"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWRRRRR"
The roar rolled through the chamber like a collapsing cliff, a primal bellow that shook the air with bone-rattling force, sending stone dust raining from the ceiling in a cascade of gray ash.
The four corrupted angels stiffened, their grotesque forms—skeletal, crystalline, bronze-armored, and half-melted—jerking as one, their heads snapping toward the dark tunnel from which the sound erupted.
Their rot-shined confidence faltered, their glowing eyes—milky, fractured, molten, and tar-drenched—flickering with a rare uncertainty, as if the Abyss itself had betrayed them.
Nyxsha shifted her stance in front of Azareel, her form bristling, jagged black fur flickering with violet flames that cast eerie shadows, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes blazing, claws half-buried in the cracked floor.
