The Abyss had opened again, its maw wide and unforgiving, and this time… it had chosen them.
Azareel reached out blindly, his heart steady despite the fall, the sudden drop filling his ears with silence louder than thunder.
He clutched Virelya's arm, Nyxsha's fur brushing his face, Sylvara's hair tangling with his fingers—his silver eyes wide but unafraid, trusting in the warmth of their presence even as the darkness roared around them.
The Abyss had taken many things, but not them—not yet.
.
.
The abyss opened like a yawning throat, swallowing the last fragment of Sylvara's blooming garden, leaving only nothingness beneath, the air a howling void that tore at Azareel's silver-white hair and tattered tunic.
He couldn't see—not the walls, not the floor, not even the wind that whipped past, only the distant shimmer of trailing vines and falling moss fading into pitch black.
