At first, it was a scent—
Burnt wood, acrid and choking, curling through the broken arches and rusted iron gates like a ghost from a pyre long extinguished.
The soft, strange fog of the Abyss that had dogged their steps through the cursed city thickened, twisting into shapes that whispered of smoke and sorrow, the air growing heavy with the phantom weight of flames.
Azareel paused mid-step, his silver-white hair stirring in the mist, his torn robe clinging to his slender frame.
"Nyx…" he said slowly, his voice a gentle thread in the unraveling silence, his silver eyes, widening as the fog coiled tighter.
But Nyxsha was already frozen, her massive form rigid, her black fur rippling as if an invisible wind raked through it.
Her claws drew out instinctively, not in defense but in raw, unbidden reflex, her golden eyes dilating with a terror that made her seem smaller, more vulnerable than the beast she was.
"…No," she whispered, her voice cracking like dry branches underfoot.
