"And Azareel himself?" the Father asked, his voice calm but cruel, each word a blade that cut through the silence.
Nevi'el's voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes fixed on the marble. "He wore the same torn tunic. Still barefoot. His hair tangled, his eyes gentle. They offer him fruit. He smiles."
A long pause followed, a choir of silence that seemed to stretch into eternity, the throne's flames dimming further, the air growing colder.
Then, the Father's voice, calm and cutting: "Then the Abyss has yet to show him its truth."
Nevi'el tried to speak, his voice trembling. "My Lord—"
"Enough."
The word rippled like thunder over glass, the pillars shivering, the light withdrawing as if recoiling from his command.
His bare foot touched the marble, and the room darkened further, the shadows lengthening like fingers reaching for the light.
"For beneath that garden... waits the marrow. The forgotten songs. The deep Abyss."
