CHAPTER 61: CRADLE OF CALM - 4

Azareel glanced at her, his brow furrowing slightly. "You think something else is listening?" he asked, his voice soft but curious.

"We know it is," Virelya replied, her coils shifting, her golden eyes narrowing.

Sylvara said nothing, but the way her hand pressed to the ground—gentle, reverent—told him she agreed, her flowering hair rustling faintly as a petal fell.

Still, none of them moved to leave, the garden’s warmth holding them like a fragile promise.

Instead, Azareel bent down again, his fingers tracing the roots’ growth pattern, the vines weaving around a sunken square of stone—flat, firm, central.

"We could build here," he murmured, his voice soft, almost dreamlike. "A hearth. Something small."

"Home," Sylvara whispered, the word hanging in the air like an unripe fruit, heavy with possibility.

By the time the false stars glimmered faintly in the skyless dark, the garden had expanded enough to reclaim what remained of the city, its crimson blooms casting a soft glow that rivaled the absent sky.

Azareel wiped his hands on his linen sash, unaware of the smudges of ash streaked across his pale skin.

He was tired, but not exhausted—a bone-deep weariness that lingered after healing too many wounds, some not his own.

"Where’s Nyxsha?" he asked, his silver eyes scanning the garden, a faint concern flickering in his voice.

"Collapsed somewhere," Virelya said, flicking a stone with her tail, her golden eyes glinting with amusement. "Said she was going to ’watch for intruders’ and promptly fell asleep."

Sylvara gestured toward a cluster of overgrown root-pillars, gently parted in the center like a cradle, their vines curling protectively.

Azareel stepped over carefully, his bare feet silent on the moss, and found her.

Nyxsha lay curled on her side near the root wall, her massive furred body rising and falling with slow, guttural breaths.

One of her long forelimbs was stretched forward, claws twitching faintly as if chasing something in a dream.

Her tail, furry and thick, coiled protectively around her own flank—and around him.

Her fur was singed in places, dusted with garden pollen and ash.

But even in sleep, the faint glow behind her closed lids hinted at the predator always lurking just beneath.

Azareel sat beside her, quietly, his silver eyes softening as he watched her, the garden’s glow casting gentle shadows across her face.

He hadn’t meant to rest, but her tail, ever possessive, wrapped lazily around his leg, its warmth anchoring him.

Then her arm followed, dragging him closer with a low growl in her sleep, her breath warm against his collarbone—soft, rasped, a sound that was both fierce and vulnerable.

Azareel swallowed, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"I’m not a pillow," he whispered, his voice barely audible, laced with affection.

"Warm..." Nyxsha mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, her arm tightening slightly.

He tried to slide his arm free, his movements careful, but her claws twitched, pricking lightly against his side.

He decided to let it be, settling into the moss with a quiet sigh.

"Still One is being claimed," came Virelya’s low voice, drifting from just beyond the veil of vines, her golden eyes glinting with amusement as she watched from the other side of the cradle, her chin resting on her arm, her veils trailing like seaweed in still water.

"She hasn’t bitten me yet," Azareel said softly, his silver eyes sparkling with quiet humor, his body relaxing into Nyxsha’s warmth.

"Mm. Yet," Virelya teased, her coils slithering closer, silent and unthreatening, like a ripple across still water.

She tilted her head, her golden eyes narrowing as if considering something.

Azareel’s eyes narrowed in return, sensing her intent.

"Don’t," he whispered, his voice firm but laced with a playful warning.

"Don’t what?" she murmured, her voice a breathy lullaby, her coils inching closer.

He felt her tail creeping, the smooth scale-tip brushing the arch of his exposed sole, a deliberate tickle.

He twitched, hard, his body jerking slightly, a muffled laugh escaping him.

Nyxsha growled in her sleep, her arm tightening, pulling him closer, her claws pricking his side with a gentle, unconscious warning.

Azareel grimaced silently, his silver eyes wide as he shot Virelya a look.

Virelya’s voice drifted like a tease. "Your reflexes are slower when you’re held," she whispered, her golden eyes gleaming with mischief.

"...Virelya," he whispered through clenched teeth, "I swear on every feather I’ve ever lost—"

A snort broke the quiet.

Nyxsha blinked one eye open, yellow and unfocused, her voice a sleepy mumble. "...why’re you twitching?"

"I think I’m dreaming," Azareel said flatly, his silver eyes darting to Virelya, who smirked unapologetically.

"Hmph," Nyxsha grunted, burying her face into his chest, her breath warm and steady. "Don’t move. It’s warm."

Virelya smiled faintly from the dark, her coils settling as she watched them, her golden eyes softening.

Azareel closed his eyes, letting the quiet have him, the garden’s warmth wrapping around them like a dream.

The Abyss had taken many things—his wings, his home—but for now, it had given this.

A fragile sanctuary, a moment of peace amid the ruins, where petals bloomed and poking tails reminded him he wasn’t alone.

______

The garden breathed—not in wind, but in rhythm, its crimson petals shifting gently under invisible pulses, vines swaying as if guided by some subterranean heart.

Ash still lingered in the cracks of the earth beyond, dusting the ruins like a shroud, but within the sanctuary’s sprawling bloom, warmth had returned, wrapping the air in a dreamlike calm.

The quiet was soft, almost tender.

Azareel sat in the heart of the garden, pinned beneath a wall of fur, claw, and heat, his silver-white hair tangled with moss, his torn white tunic smudged with ash.

Nyxsha had him clutched in a cocoon of limbs and tail, her massive bestial form wrapped possessively around his much smaller frame, her black fur a warm, inescapable blanket.

Her breathing was steady, her fangs bared only slightly in slumber.

His face was squashed somewhere between the crook of her shoulder and her chest—not unpleasant, warm and soft, but utterly inescapable, her scarred tail curled tightly around his leg.