Virelya's fingers flexed once, her golden eyes narrowing behind her mask. "You take pride in this," she said, her voice a breathy hiss, her coils tightening slightly.

"I take pride in being alive," Zathra shot back, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her tail flicking. "And this—" she gestured around the den, at the skulls, the bones, the writhing pit—"is what being alive here looks like. You don't like it? You can leave."

No one moved, the tension thick, the air humming with unspoken challenges.

Azareel stepped forward, ignoring the weight pressing in from both sides, his silver eyes steady on Zathra.

"You've kept this for centuries," he said, his voice soft but probing, carrying a quiet wonder.

Zathra tilted her head, her red-orange eyes studying him like a puzzle, her grin faltering for a heartbeat.

"Why does that sound like pity, angel?" she asked, her voice sharp but curious, her tail stilling.

"It's not pity," he said, his silver eyes softening, his voice gentle but resolute. "It's… wondering how it must feel, to live without company for so long."

Her grin faltered again, just for a heartbeat, her red-orange eyes flickering with something raw—loneliness, perhaps, buried beneath centuries of survival.

Then she threw her head back and laughed, the sound sharp enough to echo off the cavern walls, cutting through the oppressive air.

"Company gets eaten here. Or it tries to eat you. Same thing," she said, her voice bright but brittle, her tail flicking again.

Sylvara's crimson leaves shivered faintly, her amber eyes steady but wary.

"And us? Which are we to you?" she asked, her voice melodic but laced with a quiet challenge, her vines curling slightly.

Zathra leaned back, balancing easily on the bones beneath her, her red-orange eyes glinting with mischief.

"Haven't decided yet," she said, her grin returning, sharp and fearless, as the den's shadows seemed to pulse with her words.

.

.

.

The bone beneath Zathra gave a faint, hollow creak as she leaned her elbows on her knees, chin in her palms, her sun-kissed skin marked by faint, freckle-like scale patterns.

Her bright red-orange eyes—unblinking and predatory—slid toward Azareel, studying him with a collector's curiosity, as if deciding whether to keep him or take him apart, her small reptilian tail flicking lazily.

"Then what now?" Sylvara asked, her tone deceptively light, but her vines curled tighter around Azareel's seat, her pale gold skin threaded with glowing sap veins, her amber eyes sharp with wariness.

Zathra's tail thumped the ground, her grin tugging wider.

"Now," she said, her voice dripping with casual amusement, "you rest. You look like you've been chewed on and spat out."

"Not… inaccurate," Azareel admitted, his silver eyes, softening with a faint smile, his torn white tunic fluttering as he shifted on the mossy stone, his bare feet dusted with ash.

Nyxsha's golden, slit-pupiled eyes narrowed, her twelve-foot feline-lupine form looming, her jagged black fur bristling as she read Zathra like a predator sizing up another—mapping where the teeth were, how fast they might close.

"And we're supposed to just trust you?" she growled, her voice low and edged, her tail twitching once.

Zathra tilted her head, her red-orange eyes glinting with mischief.

"If I wanted you dead, you'd be bones under my feet already," she said, her tone light but chilling, her torn shorts and oversized hunting jacket shifting as she leaned back.

The silence that followed was heavy, the air humming with tension.

Azareel broke it, his voice soft and polite, cutting through the unease.

"Thank you… for not killing us," he said, his silver eyes steady, carrying a quiet gratitude.

Zathra laughed, a bright, almost human sound that twisted into something eerie as it echoed off the cavern walls.

"See, I like that. No snarling, no posturing. Just gratitude," she said, rising in a smooth motion, brushing dust from her hands. "Come. I'll show you where you can sleep."

The den was a vast, uneven cavern, half-swallowed by roots and bone spires, lit faintly by Azareel's lingering sigils and strands of bioluminescent fungus draped like tangled constellations across the jagged ceiling.

Odd piles were scattered around—mounds of leathery hides, shiny stacks of stone, pits steaming with faint heat.

Zathra led them toward a flatter stretch near the back, where slabs of some creature's hide were spread like rugs, their surfaces glinting with dried blood.

"You can lie there," Zathra said, gesturing to the hides. "It's clean enough."

Virelya's golden eyes flicked toward the far wall, her sleek, pale, almost translucent body gliding forward, her torn cathedral veils trailing like ghosts, her cracked porcelain mask tilting.

"And those… are?" she asked, her voice a breathy hiss, nodding toward shapes moving under stretched leather.

"Storage," Zathra said without elaboration, her tail flicking, her grin sharp as she offered no further explanation.

Sylvara sat beside Azareel as he settled cross-legged, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his silver eyes scanning the alien, oppressive shapes—skulls with cracked jaws, claws nailed into rock, a half-dismembered carcass swaying from the ceiling.

"It's… different here," he said, his voice soft, his gaze lingering on the writhing pit in the corner.

