CHAPTER 59: CRADLE OF CALM - 2

Sylvara rose to her feet without speaking, her movements graceful, her vines shifting like water parting for her steps.

With a flick of her hand, the curtain of foliage peeled open, revealing the world beyond the garden’s sanctuary.

Azareel stood slowly, his heart sinking as he stepped to the edge and looked out.

Barren land stretched beyond, ash-coated stone and cracked bone-white ruins sprawling like the skeletal remains of a forgotten god.

Charred remnants of towers slumped against the horizon, shattered arches leaning like broken promises, broken statues with eyeless faces frozen in silent screams.

There was no movement, no wind, no birds, no screams—only stillness, heavy and desolate, the air thick with the scent of burnt bone and faded malice.

The cursed city was gone. Completely. Nothing remained but dust and dead stone, a graveyard of what had been.

He turned to the others, his silver eyes wide with quiet horror.

"What... happened here?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the truth pressing on his chest like a stone.

Sylvara’s expression remained unreadable, her amber eyes distant as she gazed at the ruins, her vines curling protectively around her form.

Nyxsha looked away, her golden eyes shadowed, her tail stilling as if to hide her guilt.

Virelya only smiled faintly, twirling a new berry between her fingers, her golden eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and sorrow.

Azareel looked again at the lifeless world outside the blooming sanctuary—and for the first time, the garden behind him felt like the last breath of something sacred in a world that had chosen to die, its warmth a fragile defiance against the desolation beyond.

_______

The garden bloomed softly, its crimson petals unfurling in the hush, their faint glow pushing back the ash-heavy air that clung to the ruins beyond.

Azareel stood at the edge of Sylvara’s sanctuary, one hand resting lightly against a wall of vines that pulsed with quiet life, his silver-white hair catching the faint light like threads of moonlight.

His silver eyes, traced the desolate horizon—ash-coated stone, crumbling towers, roads cracked open like broken ribs, the skeletal remains of a city that had screamed its last.

The breath of something ancient and twisted no longer hung in the air, replaced by a stillness that felt like the aftermath of a requiem.

Because the thing breathing it was gone.

"...So," he said quietly, his voice soft but weighted, cutting through the garden’s hum, "that wasn’t a dream."

Behind him, the women exchanged glances, the air thickening with unspoken truths. Sylvara’s vines twitched at her feet, her amber eyes sharp but guarded, her flowering hair rustling faintly.

Nyxsha’s ears flattened for a moment, then lifted again, defensive, her golden gaze flickering with unease as her tail curled tighter around her legs.

Virelya shifted her weight, arms folded, her coils tightening beneath her, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes narrowing behind her cracked porcelain mask, a berry still twirling lazily between her fingers.

"You remember something?" Sylvara asked softly, her voice a melodic whisper, her amber eyes meeting his with a cautious intensity.

Azareel nodded, his fingers brushing the vines, their warmth grounding him.

"Screams. Cracks in the ground. A... presence. I couldn’t move. But I heard everything," he said, his voice steady but laced with a quiet ache, his silver eyes searching their faces.

He turned to face them, stepping back into the garden’s glow, the moss soft under his bare feet. "You three were there. Weren’t you?"

Nyxsha looked away, her golden eyes shadowed, her claws flexing against her arms.

"It wasn’t supposed to be your burden," Sylvara said, her voice gentle but firm, her flowering hair drooping slightly as a petal fell. "We sealed you in the garden before the fighting started. You shouldn’t have heard anything."

"You were still recovering," Virelya added, her tone almost too casual, her golden eyes glinting as she tossed the berry up and caught it. "One flare of divine light and you were smoking like overcooked prey."

Azareel managed a faint smile, rubbing the back of his neck, his torn robe shifting.

"I feel fine now. Just... trying to understand," he said, his voice soft, his silver eyes lingering on each of them, searching for the truth they held back.

The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of what they’d done, the garden’s blooms pulsing faintly as if holding its breath.

Finally, Nyxsha exhaled through her nose, her voice flat but raw.

"The demon came with a horde," she said, her golden eyes fixed on the ground, her tail thumping once. "He demanded you. Called you an offering."

Azareel’s brow furrowed, but he stayed quiet, his silver eyes steady, inviting them to continue.

"We didn’t let him finish," Virelya said, her voice low, a flicker of satisfaction in her tone as she leaned back, her coils shifting. "He didn’t stand a chance."

Sylvara stepped closer, her amber eyes unwavering.

"We fought. Together. Fully," she said, her voice soft but carrying the weight of their transformation, her vines curling slightly as if remembering the battle.

Azareel tilted his head, his silver eyes narrowing slightly. "You mean...?"

"You saw part of it once," Nyxsha muttered, her voice rough, her golden eyes flicking to him briefly before darting away.

"But this time, we didn’t hold back. I shifted. All the way. So did the others."

Virelya gave a lazy shrug, her mask cracking faintly with a smirk.

"I sprouted a few extra heads. Nothing fancy," she said, her golden eyes glinting with dark amusement.

Sylvara’s gaze didn’t waver, her voice steady.

"We broke the city. It was bound to the demon. When he died, it died with him," she said, her flowering hair rustling as a petal drifted to the moss.

Azareel looked down for a moment, his fingers tightening on the vine he still held, his breath catching as the weight of their words sank in.

He stepped forward—past the wall of vines, into the faint light of the dead world beyond, the warmth of the sanctuary dimming, replaced by a chill that wasn’t physical but felt deep in the bones, like the echo of a scream.