Zathra laughed, a quick, warm burst that carried a bite sharp enough to make Nyxsha's fur bristle.

"Oh, you call this sharing?" she teased, crouching in front of Azareel, close enough that he could see the faint reptilian scale patterns shimmering across her shoulders.

"You look bored, Soft Steps. Want me to show you something fun?" Her red-orange eyes glinted with mischief, her tail flicking.

Azareel blinked at her, his silver eyes warm and patient.

"You've been showing me bones for two hours, Zathra. They're… interesting," he said, his voice gentle, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Her grin widened, sharp and fearless.

"I wasn't talking about bones," she said, leaning forward, her cheek almost brushing his as she whispered, "I can teach you how to run in the dark without tripping over your own—"

"Back. Off." Nyxsha's claws flexed, scraping the stone beside her, her golden eyes blazing with possessive fury.

Sylvara, half-reclined on a bed of her own curling vines at the far wall, her pale gold skin threaded with glowing sap veins, her crimson leaves rustling faintly, let out a soft hum.

"The two of you are circling him like rival predators over a very polite rabbit," she said, her amber eyes glinting with amusement, her flowering hair swaying gently despite the still air.

"I'm not a rabbit," Azareel murmured, his silver eyes sparkling with quiet humor, which only made Zathra laugh again, her voice echoing off the cavern walls.

She slid down to sit cross-legged in front of him, still leaning uncomfortably close, her red-orange eyes gleaming.

"If you're not a rabbit, prove it. Sit with me for a while," she said, her tone teasing but challenging.

Nyxsha's tail twitched, her voice flat. "He's sitting," she said, her golden eyes narrowing.

"With you," Zathra pointed out, mock-offended, her tail flicking. "You've had him all morning. Sharing means rotation."

"I rotate him when I want to," Nyxsha said, her voice a low growl, her claws flexing slightly.

Azareel shifted slightly, glancing between them with a soft, tired smile that somehow made the tension worse.

"I can… sit between you?" he offered, his voice gentle, trying to diffuse the brewing storm.

Both women froze, then in unison: "No."

Zathra recovered first, leaning back on her hands, her grin widening.

"Tell you what. Let's make it fair. We each… show him something nice. He picks," she said, her red-orange eyes glinting with mischief.

Nyxsha narrowed her eyes, her golden gaze sharp. "No games," she growled, her tail tightening around Azareel.

"Oh, come on, Big Fur. You scared of losing?" Zathra teased, her tail flicking like a taunt.

"I don't lose," Nyxsha said simply, her voice unyielding.

The game began anyway, a playful challenge cutting through the den's oppressive air.

Zathra started, tossing Azareel a piece of preserved meat from her stash, grinning when he caught it deftly.

"Taste of the Abyss. Don't worry, it's not poisoned," she said, her red-orange eyes gleaming.

Azareel examined it, his silver eyes gentle but hesitant, then set it aside.

"Thank you, but… I still don't eat that," he said, his voice soft but firm.

Nyxsha's smirk was faint but triumphant, her golden eyes glinting as she pulled a cloth pouch from her belt, pouring a few crimson-veined glowberries into his hand without a word, their faint light pulsing warmly.

Azareel's face lit up—not like the berries, but with the quiet joy of someone remembered, his silver eyes sparkling.

"Thank you," he said, biting into one, the sweet-tart juice catching at the corner of his mouth.

Zathra groaned dramatically, her tail flicking.

"Cheater. You're just playing to his herbivore side," she said, leaning forwar.

Nyxsha's low growl rattled the floor, her golden eyes blazing with irritation, her claws flexing.

Virelya, who had returned silently from the shadows, her sleek, pale, almost translucent body gliding forward, her torn cathedral veils trailing, watched with a tilted porcelain mask, her golden eyes narrowing.

"Bold," she hissed softly, her coils shifting closer to Azareel's side, a subtle claim.

Azareel, entirely unbothered, handed Zathra a berry, his silver eyes warm.

"If you like them, I can give you more," he said, his voice gentle, oblivious to the tension.

Zathra grinned wide, her tail flicking like an excited cat.

"Careful, Soft Steps. I might take the hand too," she teased, her red-orange eyes gleaming with playful challenge.

Zathra curled her reptilian tail loosely around his ankle, tugging just enough to make him lean toward her, her grin sharp.

Virelya's coils brushed his other side, her golden eyes watching with quiet amusement, her mask cracking faintly.

