He gently placed the half-eaten berry on a flat rock beside him, as if returning an offering to a sacred altar.
"I'm not something to be given," he said, his voice not loud but final, carrying a weight that silenced the garden's hum. "I'm not a prize. Or a cure. Or a thing to fight over."
Sylvara stared, her lips parted, her amber eyes shimmering with a mix of longing and pain.
"You were warm," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"And I'm still warm," Azareel said gently, his silver eyes steady. "But I don't belong to anyone."
He turned to Nyxsha, his gaze softening. "I'm here because I want to be."
Nyxsha's breath hitched, her golden eyes flickering, her tail stilling as his words sank in.
Her claws retracted slightly, her massive form tensing with something unspoken.
Azareel turned back to Sylvara.
"And you gave me food when I was starving. That means something. But it doesn't mean I'm yours."
Sylvara's vines trembled, her lips quivering as the air grew heavier, the garden's pulse slowing.
"I only wanted—" she began, her voice a fragile thread.
"To be seen," Azareel finished softly, his voice like a balm.
"I see you."
He stepped forward, slow, fearless, his torn robe swaying.
Sylvara didn't move, her amber eyes wide as he reached out, his bare fingers brushing her soft skin where sap-veins pulsed faintly beneath gold-glowing flesh.
"You're beautiful," he said, his voice earnest, "but I am not a vine to be kept."
Sylvara shivered, a ripple running through her vines, her flowering hair drooping.
Something inside her cracked—not physically, but deep, a fracture in the hunger that defined her.
The vines loosened, their thorns retracting.
The petals softened, curling open.
The air exhaled, the garden's pulse easing as if in surrender.
She stepped back, her vines trailing like a fading dream.
Azareel turned to Nyxsha and offered his hand, his silver eyes gentle but resolute.
She stared at it, her golden eyes narrowing as if it were a riddle she wasn't ready to solve.
Then, with a grunt, she took it, her massive paw engulfing his frail hand, her touch firm but careful.
They walked through the garden in silence, the vines parting before them, their crimson leaves drooping as if in quiet defeat.
Sylvara stood alone at the glade's center, one hand resting on the berry Azareel had left behind.
It pulsed gently beneath her fingers, warm, alive—but already fading, its glow dimming like a memory slipping into shadow.
.
.
.
The garden lay still—not dead, not hostile, but suspended, as if holding its breath in reverence.
Sylvara stood alone at its heart, her bare fingers resting on the smooth, glowing surface of the berry Azareel had left behind.
Its warmth had faded, but a faint pulse lingered beneath her touch, like a memory clinging to life.
Her vines hung in loose coils, their crimson leaves drooping, and her flowering hair cascaded over her shoulders, petals falling one by one into the moss below, each landing with a whisper.
Her amber eyes, deep and pupil-less, stared at the berry, her expression unreadable, caught between hunger and something softer, something unnameable.
The berry dropped onto the floor, with a dull thud.
She didn't speak, didn't move, her glowing skin shimmering faintly in the corpse-light.
The garden mirrored her stillness, its trees frozen, its vines slack, as if mourning the warmth that had walked away.
Then—footsteps.
Slow, light, familiar, brushing against the moss with a quiet grace.
Sylvara's eyes lifted, her breath catching as Azareel stepped back into the glade.
His silver-white hair caught the glow of the berry bushes, his torn robe swaying.
His silver eyes, shone with a gentle, unwavering warmth, his smile whole despite the bloodied stumps on his back.
He approached without hesitation, his bare feet silent on the pulsing earth.
Sylvara stared, her flowering hair quivering faintly, a single petal drifting to the ground.
"Did you forget something?"