Fallen Angel's Harem in the Abyss
Chapter 41: There is no Calm in the abyss - 5

Chapter 41: There is no Calm in the abyss - 5

Virelya vanished into a crack, her coils slipping like liquid shadow, only to return moments later, shaking her head, her porcelain mask tilted in frustration.

"No exits," she said grimly, her golden eyes flickering. "We’re sealed in."

"Like prey in a trap," Sylvara murmured, running a hand over a pulsating wall of vine-laced stone, her fingers coming away slick with a faint, glowing residue. "Even the soil here tastes... structured."

Nyxsha swore under her breath, her golden eyes flashing with rage as she punched the nearest ridge, her claws scraping sparks from the stone.

"Water?" Azareel rasped from where he leaned against her, his voice a weak whisper, his lips cracked, his throat bobbing dryly.

She turned to him, her expression softening for a flicker before hardening again.

Sylvara reached down, pressing her fingers into the ground, her roots snaking deep into the cracked earth, probing for life.

"...nothing," she whispered, her amber eyes dimming as she withdrew her hand. "No water. No sap. No growth."

Virelya gave a sharp laugh, bitter and edged.

"This plateau is dead. No shade. No spring. No shelter. No food," she said, her coils twitching restlessly.

Azareel blinked up at them, his silver eyes still calm amid the growing despair. "So... we have to go in?" he asked, his voice faint but steady.

"No," Nyxsha said instantly, her voice a snarl, her tail thumping the ground. "We’ll find another way. I’d rather eat my own tail than walk into a city that looks like a bleeding lung."

"But we’re boxed in," Sylvara said quietly, her flowering hair drooping as she glanced toward the cliff.

Azareel’s voice was faint, his body slumping slightly. "It might be safer inside... than starving out here," he murmured, his words laced with reluctant logic.

Nyxsha growled, her massive form tensing, but she stood, hauling him gently onto her back.

"I hate this," she muttered, her voice thick with defeat as they walked back to the cliff edge slowly, no one speaking for a while, the city’s heartbeat continuing its dull thump... thump... thump, a sound too alive to be stone, too steady to be natural.

Down below, the crimson towers rose high, their bone bridges dangling like webs spun from nightmares.

The gates to the city stood open—gaping, mouth-like, carved in the shape of a woman’s smile, teeth and all, inviting them into its maw.

A slow wind rose, not from above but from the city itself, carrying the scent of dust, old oil, rusted blood, and the faintest trace of something sweet—a false comfort that made Nyxsha’s fur stand on end.

They stood there, shoulder to shoulder, at the edge of choice, the wind tugging at their forms like insistent fingers.

Sylvara’s hair of blooming branches swayed in rhythm with the pulse, her amber eyes unreadable.

Virelya coiled loosely around her own wrist, her golden eyes flicking to Azareel. Nyxsha stood with her arms crossed, her tail twitching in disgust, her ears low but her expression firm.

Azareel leaned slightly against her, silent... and watching, his silver eyes reflecting the city’s glow.

"...We go," Nyxsha finally said, her teeth gritted, her voice a reluctant command.

Together, they began descending the jagged path downward, the city’s gates yawning wider, its smile seeming to grow as they approached.

The new hell waited, its heartbeat calling them home.

__________

The air changed the moment they crossed the threshold—not inside the city, not yet, but at the outer gates, where the jagged stone of the plateau gave way to a cracked obsidian bridge that groaned under their weight like a beast awakening.

The wind shifted, carrying a metallic tang laced with the faint sweetness of decay, clinging to their skin and fur like an unwelcome caress.

Vines long fossilized curled around the bridge’s edges like grasping hands frozen in mid-reach, their surfaces etched with faint, shimmering symbols that danced at the corner of the eye but vanished when stared at directly.

Azareel’s breath hitched.

His silver eyes widening as he glanced down at the chasm below, its depths swirling with shadows that seemed to whisper forgotten names.

The bridge swayed faintly, its obsidian surface slick underfoot, reflecting the crimson pulse of the city ahead.

Nyxsha walked ahead, her massive form tense, her black fur bristling, her tail twitching with every step.

Her golden eyes scanned the path, her claws unsheathing instinctively.

"I don’t like this place," she muttered, her voice a low growl that rumbled through the air.

"I didn’t think you liked any place," Virelya whispered, her coils slithering half in shadow, her porcelain mask tilted slightly, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes glinting with wary amusement.

"But... even weirder. This part of the Abyss? It’s too quiet. Even the rot doesn’t smell right."

Sylvara brushed her fingers along the nearest pillar, her glowing skin veined with gold and green reacting to the stone’s chill.

"Monsters dream here. Still. Hollow," she murmured, her flowering hair rustling faintly, petals shedding like silent warnings.

Azareel shivered, his torn robe fluttering in the stale breeze.

He saw faces in the rock—eyeless, mouthless, but... watching, their expressions frozen in eternal vigilance, as if the city itself had eyes woven into its bones.

And then came the illusions, subtle at first, creeping like fog into the mind.

Azareel stepped forward, and for a heartbeat, he thought he saw the sky above them—a vast, star-strewn expanse he hadn’t glimpsed since his fall.

But there was no sky here, only the churning void. He blinked, shaking his head, the vision dissolving like smoke.

A moment later, Virelya froze mid-slither, her coils tensing.

"I heard the choir again," she hissed, her voice laced with unease, her mask cracking faintly under the strain.

Nyxsha snarled, her golden eyes flashing. "Ignore it."

"But—" Virelya began, her golden eyes darting upward.

"Ignore it. Or it will become real," Nyxsha cut in, her voice sharp, her tail lashing as she pressed forward.

They pressed on, the illusions growing bolder, whispering doubts and memories into their ears.

Statues lined the final length of the approach—dozens of them, humanoid forms twisted in poses of agony or worship, hands outstretched, necks craned, eyes empty sockets that seemed to follow their every step.