Zathra grinned, her teeth catching the faint glow.

"The deeper Abyss isn't for pretty gardens. You adapt, or you vanish," she said, striding to one of the steaming pits and pulling out a chunk of meat, dripping with something that hissed as it hit the air.

She crouched in front of Azareel, offering it.

"Eat."

Azareel looked at it, his silver eyes gentle but hesitant, like someone offered a spoiled relic. "I appreciate the offer," he said softly, "but… I can't."

"Can't or won't?" Zathra asked, tilting her head, her red-orange eyes narrowing.

"It's not for me," he replied simply, his voice calm but resolute.

Her gaze lingered on him, then she chuckled, low and deep, the sound echoing in the cavern.

"You're strange," she said, her tail flicking as she tossed the meat aside for later.

Sylvara's vines slid into her satchel, withdrawing a cluster of juicy crimson-veined berries she had kept stored, their glow faint but warm.

"Here. Something familiar," she said, her amber eyes softening as she held them out.

Azareel's smile warmed instantly, his silver eyes sparkling.

"Thank you," he said, taking one and biting into it, juice catching at the corner of his mouth, the sweet-tart flavor grounding him.

Zathra's eyes followed the motion, and without asking, she plucked the berry from his hand, taking a slow bite from what remained, licking the juice from her thumb with a grin.

"Not bad," she murmured. "Sweeter than they look."

Nyxsha's tail lashed once, her golden eyes blazing with irritation, her claws flexing.

Virelya's mask gave nothing away, but her coils shifted subtly closer to Azareel, her golden eyes narrowing.

Azareel, oblivious to the unspoken currents, reached for another berry.

"Would you like more?" he asked Zathra politely, his voice gentle.

"Later," she said, her red-orange eyes still studying him with that unreadable look, a mix of curiosity and calculation.

The next stretch of time was oddly calm, the cavern's oppressive weight easing slightly as they settled.

Zathra sprawled on her side like a resting beast, idly carving into a chunk of bone with one claw, the faint scrape echoing.

The three women kept close to Azareel, their conversation threaded with soft barbs—Nyxsha's gruff retorts, Virelya's teasing hisses, Sylvara's melodic jabs—none tipping into outright hostility, their wounds still visible but their presence a protective shield.

Sylvara gestured toward a dangling tangle of thorny vines above, their tips glowing faintly.

"She grows those here," she told Azareel, nodding toward Zathra. "They drink the dark like water."

Zathra didn't look up, her claw still carving. "They drink anything that bleeds," she said, her voice casual but sharp, her tail flicking.

Azareel's silver eyes flicked upward, his expression unchanged but curious. "Efficient," he said, his voice soft but thoughtful.

Zathra's mouth quirked, her red-orange eyes glinting. "You really don't flinch, do you?" she asked, her tone half-amused, half-challenging.

"I've learned not to," he replied simply, his silver eyes steady, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

When they finally ate—a mix of Sylvara's berries and something Zathra roasted over a low, pale flame—Azareel stuck to the former.

Zathra didn't press the issue again, though once or twice she reached over to take a berry from his small pile, chewing thoughtfully as if comparing its taste to something only she knew.

"You could get used to this place," she said at last.

Azareel's gaze swept the jagged walls, the steaming pits, the half-hidden movement in the shadows. "Maybe. But I think I'd rather visit."

Zathra's laugh was softer this time, and maybe—just maybe—genuine.

When the meal was done, the air thickened into a quiet lull.

The light from the fungus dimmed fractionally, plunging the den into a dusky twilight. Somewhere deeper in the stone, something rumbled—not close, just the living pulse of the deeper Abyss.

Azareel leaned back against a folded hide, eyelids drooping.

He didn't get far before Nyxsha moved in with quiet certainty, curling her long, muscular tail around his waist and tugging him close until his side was pressed firmly into the warmth of her body.

"You are with me Angel." She growled and gave a low, contented rumble as she settled her chin lightly atop his head, the heavy rise and fall of her breathing already lulling him.

Sylvara rolled her eyes faintly but still reached out a vine to slip beneath Azareel's head, adding a living cushion beneath him.

Virelya's coils remained still, her mask tilted in silent watchfulness, though her gaze flicked once toward Zathra before settling again.

Zathra stretched like a cat, tail curling lazily as she reclined across from them.

Her crimson eyes lingered on Azareel—trapped in Nyxsha's embrace, yet entirely at ease—before she lay down on her side.

"Sleep," she said. "The dark doesn't wait for anyone."

Azareel, already half-drowsy in Nyxsha's hold, managed a quiet, "Goodnight, Zathra."

For the first time since they'd arrived, she didn't grin or tease.

"Goodnight, angel."

The den settled into stillness, the only sounds Nyxsha's deep purr and the slow drip of something somewhere in the dark.