CHAPTER 75: HOME?

The angel’s divine eye glistened, tears falling silently, its warped wing twitching as it struggled to rise, its voice a broken rasp.

"You... can’t," it rasped, its voice broken, a hymn fractured by centuries of abandonment. "The voice promised... if your light dies... I go home."

Azareel leaned closer, his silver eyes steady, his voice gentle but firm.

"What if I can take you home without that? What if there’s another way?" he asked, his empathy a beacon, his presence a soothing light that made the angel’s milky eye flicker with a spark of hope.

The angel’s body trembled, its beautiful half leaning forward, its voice a whisper of longing.

"Home... I miss the light. The choir. The warmth. I want to go home," it said, its voice cracking, tears falling from both eyes now—the divine one clear and pure, the warped one milky and tainted, streaming down its melted face in a heartbreaking cascade.

Azareel opened his mouth to answer, his silver eyes softening, his hand reaching out—

But before the words could leave his lips, Nyxsha’s massive paw yanked him back, her claws gentle but unyielding, her golden eyes blazing with protective fury.

"No!" she growled, her voice raw.

Virelya’s coils snapped around him, her serpentine body wrapping tightly but carefully, her golden eyes narrow behind her mask.

"He’s too dangerous," she hissed, her voice a breathy warning.

Sylvara’s vines curled forward, her thorned branches gently closing over his eyes, her amber gaze steady but filled with sorrow.

"Don’t watch," she whispered, her voice a melodic plea.

Azareel yelled, his voice muffled against the vines, his silver eyes wide with confusion and concern.

"What are you doing?! Stop—let me talk to him!" he cried, struggling against their hold, his heart pounding with empathy for the angel’s pain.

But Sylvara pressed a glowberry to his lips, its faint light pulsing as she pushed it gently into his mouth.

"Sweetness to ease the pain," she murmured, her voice soft, the berry bursting with a warm, calming nectar that flooded his senses, his struggles slowing as a drowsy haze washed over him.

Nyxsha lunged forward, her massive beastly form a shadow of fury, her violet-flamed claws slashing through the air.

The angel tried to rise, its divine wing flaring weakly, but she was merciless—her jaws clamping down on its throat, her claws ripping through its chest, tearing flesh and bone with a wet, crunching sound that echoed in the void.

Blood—milky blue and black ichor—sprayed, steaming on the ground as she shook it like prey, her golden eyes cold and unrelenting, her roar muffled by the angel’s flesh.

The angel’s body jerked, its warped wing spasming, its divine eye wide with shock and sorrow, tears falling as it gasped its last.

Nyxsha released it, the body crumpling to the ground in a gory heap—its chest torn open, ichor pooling in silent puddles, its beautiful half marred with claw marks, its warped one deflated and still.

Sylvara’s vines retreated from Azareel’s eyes, Virelya’s coils loosening, Nyxsha stepping back, her massive form shrinking to her original twelve-foot beastly height, her black fur matted with blood, her golden eyes dim with regret but unyielding.

Azareel was released, his silver eyes wide as he staggered forward, staring at the dead, gory remains of the angel—its body broken and twisted, ichor spreading like a silent river, its divine wing limp and stained, its warped one deflated, its face frozen in a final expression of sorrow and release.

"Why...?" Azareel whispered, his voice breaking, his silver eyes shimmering with tears as he knelt beside the remains, his hand hovering over the angel’s chest.

Nyxsha approached slowly, her massive paw resting on his shoulder, her golden eyes softening.

"He won’t hurt anymore," she said quietly, her voice a low rumble laced with quiet conviction, the weight of her actions heavy but necessary in the Abyss’s cruel logic.

Azareel looked up at her, his silver eyes filled with quiet sorrow, but he nodded faintly, the berry’s nectar easing the ache in his heart as the group stood in the silence.

.

.

The air hung heavy with the copper tang of blood and the dark, cloying scent of corruption, the chamber a silent witness to the slaughter of the corrupted angel.

Its broken form lay sprawled at the center, ichor pooling beneath, its divine wing limp, its warped one deflated, the once-beautiful face marred by claw marks and sorrow.

Azareel stood where Nyxsha had left him, his silver-gray eyes, flecked with rain-blue, fixed on the ruined body, his torn white tunic fluttering faintly in the stale air.

The withered husks of Sylvara’s glowberries cast no light, leaving shadows to creep in from the edges, the void’s hunger palpable.

