Two glowing pairs of eyes stared back at him—one amber, deep and pupil-less, radiating a quiet hunger; the other golden and slit-pupiled, glinting behind a cracked porcelain mask with mischievous intent.
"…Good morning, Still-One," Sylvara whispered, her fingers softly combing through his silver-white hair, her touch light as petals brushing skin.
"You twitch in your sleep," added Virelya, draped over a flowering arch above him like a lounging snake goddess, her veils trailing like mist. "I counted seventeen times."
Azareel sat bolt upright—only to get his head caught in a vine, then tangled in Virelya's coils, and finally, a flower bloomed right on his face, its petals tickling his nose.
He flailed softly, his torn robe shifting.
"Wh—what—why are you both—?" he stammered, his voice muffled by the bloom, his cheeks flushing under the dual gaze.
