Azareel blinked once, then smiled faintly, his silver eyes warm.
He raised his hand and, without hesitation, rested it atop her messy hair, his touch gentle, grounding.
The reaction was instant—Zathra's grin softened into something almost childlike, her tail flicking slowly, her eyes half-lidding as she leaned into his palm with a little hum of approval.
"Okay. You can live," she said, her voice light, almost playful.
The other three women exchanged looks—Nyxsha's golden eyes narrowing, Virelya's mask tilting, Sylvara's petals twitching—a silent What? passing between them.
Azareel withdrew his hand, his smile unwavering.
"Thank you, Zathra. For… your dinner," he said, his voice laced with quiet humor.
She laughed—loud, bright, the sound bouncing off the dead stone in a way that felt almost alive, cutting through the chamber's oppressive weight.
"Don't thank me too much, angel," she said, her red-orange eyes glinting mischievously. "You're just lucky I wasn't hungrier."