He didn’t speak, didn’t move, his heart heavy with the weight of mercy denied, his silver eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Nyxsha padded toward him, her jagged black fur settling as she returned to her primary form—twelve feet of muscular feline-lupine hybrid, her presence filling the chamber like a storm held in check.

She stopped a step away, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes narrowing slightly, her tail twitching.

"You’re angry," she said, her voice a low rumble, not a question but a challenge.

Azareel’s voice was quiet, steady, but laced with sorrow.

"No. I’m... sad," he said, his gaze never leaving the angel’s face, its lifeless eyes staring into eternity.

Nyxsha’s ears flicked back, her claws flexing faintly. "He wasn’t going to stop. You saw that," she said, her voice rough but unwavering, her golden eyes searching his face.

"I saw someone who had already been broken enough," Azareel replied, his silver eyes glistening, his voice soft but resolute. "Someone who could have been... something else."

Virelya uncoiled from the shadows, her sleek, pale, almost translucent body gliding silently over the stone, her torn cathedral veils trailing like ghostly remnants, her cracked porcelain mask glimmering faintly in the dim light.

Her humanoid torso stood tall, hauntingly beautiful, her serpent lower half coiling endlessly.

"And if you’d tried, perhaps you’d be the one lying here instead," she murmured, her voice calm but edged with quiet finality, her golden eyes glinting behind the mask.

Azareel turned to her, his silver eyes steady.

"I don’t fear that," he said, his voice gentle but firm, his presence a beacon of light in the darkness.

"Good," Virelya said, the corner of her mouth quirking faintly—whether in approval or irony, he couldn’t tell. "Because you’ll face worse before we’re done."

Sylvara’s bare feet made no sound as she stepped closer, her root-like toes leaving faint impressions in the soil clinging to the stone floor, her body a seamless fusion of flesh and bark, pale gold skin threaded with glowing veins of sap.

Her flowering hair swayed gently, crimson leaves rustling despite the still air, her breasts half-covered by shifting petals.

She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, her touch warm, grounding.

"You feel deeply, Azareel," she said softly, her amber eyes softening with empathy. "That is your strength. But strength does not keep the Abyss from taking what it wants."

He glanced at her hand, then at each of them in turn—Nyxsha’s fierce gaze, Virelya’s enigmatic stare, Sylvara’s quiet warmth.

"If it takes me, will you end me too?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his silver eyes searching for truth.

Nyxsha didn’t hesitate, her golden eyes unyielding.

"If you make us," she said, her voice raw, the truth in her tone leaving no room for doubt.

The chamber fell still, the weight of her words settling like ash.

Azareel’s gaze dropped back to the corrupted angel, and he knelt, closing its lifeless eye with two fingers, the motion reverent, a silent prayer for peace.

"I hope you’ve found your sky again," he whispered, his voice trembling with sorrow.

For a moment, the chamber was silent, the Abyss holding its breath, the women standing watchfully around him, their forms a shield against the void’s hunger.

But the Abyss never let moments last.

A faint vibration trembled through the floor, subtle at first, like the memory of an earthquake, a whisper of something stirring below.

Sylvara’s flowering branches stilled, her amber eyes narrowing.

Virelya’s coils tightened slightly, her porcelain mask tilting toward the dark beyond, her golden eyes sharp.

Nyxsha’s claws slid out with a slow, deliberate rasp, her golden eyes scanning the shadows.

Azareel rose to his feet, sensing the shift in their focus, his silver eyes narrowing.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice steady but laced with quiet concern.

No one answered immediately, the silence thickening.

Then the sound came—soft, deliberate, heavy with intent.

Footsteps.

One set, then two, then four, each step clear in the silence, echoing off the stone until the chamber pulsed with their rhythm.

The women’s eyes moved, tracking different directions—Nyxsha’s golden gaze locking on the far left, Virelya’s head tilting to the right, her tongue flicking once like a snake tasting something foul, Sylvara’s vines stirring at her feet, curling protectively toward Azareel as her amber eyes flicked behind them.

The sound clarified, coming from all four directions at once, a trap closing around them.

Azareel took a step forward, his heart steady despite the growing dread, but Nyxsha’s arm came up instantly, barring him without a word, her golden eyes blazing with defiance.

Shapes began to emerge from the black mist—tall, humanoid, wings folded tight against twisted bodies.

Four of them, each radiating the same corrupted pressure as the first angel, yet different, as if the Abyss had shaped them with varied cruelties, their eyes glinting with a sickly light through the dark.

None spoke.