Azareel shrugged, his silver hair catching the light as another vine wrapped loosely around his arm—not tightly, just resting, like a child seeking comfort.
"I think they just want to be seen," he said, his voice soft but certain.
Nyxsha exhaled, a loud, tired sound that stirred the moss around her.
She was impressed, horrified, and—deep in her chest, where claws couldn’t reach—sothing else stirred, sothing warr, softer, that she refused to na.
Her golden eyes flicked to the vines, then back to Azareel, who was now gently scratching a leaf above his head.
The vine shivered again, its glow softening, and a low, resonant hum—like a purr—vibrated through the garden.
"Don’t bla when you wake up inside a tree’s stomach," she said, her voice gruff but laced with a reluctant amusent.
Azareel nodded, his smile gentle. "I won’t."
He reached up, scratching the vine again, his touch light and unafraid.
The garden seed to lean closer, its branches curling, its moss pulsing, as if drawn to his warmth.
And then, impossibly, the vine purred, a soft, rumbling sound that echoed Nyxsha’s own reluctant hums.
Nyxsha’s eye twitched, her tail curling slightly closer to Azareel, as if to stake her claim.
She growled, but the sound lacked its usual bite, and the garden’s watchful gaze seed to soften, just a little, in the presence of the angel who refused to fear it.
The garden’s air thickened, a soft whisper of pollen drifting like a sigh from the earth.
The moss pulsed faintly, its tendrils curling tighter around Azareel’s ankles.
The vines that had once played with him—teasing, puppy-like—now moved slower, thicker, their motions daunting, like lungs drawing breath.
Azareel sat at the glade’s heart, his silver-white hair catching the eerie glow of the berry bushes, his silver eyes closed as he leaned into a large vine coiled lazily around his arm.
It rested against him like a sleepy snake, its touch deceptively gentle.
His face tilted skyward, a faint glow emanating from his pale skin, as if the garden’s light had seeped into him.
Nyxsha sat nearby, her massive form hunched, her black fur bristling with unease.
Her golden eyes, slit-pupiled and sharp, darted from vine to tree, her tail low and tense, twitching like a whip ready to strike.
She didn’t trust the stillness—never had, never would.
The Abyss’s silence was a predator’s trick, and this garden, with its warm air and vibrant green, was no exception.
Her ears flicked, catching the faintest rustle, her nose wrinkling at the too-sweet scent of berries and moss.
A new vine rose behind Azareel’s shoulder, smoother and thicker than the others, its crimson leaves glinting like blood in the corpse-light.
It moved with a grace that wasn’t playful but intentional, caressing the scarred stumps on his back with a lover’s touch.
Azareel leaned into it, his breath hitching softly, oblivious to the shift.
Nyxsha’s fur lifted, a low growl rumbling in her chest.
Another tendril curled around his waist, then another across his thigh—slow, soft, but too possessive, too claiming.
The berry bushes flattened, their glow dimming as the garden floor rippled like skin under breath.
The trees arched inward, their branches curving like worshippers bowing in prayer, their roots pulsing beneath the moss.
Nyxsha rose to her feet, her claws unsheathing with a tallic shink.
One step.
Two.
Her golden eyes locked on a vine creeping toward Azareel’s throat—not harsh, not cruel, but forbidden, like a noose tightening with care.
That was enough.
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