Azareel blinked once, then smiled faintly, his silver eyes warm.

He raised his hand and, without hesitation, rested it atop her messy hair, his touch gentle, grounding.

The reaction was instant—Zathra's grin softened into something almost childlike, her tail flicking slowly, her eyes half-lidding as she leaned into his palm with a little hum of approval.

"Okay. You can live," she said, her voice light, almost playful.

The other three women exchanged looks—Nyxsha's golden eyes narrowing, Virelya's mask tilting, Sylvara's petals twitching—a silent What? passing between them.

Azareel withdrew his hand, his smile unwavering.

"Thank you, Zathra. For… your dinner," he said, his voice laced with quiet humor.

She laughed—loud, bright, the sound bouncing off the dead stone in a way that felt almost alive, cutting through the chamber's oppressive weight.

"Don't thank me too much, angel," she said, her red-orange eyes glinting mischievously. "You're just lucky I wasn't hungrier."

.

.

The air in the Deep Abyss was heavier and light at the same time.

Zathra walked ahead, her small frame weaving through jagged stone outcroppings and narrow gaps with an ease that suggested she was born from the rock itself, her sun-kissed skin marked by faint, freckle-like scale patterns, her white-blonde hair streaked with darker strands, messy and wind-tossed.

She didn't ask if they were following, didn't slow her pace, her small reptilian tail flicking lazily as she moved.

"Keep up," she called over her shoulder, her voice dripping with casual amusement. "I don't slow down for stragglers. Stragglers get eaten."

Nyxsha's golden, slit-pupiled eyes narrowed, her twelve-foot feline-lupine form padding silently, her jagged black fur bristling slightly, her voice low and edged.

"We're not your prey," she growled, her tail twitching once, a warning sign of barely restrained tension.

Zathra glanced back, her red-orange eyes glinting, a grin tugging her mouth.

"Yet," she said, her tone teasing but sharp, her torn shorts and oversized hunting jacket—stitched from some beast's hide—shifting as she vaulted over a spine of black stone without effort.

Azareel walked between them, his bare feet silent on the slick stone, his torn white tunic fluttering faintly, his silver eyes watching Zathra's back without a trace of fear, his hands loosely at his sides.

"We're grateful for your time, Zathra," he said, his voice calm, carrying a gentle sincerity that cut through the tension.

"Mm," she hummed, her tail flicking as she navigated a narrow ledge. "You can pay me back by not whining when you see what's ahead."

Sylvara's crimson leaves rustled faintly, her pale gold skin threaded with glowing sap veins, her amber eyes narrowing as she stepped carefully, her root-like toes anchoring her to the stone.

"You seem eager to unsettle us," she said, her voice melodic but laced with suspicion.

"I am eager," Zathra said brightly, her grin widening. "You three think you're the top of the food chain because you've got claws and tricks. Cute. I want to see your faces when you realize you're not even close."

Virelya's cracked porcelain mask tilted, her sleek, pale, almost translucent body gliding forward, her torn cathedral veils trailing like ghosts, her golden eyes glinting behind the mask.

"Boasting is the armor of those who fear being known," she murmured, her voice a breathy hiss, her serpentine lower half coiling endlessly.

Zathra laughed, loud and sharp, without slowing her step, the sound echoing off the stone.

"You think I care what you think of me, little fancy snake?" she shot back, her red-orange eyes flashing with defiance.

The tension was tangible, thick as the mist curling along the ground, swirling around their feet like a living thing.

Nyxsha's tail twitched again, her claws flexing, a sign Azareel recognized—she was close to pouncing, her patience fraying.

He broke the silence before it could erupt into violence, his voice even, almost curious.

"You've lived here for centuries," he said, his silver eyes steady on Zathra's back. "That's… a long time to survive in a place like this."

Zathra didn't look back, but her tone softened for a heartbeat, the edge dulling.

"Long enough to know the Abyss never stops trying to kill you. Long enough to kill it back," she said, her voice carrying a weight that belied her casual stride, her tail flicking once.

The path dipped sharply, the stone slick underfoot, the air growing colder, heavier, as they descended deeper into the Abyss.

Azareel's faint glow pushed the shadows back just enough to reveal shapes ahead—twisted trees growing from sheer rock faces, their roots gnawing into the stone like claws, their branches warped and barren, as if something had clawed at them for centuries.

The terrain grew more distorted, the stone pockmarked with unnatural grooves, the air thick with the scent of decay.

After what felt like an hour of silent descent, the ground widened into a cavern.

The first thing Azareel noticed was the smell—a mix of old blood, damp stone, and something faintly sweet, like rotting fruit, cloying and oppressive.

The walls were decorated with trophies: enormous skulls with cracked jaws, bones wrapped in strips of drying flesh, claws larger than his forearm nailed into the rock like talismans, glinting faintly in the dim light of his sigils.

A massive, half-dismembered Abyssal carcass hung from the ceiling by its own tendons, swaying gently in some unseen air current, its flesh glistening with fresh wounds.

In the far corner, a pit glowed faintly red, a pulsing light casting eerie shadows.

Inside, something moved—not free, but alive, several somethings—creatures with missing limbs, broken wings, or twisted spines lay in heaps, breathing shallowly, their eyes glinting with pain and desperation.

Azareel's expression softened—not in fear, but in sorrow, his silver eyes shimmering with empathy as he stepped closer, his voice quiet.

"They're not dead," he said, his gaze fixed on the pit.

"Nope," Zathra replied cheerfully, tossing her hunting jacket onto a pile of bones that served as a seat, her tail flicking as she sat cross-legged atop it. "Can't keep meat fresh if you kill it."

Nyxsha's lip curled, her golden eyes blazing with disgust, her claws flexing against the stone. "You keep them alive to eat later?" she growled, her voice thick with indignation.

Zathra shrugged, her red-orange eyes glinting with unapologetic pragmatism.

"Sometimes. Sometimes I keep them because I like the way they sound when they try to run," she said, her grin sharp, her tone light but chilling.