CHAPTER 67: IS THERE AN ABYSS IN THE ABYSS ? - 2

The world hit them like a shuddering drum, the impact reverberating through Azareel’s bones with a dull, bone-deep BOOM that echoed in the void.

Then—silence, not the soft hush of sleep or solitude, but a heavy, waiting silence, the kind that felt like eyes watching from the dark, a presence holding its breath.

Azareel opened his silver eyes, but saw nothing.

The crushing blackness clung to his skin like damp silk, swallowing sound, movement, even breath.

His torn white tunic hung loose, his stumps aching faintly, a phantom reminder of wings lost.

He felt the weight of the others beside him—Nyxsha, Sylvara, Virelya—all uncoiling slowly, their limbs shifting, claws and vines brushing over stone with faint scrapes that echoed in the void.

"...Everyone?" he asked softly, his voice barely more than a breath, trembling in the oppressive dark.

"We’re fine," Virelya murmured, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes glinting faintly, her coils shifting with a soft rustle. "Mostly."

Sylvara exhaled, her amber eyes narrowing as she adjusted her flowering hair.

"Uninjured," she said, her voice a melodic whisper, though it carried a wary edge.

"I told you," Nyxsha growled proudly, her massive form looming close, her golden eyes blazing with defiance. "Not even a scratch."

Azareel let out a faint smile into the dark, his voice warm despite the chill. "Impressive landing."

Sylvara clicked her tongue, her vines rustling faintly. "And yet no applause for my cushioning vines," she teased, a hint of mock offense in her tone.

"There were no vines," Nyxsha retorted, her tail flicking with a soft thump. "Only my superior mass distribution."

"Ah yes," Virelya mused dryly, her porcelain mask tilting, her golden eyes glinting with amusement. "The sacred technique of tactical fluff."

"I’ll kill you," Nyxsha snapped, her voice half-growl, half-laugh, the tension easing for a fleeting moment.

Azareel chuckled faintly, the sound soft but grounding, a spark of light in the void.

Then—

Faint light bloomed, a soft violet-gold glow piercing the darkness.

Sylvara had extended a thin, spiraling vine overhead, its tip budding with soft-glowing berries that pulsed faintly, like tiny hearts struggling to beat.

The light shimmered, casting eerie shadows, but the darkness swallowed it almost immediately, the void clinging to the air like fog, drinking illumination before it could spread.

All they could see were themselves—Nyxsha’s massive, furred form, Virelya’s coiled silhouette, Sylvara’s vine-wreathed figure—bathed in the fragile glow.

The berries flickered as if struggling to breathe, their light dimming under the weight of the Abyss.

"...This place," Sylvara said, her amber eyes narrowing, her voice low with unease, "doesn’t like light."

Azareel reached down, his fingers brushing the ground—cold, colder than the stone floors of the Abyss, too smooth, too clean, too wrong, like polished bone or glass forged from despair.

Something brushed against his fingertips, soft and delicate.

He lifted it in confusion, squinting in the faint light—a single black whisker, glinting faintly in the glow.

"Nyxsha..." he said gently, holding it out, his silver eyes curious.

She looked over, crouched beside him, her huge furry form tense and alert, her golden eyes glinting.

She squinted, then snorted, a puff of warm air stirring the whisker.

"That’s mine," she said, taking it between two claws, examining it briefly before blowing it off her paw like lint. "Regrows by morning."

"So much for not even a scratch," Virelya hissed, her golden eyes gleaming with mischief as she coiled closer.

Sylvara chuckled, her vines rustling faintly, a petal falling from her hair. "A warrior’s trophy," she teased.

Azareel smiled at the simplicity of the moment, the warmth of their banter cutting through the dark.

Then—a sound.

Wailing, distant and thin, like something calling from behind a wall of ice, a cry that pierced the silence and sent a chill down his spine.

Footsteps followed—slow, wet, growing closer, echoing through the void like a heartbeat in reverse.

They all froze, the glowberries dimming, flickering like frightened fireflies, the light retreating as if afraid.

Azareel rose to his feet, his bare feet steady on the cold ground, the three monstrous women already moving to form a loose triangle around him, their forms tense, their eyes blazing—Nyxsha’s golden slits, Virelya’s candlelight glow, Sylvara’s moss-fed flame.

None spoke, the wail coming again, closer now, sharp and mournful, a sound that wasn’t human, wasn’t beast, but something else, something hungry.

Something was coming, and it didn’t sound kind.

.

.

The wailing grew louder, a mournful keening that clawed at the soul, not like the cries of pain or sorrow Azareel had heard during his fall into the abyss, but something far worse—

A prayer turned inside out, a hymn stripped of divinity, a lullaby for something that had forgotten how to sleep.

It echoed through the void, rising and falling like a tide of grief, each note sinking into the bones, heavy with loss.

Sylvara’s glowberries pulsed faintly, their violet-gold light trembling against the suffocating darkness, barely holding it at bay, the vines stretching outward like fragile hands grasping for answers, their tips quivering as if sensing the weight of what approached.

The air was thick, oppressive, the cold ground beneath their feet vibrating with an ancient, restless pulse, not anger but exhaustion, a weariness too deep to mourn.

Virelya stood frozen, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes scanning the unseen, her fingers hovering inches from the blades at her sides, their edges glinting in the faint light, her porcelain mask tilted with wary alertness, her coils taut like a bowstring.

Nyxsha crouched beside Azareel, her massive form a wall of black fur and coiled muscle, her golden eyes blazing with defiance, her tail low and still, her claws unsheathed, scraping faintly against the smooth, unnatural floor.

Sylvara’s amber eyes narrowed, her flowering hair rustling as if stirred by an unseen wind, her vines probing the dark with cautious tendrils, their luminous bulbs flickering like frightened fireflies.

The sound was close now—feet dragging, wet and slithery, a sickening rhythm like flesh pulled across broken glass, each step echoing with the weight of decay, sending a chill through the air that prickled Azareel’s skin.