The oppressive stillness of the Deep Abyss settled over Azareel like a heavy blanket, the darkness absolute—not the soft dimness of night, but a void that swallowed light whole, its weight pressing on his chest.
If not for the faint glow radiating from his skin, a soft shimmer of angelic light, he might have thought his eyes were still closed.
Two glimmers floated in the blackness, close enough to feel the heat of their stare, bright orange-red like molten embers.
Azareel's vision adjusted, and the truth formed—Zathra's eyes, watching him without shame, crouched just in front of him, elbows on her knees, chin in her palms, her sun-kissed skin marked by faint scale patterns, her white-blonde hair messy and streaked.
Her grin was predatory yet oddly pleased, a flicker of curiosity in her red-orange gaze.
Azareel didn't flinch, his voice coming quiet and warm, cutting through the stillness.
"Good morning, Zathra," he said, his silver eyes, softening with a gentle smile.
