The silence after the feeding was suffocating, the chamber heavy with the copper tang of blood and the acrid stench of decayed ichor.
The beast stood in the faint edge-light of Azareel's sigils, its massive frame shadowing the cracked stone, crimson eyes locked entirely on him—not on the women, not on the gore-strewn remains of the fused angels, not on the shattered floor, but on Azareel alone, its gaze piercing like a predator sizing up something unknown.
Azareel's silver eyes,were calm, almost gentle, as if he saw something fragile in the creature that had just ripped apart four corrupted angels without slowing its breath, his torn white tunic fluttering faintly in the stale air.
He stepped forward once, his bare feet soft on the stone, the vines underfoot barely shifting, his voice steady, a quiet beacon in the void.
"You're not here to harm us," he said, the words nearly lost in the cold chamber, carrying a certainty that made the air hum.
