Fallen Angel's Harem in the Abyss
Chapter 53: Crimson bloom

Chapter 53: Crimson bloom

"Something happened," Nyxsha growled, her voice cracking despite the snap, her tail lashing once before curling protectively around her legs. "He... used too much. His light. It wasn’t normal magic. How is he even able to do it?"

Sylvara said nothing at first, her glowing skin veined with gold and green shifting as she knelt beside him, her flowering hair cascading like a veil of crimson leaves.

Her amber eyes traced the soft pulses of gold still lingering in his fingertips, the slight tremble in his breaths, her brow furrowing with concern.

"What did he do?" she asked, her voice a soft hum laced with worry, her vines rustling faintly as if echoing her unease.

Nyxsha didn’t even look at her, her golden eyes fixed on Azareel’s face, her massive paw resting on his shoulder.

She didn’t want to talk about the cursed souls, the illusion of her past, the screaming horde of her victims, the blood and fire that had consumed her village.

The moment Azareel had stepped forward—glowing brighter than the nightmare—and calmed the very hatred that had once consumed her, forgiving them in a way she never could.

"He protected me," she finally muttered, her voice low, almost breaking. "Like a fool."

Virelya slithered down from the trees, her humanoid form tall and elegant, her damp black hair clinging to her pale skin, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes flickering with a strange mixture of worry and annoyance as she coiled nearby.

"Oh good," she said sarcastically, folding her arms across her chest. "He’s dying again."

"He’s not dying," Nyxsha snapped, her golden eyes flashing with defiance, though her tail twitched uneasily, betraying her fear., "Remember? He is immortal."

Virelya raised a brow, her porcelain mask tilting slightly.

"Then why is his soul flickering like a bad lantern?" she asked, her voice a breathy whisper, her coils shifting as she leaned closer, her golden eyes narrowing at the dim glow emanating from Azareel’s form.

Sylvara leaned closer, her vine-tipped fingers brushing the air just above his skin, careful not to touch, her amber eyes narrowing.

"His essence is divine. You can taste it in the air. Sweet... but faint. Whatever he did, it drained more than just mana," she murmured, her flowering hair drooping slightly, petals shedding like silent tears.

"You weren’t there," Nyxsha muttered, her voice thick with emotion, her paw tightening on Azareel’s shoulder.

"No," Sylvara said softly, her gaze lifting to meet Nyxsha’s.

"But I know what it looks like when someone gives more than they should."

They all fell silent for a moment, the garden’s vines rustling faintly, the distant heartbeat of the city pulsing like a mocking reminder of their fragility.

Then Azareel stirred, barely, a faint, weak smile tugging at his lips as his silver-gray eyes fluttered open, dim but alive.

"...Nyx?" he whispered, his voice a fragile thread, his hand twitching toward hers.

Nyxsha leaned in close, her golden eyes wide with relief and lingering fear.

"I’m here," she said, her voice softening, her tail curling around him protectively.

"Did it... work?" he asked, his words slurred with exhaustion, his silver eyes searching hers.

"What?" she whispered, her brow furrowing.

"Are you safe?" he murmured, his smile faint but genuine, his concern cutting through his pain like light through shadow.

Nyxsha’s throat tightened, tears pricking at her eyes as she held him closer.

"Idiot," she choked out, her voice breaking with a mix of anger and gratitude.

Sylvara watched carefully—something blooming in her chest that wasn’t jealousy, but wasn’t comfort either, a quiet ache as she saw the depth of their bond.

Virelya moved beside him, folding her arms as her tail coiled lightly around his ankles, a subtle claim amid her concern.

"You push yourself too far, angel," she murmured, her golden eyes softening behind her mask.

"I had to," Azareel said faintly, his eyes fluttering as he fought to stay awake. "You were all scared..."

He looked up at the glowing vines, the warmth of the garden soaking into his bones, his silver eyes reflecting their light.

"This place feels nice..." he whispered, his voice trailing off as his eyelids grew heavy.

Sylvara finally exhaled, her amber eyes resolute. "It’s yours now. Rest here," she said, her vines blooming brighter, wrapping the glade in a protective cocoon.

"You say that like it’s a gift," Virelya muttered, but didn’t remove her tail, her coils shifting to cradle him more comfortably.

"I didn’t say just his," Sylvara added, her eyes narrowing slightly as she glanced at the others. "We all needed a place. I made it possible."

Nyxsha didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on Azareel as his breathing steadied, his glow slowly stabilizing, his body curling slightly into the moss like a child drawn to warmth.

"I guess," she murmured, her voice barely audible, "your garden isn’t useless after all."

Sylvara almost smiled.

Almost.

Then, slowly, the group settled around him—Sylvara near his side, her vines gently covering his chest with warmth, petals blooming like a blanket of light.

Virelya at his feet, her tail curled like a guard ring, her golden eyes watchful.

Nyxsha curled behind him, her hand resting against his back, her golden eyes soft in the glowing haze.

No words.

Just the rhythm of breath, and the pulse of life—a fragile sanctuary in the heart of the Abyss.

For the first time since the Abyss broke... they took long breaths.

And the garden, sensing it, bloomed brighter, its crimson petals unfurling like a promise of something enduring amid the decay.

.

.

Azareel didn’t stir, bathed in a soft hush, sleeping at the heart of the blooming garden—his body nestled on a mossy bed of glowing vines Sylvara had shaped with reverence, petals unfurling around him like protective wings.

Cradled under the crimson leaves, his expression remained serene, peaceful, vulnerable—too vulnerable, his silver-white hair splayed like moonlight on the moss, his torn robe rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Too vulnerable for the three women circling him like predators debating the division of a prize.

"He’s just lying there," Virelya whispered, crouched dangerously close, her porcelain mask inches from his face, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes glowing with curiosity, her damp black hair clinging to her pale skin as she leaned in.

"Still One sleeps like prey. We could draw on his face..."