The world hit them like a shuddering drum, the impact reverberating through Azareel's bones with a dull, bone-deep BOOM that echoed in the void.
Then—silence, not the soft hush of sleep or solitude, but a heavy, waiting silence, the kind that felt like eyes watching from the dark, a presence holding its breath.
Azareel opened his silver eyes, but saw nothing.
The crushing blackness clung to his skin like damp silk, swallowing sound, movement, even breath.
His torn white tunic hung loose, his stumps aching faintly, a phantom reminder of wings lost.
He felt the weight of the others beside him—Nyxsha, Sylvara, Virelya—all uncoiling slowly, their limbs shifting, claws and vines brushing over stone with faint scrapes that echoed in the void.
"…Everyone?" he asked softly, his voice barely more than a breath, trembling in the oppressive dark.
"We're fine," Virelya murmured, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes glinting faintly, her coils shifting with a soft rustle. "Mostly."
