But eventually, the rumbling faded, the groaning sky above beginning to still, the flesh-walls no longer convulsing.
The bloody mist in the air thinned, drifting away like exhaled breath.
The Abyss was settling, a temporary peace, a breath held before the plunge, the world pausing to admire its new scars.
They emerged onto a narrow plateau, flat and cold, a few skeletal trees twisting in the wind, their bark peeling like scabs under the crimson sky.
Nyxsha fell to her knees with a grunt, gently laying Azareel down onto the dry rock, his body limp, his breathing shallow.
He didn't move, his silver eyes half-lidded, blood pooling beneath him in a shimmering stain.
"...Azareel?" she whispered, leaning close, her voice cracking, her golden eyes wide with worry.
His eyes opened—barely, a faint glimmer in the gloom.
"Still here…" he murmured, his voice a fragile thread.
