It roared—an awful sound of pain and rage, its divine wing spasming, its warped one bursting with ichor that boiled away in the light.
For the first ti since it appeared, the corrupted angel looked shaken, its milky blue eye flickering, its certainty faltering.
The won pressed forward, step by step, forcing it toward the edge of the holy light, dragging it back each ti it tried to retreat into the mist, battering it with fang, claw, thorn, and fla.
"You won’t touch him," Virelya hissed, her six heads speaking in unison, their golden eyes blazing.
"You won’t win," Nyxsha growled, her golden eyes burning with primal fury, her massive form unyielding despite her wounds.
Sylvara’s voice was cold, almost pitying, her amber eyes steady. "And you will fall," she said, her thorned spear twisting deeper, crimson sap mixing with the angel’s ichor.
The angel struck back with a scream that split the air, its monstrous wing flaring, blasting rot in every direction, a wave of despair that pressed against the holy barrier.
Azareel’s glyphs flared brighter, holding the decay at bay, but the won were driven half a step back, their forms trembling under the sheer force.
Still, they stood, their monstrous forms unyielding, their wounds bleeding but their resolve unbroken.
They struck again—Nyxsha’s claws caught the angel’s abyssal wing, violet flas bursting along the blackened mbrane, devouring rot and sinew in a violent cascade that lit the void with searing light.
Virelya’s venom burned into its flesh, sizzling through layers of corrupted muscle, while Sylvara’s thorned arms coiled tighter around its chest, thorns biting deep and drawing thick streams of black ichor that hissed where they fell, eating holes into the polished stone.
The angel scread, its voice splitting the air like a dying storm, a wail of rage and despair that rattled the ground beneath their feet.
It twisted in desperation, divine eye blazing with fevered fury, its warped form pulsing with rot—fighting with a strength born of centuries of abandonnt, a grotesque reflection of what Azareel himself might beco if his light ever faltered.
"Now!" Virelya’s masked heads hissed in unison, their golden, slit-pupiled eyes blazing with cold precision.
Her serpentine coils surged forward, venom dripping from her fangs as she struck, her tendrils lashing to bind the angel’s limbs.
Nyxsha roared, her towering form driving forward with primal force, muscles rippling under her black fur, violet flas flaring like a crown of wrath.
Her jagged claws clamped onto the base of the monstrous wing and wrenched, bone cracking, tendons tearing with a sound like wet stone breaking.
The corrupted wing ripped free, hitting the ground with a heavy, twitching thud before collapsing into a puddle of dissolving rot, the air thick with the stench of decay.
The angel staggered forward, its single radiant wing flaring desperately to keep its balance, its divine half gleaming in the fading light, its lted half spasming with writhing tendrils.
It retaliated, its hand snapping up—not toward the won, but toward Azareel, its milky blue eye blazing with desperate certainty.
Black light erupted from its palm, spiraling into a compressed sphere before detonating into a shockwave of pure corruption, a wave of despair that scread through the air.
The blast slamd into Azareel’s holy barrier, the glowing glyphs flaring blindingly bright for a heartbeat before several shattered like glass, fragnts of light scattering into the void like dying stars.
The black mist rushed in instantly, thick tendrils curling toward Azareel like hungry claws, seeking his light, his warmth.
But it never touched him.
Nyxsha’s massive body crashed down between him and the incoming darkness, her violet flas roaring high, a wall of fire and fury that burned the mist away.
"Stay behind !" she barked, her golden eyes blazing, not even glancing back, her wounds dripping blood—black and violet—that sizzled on the ground.
Sylvara and Virelya didn’t waste the opening.
They struck as one—Sylvara’s thorned limbs spearing deep into the angel’s side, crimson sap mixing with its ichor, her flowers blooming wide with screaming faces that wailed in silent agony.
Virelya’s coils crushed what was left of its torso, her four remaining heads biting deep, pumping venom that blistered and blackened the angel’s pale flesh, leaving steaming pits.
The angel roared again, thrashing violently, its movents cracking the stone, but every strike only tore it further apart under their relentless grip.
Nyxsha pounced, her claws sinking deep into its chest, driving it to the ground with a force that shattered the floor beneath, violet fire pouring into the wound, searing away what little beauty remained on its angelic half.
It coughed—a wet, broken sound—and collapsed to one knee, ichor pooling beneath it, its abyssal rot sputtering weakly under their combined assault.
Virelya coiled tighter, her golden eyes cold.
Sylvara’s thorns dug deeper, her bark-like skin cracking with the effort.
Nyxsha raised her claws high, violet flas curling around her arm like a burning blade, poised for the finishing strike.
But just before it fell—a figure moved between them.
Azareel.
His silver eyes glowed softly in the half-light, his posture calm but unyielding, his torn white tunic fluttering as he stepped forward, his bare feet leaving faint trails of radiance on the decay-withered ground.
"No," he said, his voice steady, angelic light radiating faintly from his body, a gentle glow that pushed back the lingering mist.
The battlefield froze, the won’s monstrous forms pausing mid-strike, their eyes—golden, amber, and slit-pupiled—wide with shock.
The corrupted angel’s divine eye widened, its milky blue eye flickering, its warped form trembling as it stared at him.
"Azareel, what are you doing?!" Sylvara cried, her thorned limbs trembling, her amber eyes wide with fear.
"Get back! You stupid Angel" Nyxsha roared, her claws still raised, her violet flas flickering as she fought to hold her position.
Virelya’s heads hissed, their golden eyes narrowing. "You can’t—" she began, her coils tightening protectively.
But Azareel raised a hand, his silver eyes steady, his voice soft but resolute.
"I don’t want to hurt him," he said, his gaze locked on the corrupted angel, his heart aching for the creature’s pain, its sorrow a mirror of what he could beco.
"He’s not fighting for hate. He’s fighting for ho... Just like ."
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