Then they stopped, the mist parting slightly before them, the demon's gaze pressing like unseen chains.
Sylvara turned without a word, her hand rising in a graceful arc.
Vines whipped around Azareel's sleeping form—fast, precise, purposeful, curling inward like a living cocoon.
The garden shifted violently, thorned vines layering tightly over one another in thick spirals, wrapping him inside a fortress of bark, leaf, and blood-red roses, sealing him away from the encroaching darkness.
The glow of his resting form disappeared, hidden in the heart of the bloom.
The demon's mask tilted slightly, its skull sockets seeming to narrow.
"A futile gesture. You think to hide your offering?" it rasped, its voice a grind of gravel and bone, echoing through the mist like a death rattle.
Sylvara's amber eyes met its gaze, unblinking. "We're not hiding him," she said softly, her voice a melodic whisper laced with steel.
