael's resistance settled into the fabric of the world, noted, catalogued, set aside.
Not him, Samael decided.
Not yet.
Hael was bound by restraint too deeply ingrained to be pried loose quickly. His guilt was fertile, yes—but also armored. A blade thrust too soon would snap.
So Samael turned his gaze.
Downward.
Inward.
Toward the softer thing.
Zyrán.
Zyrán woke with the sense of having been observed.
Not watched—not in the way Hael watched, steady and grounding—but considered, as one might consider an object turned slowly in the hand. The feeling lingered even as he sat up, even as morning light touched the edge of his window.
He rubbed at his eyes.
"Get a grip," he muttered to himself.
But the unease did not leave.
It followed him through the day, subtle and patient. In the mirror, his reflection seemed to hold its gaze a fraction too long. In the quiet spaces between thoughts, something waited—never interrupting, only aligning itself with what already hurt.
That was how Samael entered.
Not as a voice at first.
As a thought that felt like relief.
You shouldn't have to be the careful one, it suggested, nestled among Zyrán's own frustrations.
You've already lost so much. Why should you carry his fear too?
Zyrán stilled.
The thought had not startled him.
That frightened him more than if it had.
He shook his head, as though clearing water from his ears. "No," he said aloud. "I'm not doing this."
The word this had no shape yet.
Samael smiled.
He did not press.
He waited.
That night, Zyrán dreamed of falling—not from a bridge, not into water, but through a vast, empty sky where light and shadow braided together. He was not afraid. That was the problem.
Someone walked beside him, matching his pace.
"You're stronger than he thinks," the stranger said, voice smooth, unhurried.
Zyrán glanced sideways.
The man was beautiful in a way that felt intentional. Red hair like embers banked beneath ash. Blue eyes calm and distant, as though nothing truly surprised him.
"I don't know you," Zyrán said.
"You will," the man replied. "But you already know what it feels like to be underestimated."
Zyrán frowned. "Hael doesn't underestimate me."
"No," the man agreed. "He fears you."
The words slid easily into place.
"And fear," the stranger continued, "is just admiration that doesn't trust itself."
Zyrán stopped walking.
The sky continued without him.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
The man smiled—not cruelly. Kindly.
"Because you're tired of being protected like something fragile," he said. "And because you are more dangerous than you realize."
Zyrán woke with his heart racing.
Hael stood in the doorway, drawn by the sudden shift in the room. "You called out," he said softly.
Zyrán shook his head. "I—I don't remember."
But even as he said it, the echo of the dream clung to him like smoke.
Fear is admiration that doesn't trust itself.
He looked at Hael—careful, distant, aching with restraint—and felt something twist.
Not doubt.
Curiosity.
And far away, in a place where thrones were built of patience and bone, Samael rested his chin against his hand and watched.
He did not need Hael to bend.
Not if Zyrán could be taught that power felt better than being held back.
Not if love could be made to feel like a cage.
Slowly, Samael thought.
Let him come to me believing it was his own idea.