Fallen Angel's Harem in the Abyss

Azareel sat by a shallow pool near the garden's edge, where Sylvara's vines thinned and the moss gave way to cracked stone, the Abyss's chill seeping back in like a forgotten whisper.

He dipped his fingers into the water, watching ripples scatter the faint reflection of his berry-stained face, the surface shimmering with a glow that wasn't quite natural.

The air here was cooler, less cloying, carrying the distant drip of the Bone Ceiling rather than the garden's sweet hum.

"You do realize," came a breathy voice behind him, soft as mist rolling over glass, "most creatures here drink blood, not springwater."

Azareel didn't jump.

He turned with a gentle smile, his silver-white hair catching the faint light, his silver eyes, warm and unstartled. "Hello, Virelya."

The coils came first—slow, sinuous, white as pearl and veined faintly like ancient parchment, gliding across the moss with eerie grace.

They encircled him without touching, a barrier of silk and shadow.

Then her upper half emerged, veils drifting like fog, her damp black hair clinging to her pale skin, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes peering from beneath her cracked porcelain mask, glinting with a mix of curiosity and menace.

She lowered herself beside him, not quite sitting, not quite standing—just hovering, suspended on her own coils like a drifting thought, her presence a cool contrast to the pool's subtle warmth.

"You're alone," she observed, her voice a low hum.

"I guess I am," Azareel said softly, his fingers trailing circles in the water.

"Brave," she whispered, her mask tilting slightly.

"I think I'm just used to it," he replied, his tone gentle, without self-pity.

A pause stretched between them, the pool's ripples lapping faintly at the stone.

Then she said, "That's what makes you soft, isn't it?" Her golden eyes narrowed behind the mask. "That you've been alone... so long, you stopped fearing teeth?"

"I don't think that's what makes me soft," Azareel said, brushing his wet fingers against the moss, leaving faint trails that glowed briefly before fading. "I think being soft is just… choosing not to turn hard."

Virelya blinked behind her cracked mask, her coils shifting faintly, as if unsettled by the simplicity of his words.

"That sounds like something a priest would say before being eaten," she murmured, her voice laced with a hint of amusement and something sharper, like a fang hidden in silk.

Azareel laughed quietly, the sound light and unforced, echoing softly across the pool.

"You're strange," she added, her mask tilting further, her golden eyes studying him as if he were a puzzle with no edges. "Like a lullaby with no end. Or a prayer spoken without belief."

"That's... a very pretty way of saying I confuse you," he said, his smile faint but genuine, his silver eyes meeting hers without flinching.

Virelya drifted a little closer, her coils weaving slow spirals in the dust beside him, her veils brushing the moss.

"I've heard every kind of fear. Tasted every shade of desire. But you—Still One—you never offer either. You look at me like I'm just… someone."

"You are," he said simply, his voice steady, as if stating a fact as plain as the water before them.

A pause, heavy with the garden's distant hum.

Then she leaned in—just enough for her breath to brush his cheek, cool and mist-like.

"I killed a choir once," she whispered, her voice a confession wrapped in silk. "An entire cathedral of angels who tried to chain me down with hymns. I devoured their harmonies until they screamed dissonance."

Azareel didn't flinch, his silver eyes steady.

"Were you scared?" he asked, his tone gentle, probing without judgment.

"Of course not," she replied, her mask cracking faintly with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"No. I meant... were you scared? Of what would happen to you, if they locked you away?" he clarified, his voice soft, like a hand extended in the dark.

Her breath hitched—just barely, a ripple in her coils betraying the crack in her composure.

She looked away, her golden eyes flickering toward the pool's surface.

"I don't remember," she whispered, the words hanging like fog.

Azareel reached up—and gently, slowly, placed his hand on the cracked edge of her mask, his touch light, unafraid.

"I think you do," he said softly, his silver eyes holding hers.

She stiffened, her coils twitching like a storm brewing beneath the surface. But she didn't pull back, her golden eyes widening behind the mask.

"You're not afraid of being seen," Azareel continued, his voice a quiet thread pulling at the edges of her facade.

"You're afraid that you won't recognize what's underneath anymore."

"…You speak like someone who's been unmade," she murmured, her voice barely audible, laced with a vulnerability that felt foreign on her tongue.

"I have," he whispered, his hand lingering, his warmth seeping through the cracks in her mask.

Virelya said nothing, her coils stilling, the garden's hum fading into the background.

Then, without warning, she slowly coiled once around him—not tightly, just enough to feel his presence, her veils brushing his shoulder like a hesitant caress.

And she sighed, the sound soft and resigned.

"I don't like softness," she murmured, her golden eyes half-lidded. "It makes me want to squeeze tighter. To see if it breaks."

Azareel rested his cheek against her shoulder, his voice steady.

"And if it doesn't?" he asked.

"…Then maybe," she whispered, her coils loosening just a fraction, "I let it stay."