Sylvara watched from her vines, her amber eyes glinting with amusement.

"You two are like storms fighting over a lantern. And the lantern doesn't even know it's keeping you warm," she said, her voice melodic, her crimson leaves rustling.

Eventually, Zathra leaned back with a theatrical sigh, her tail flicking.

"Fine. You win, Big Fur," she said, her red-orange eyes glinting at Nyxsha.

Nyxsha's ears twitched, her golden eyes narrowing.

"What?" she growled, her tail tightening around Azareel.

"I'm letting you win," Zathra said, winking at Azareel, her grin mischievous.

Nyxsha's fangs flashed.

"I don't need you to let me win," she snapped, but her tail relaxed slightly, a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

Azareel, caught in the middle, smiled faintly, his silver eyes warm. "I'm… glad you're all here," he said, his voice gentle, carrying a quiet sincerity that softened the air.

Neither Nyxsha nor Zathra answered, but the den felt warmer, the tension easing into a fragile camaraderie.

.

.

Time passed but the Abyss did not brighten, its black air clinging to everything, thick and still, as if time itself had lost its way in the suffocating void.

Zathra's den—a sprawling cavern of jagged stone, heaps of bleached bone, and scattered trophies—glowed faintly with the pulsing blue of bioluminescent fungus draped along the high rock ribs like ghostly constellations.

Azareel sat alone on a smooth patch of stone, barefoot as always, his silver-white hair trailing over his shoulders, his torn white tunic catching the faint light.

In one hand, he held a bit of chalky shale Zathra had tossed aside the night before; in the other, he steadied himself, careful not to smear the lines he drew with quiet reverence, as if praying without expecting an answer—slowly, because it felt right.

He traced curves—an arch not of stone but of song, a pool of air so clear it reflected a sky it pretended to own, and along the arch, little marks that were scratches to others but names to him, each one a memory etched in the dark.

Heavy steps padded through the den—heavy, deliberate—and a grumbling voice followed.

Nyxsha, her twelve-foot feline-lupine form stalking past the trophy ribcage high as a wagon, past the skeletal throne Zathra sometimes sprawled across..

"I'm hunting," she'd announced earlier, her tail lashing. "I don't need your scraps."

Zathra had yawned from her heap of hides and bones.

"I wasn't sharing anyway, Big Fur." They'd glared until the air hissed, then Nyxsha had gone, followed by Virelya's silent, veiled form, her porcelain mask glinting as she breathed, "I echo," and slipped into the dark.

Now, the den quieter, emptied of its loudest storms, Zathra and Sylvara remained.

Azareel, alone on the floor, drew the last curve of his cloister, the faint glow of his skin illuminating the stone.

Zathra spotted him first, her ember-bright red-orange eyes narrowing with curiosity and a flicker of something softer, like a smile before it became a grin.

She took three steps toward him, her bare feet whispering over the stone, her torn shorts and oversized hunting jacket shifting.

Sylvara moved before the fourth, a single vine uncoiling from her hip with ribbon-like grace, brushing Azareel's shoulder.

"Come," she said, her voice warm, her too-soft smile a veil over her amber eyes. "The floor is cold."

Zathra's reptilian tail flicked, a small snap in the stillness, her red-orange eyes glinting.

Sylvara didn't look at her, leading Azareel to a cracked stretch of stone like parched ground.

She set her root-like toes in the fissures, breathed once, and the den transformed—vines slipping from her palms and crimson hair like quiet water, threading into cracks, surfacing to weave a shallow cradle.

Leaves unfurled, tiny bulbs swelling with berry-soft glow, the iron and storm scent softening under green perfume.

Zathra snorted. "Showing off," she said, her tail flicking again.

"Making a chair," Sylvara replied pleasantly, her amber eyes glinting. "You are welcome to sit," she added, a generous tone laced with a dare.

Zathra turned her head, pretending sudden interest in the far wall.

"I have to reorganize a skull pile," she announced, striding two steps before pausing, glancing back, and absolutely not watching them while pretending not to.

Azareel settled onto the woven seat with careful grace, as if fearing to bruise kindness, tucking his legs beneath him and tracing the cloister's arch again, smaller now, on the leaves near Sylvara's knee.

"What is it?" she asked, watching his hand, her amber eyes soft.

"A cloister," he said, his smile tired, distant, his silver eyes shimmering.