"Listen, angel, you're going to die here. You're soft, you're dumb, and you're warm. And nothing warm survives in the Abyss."
Azareel nodded solemnly, his blood-matted hair falling over his eyes. "I know."
"Then leave," she roared, her claws striking the stone beneath her feet, cracks spiderwebbing outward like a shattered mirror.
"GO. Go rot somewhere else. Go cry on a rock. Go bleed under some corpse tree. Just—not here. Not in my den. Not in my silence!"
He looked at her for a long time, his silver eyes steady, not with fear or judgment, but with a quiet presence that felt like a weight she couldn't shake.
Then he said the most infuriating thing possible.
"You're not as loud as you think."
Her jaw dropped. "What—?!"
He stood slowly, brushing dust off his knees, his movements pained.
"You're angry. But you're not cruel. You're loud. But your silence is louder."
Nyxsha towered over him, her golden eyes blazing, her tail lashing like a storm. "I will bite your arm off."
He stepped closer, unflinching. "I'll use the other one."
"You'll sleep in the acid pit."
"I'll try not to snore."
"You'll—!" Her voice cracked, her claws trembling.
"Stay," he said, his voice soft but firm, cutting through her rage like a blade through fog.
She stopped.
The wind howled, the tentacles below snapped, but the world seemed to pause.
Her chest heaved, her ears flattening, her tail going still.
Her clawed hand lunged forward, seizing the front of his robe and shoving him backward.
He stumbled, falling onto his back with a soft thud, his bloodied stumps glistening in the fog's glow.
She loomed over him, her golden eyes burning, her voice a raw whisper.
"If you stay, you better break before I do."
Azareel looked up at her, his silver eyes gentle, unyielding. "…I won't."
Nyxsha snarled, her fangs glinting, and turned away, her massive form stalking back toward the cathedral.
But as she moved, her tail curled protectively around him, a silent tether that belied her threats.
All night, it stayed there, coiled around his frail frame, as the Abyss howled and the warmth between them refused to fade.
__________
"grrrrrrr~"
Nyxsha awoke with a low, feline groan, her massive body sprawled across her nest of torn cloth and cracked bones.
Her paws flexed, claws scraping faintly against the stone floor.
Her jaw cracked in a yawn, revealing fangs longer than daggers, glinting in the dim corpse-light filtering through the cathedral's shattered walls.
She arched her back, stretching her muscular, fur-covered frame—her tail curling instinctively, seeking the familiar warmth she'd grown grudgingly accustomed to.
But it curled around…
nothing.
Her golden eyes snapped open, slit pupils dilating with a jolt of dread.
Azareel was gone.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, once, twice, a primal rhythm that drowned out the Abyss's distant screams.
She bolted upright, her black fur bristling, her gaze sweeping the cathedral ruins in a blur of instinct and panic.
The splintered altar was empty.
The rag-pile where he'd slept was undisturbed.
The shattered pillar—still a pile of rubble.
No angel.
No soft, infuriating warmth.
No clumsy humming to make her fur itch.
Her muscles bunched, her tail lashing like a whip.
Predator dread clawed at her chest—not fear, never fear, but something close, something that tasted like loss.
She bared her fangs, a low growl rumbling from her throat, ready to tear the Abyss apart to find him.
Then—