"I hadn’t eaten anything warm since I fell."
Sylvara’s smile deepened, not seductive or false, but raw, trembling with a quiet need.
"Of course, dear," she whispered, her voice like honey carried on a breeze. "You were hungry."
Nyxsha’s ears flicked, her claws flexing as she stared, incredulous, at the exchange.
The garden’s stillness felt like a trap tightening around them, and Azareel’s naive gratitude was like tossing kindling into its jaws.
She growled under her breath, her tail thumping the moss, sending a ripple through the pulsing ground.
Sylvara turned to her, her movents slow, her voice wrapped in wind and sweetness. "Do you want to know why I didn’t eat him?"
Nyxsha’s golden eyes narrowed, glowing with defiance.
"Because I would’ve shredded your bark if you tried?" she snapped, her voice sharp, cutting through the glade’s deceptive calm.
"No," Sylvara said, her amber eyes unblinking.
She extended an arm, her vines unfurling lazily like trailing sleeves of living silk.
They parted like a blooming flower, revealing a grim collection—hollow bones, buried teeth, rusted tal trinkets—the remnants of countless others, long forgotten in her roots.
"None of them thanked ," she said, her voice soft but heavy.
"None looked at my flowers without fear. None touched my vines without trembling. None..." Her voice dipped, trembling with a faint, aching tremor, "...called what I offered kind."
Azareel blinked, mid-bite on another berry, juice dribbling down his chin.
He swallowed, his silver eyes wide with curiosity, as if her words were just another story to savor.
Sylvara’s voice shook, her flowering hair blooming brighter.
"He did." She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the pulsing earth. "And that... was enough to make bloom again."
Nyxsha rolled her eyes so hard a leaf cracked under her paw, the sound sharp in the quiet glade.
"Right. He ate your ripe round fruit, said thank you, and now you’ve found the aning of love. Wonderful.," she growled, grabbing Azareel’s wrist with a clawed hand. "Let’s go angel, before she starts composing petal poetry and stitching together a flower crown."
Sylvara’s vines didn’t move, yet the garden shifted.
Tall stalks rose from the mossy floor, their tips thorned and gleaming.
The trees leaned closer, their branches weaving a canopy that blocked the exit path.
Vines curled in front of Nyxsha’s outstretched leg, not aggressive but intimidating, like a gate closing softly.
She snarled. Her fur bristled, claws sliding free with a tallic shink.
"What the fuck are you doing, dryad?" she growled. "You’d better explain yourself — unless you want to be torn apart, leaf by leaf."
Sylvara’s voice stayed silken, her amber eyes locked onto Nyxsha’s like a predator sighting prey.
"Give him to ," she said.
Each word landed heavy, slow, steeped in a hunger that made her tranquil smile feel like a mask.
Nyxsha’s breath hitched.
Her tail froze mid-snap.
Golden eyes narrowed, her hulking form tense and coiled.
Azareel blinked.
Still holding a half-eaten berry, he tilted his head, brow furrowed.
"Huh?" he mumbled, juice saring his lips.
Sylvara’s eyes shimred faintly, amber turned molten.
"He is warmth," she murmured. "He is grace. And he is mine."
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