Nyxsha, the Night of Twenty Thousand Screams, did not move.
For the first time in centuries, her massive, feline-lupine form held still, her six limbs frozen beneath the jagged overhang of her cathedral den.
The Abyss was never silent—its drips, screams, and distant pulses were a constant—but in this moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with her.
Her glowing yellow eyes, slit-pupiled and sharp, fixed on the fragile figure curled atop her stomach, his weight barely a whisper against her scarred, black fur.
The boy was small.
Pale, like moonlight left to rot in a forgotten crypt.
Blood streaked down his back in two dark, glistening lines, pooling in the fur beneath him.
At first, Nyxsha thought the marks were some grotesque mortal art—tattoos carved by a sadist's hand.
But as her gaze lingered, her tail twitched, and her claws flexed against the stone. No. Not scars.
Stumps.
Bone-sheared, feather-shredded, still weeping a luminous, gold-flecked ichor that shimmered faintly in the cathedral's gloom.
Her eyes widened, pupils dilating like twin moons.
Wings.
He'd had wings. Which meant—
"You're an angel," she hissed, the word scorching her tongue like a curse.
Her fangs bared, a deep growl rumbling from her throat, low and menacing, like the warning of an earthquake.
"A fallen angel."
Fury surged through her, hot and primal.
She reared upright, her massive form looming as Azareel's limp body slid down her abdomen, his blood leaving a warm, sticky trail.
Her tail lashed the air, cracking against a broken pillar with a sound like a whip.
"I should rip your spine out," she snarled, her voice echoing through the ruins. "I should eat your eyes. I should chew on your precious feather-stubs until you scream for your maker!"
Azareel stirred, a soft groan escaping his lips.
His silver eyes, fluttered open—just barely—and met hers.
There was no fear in them, only a quiet, exhausted apology that made her fur bristle with unease.
Then—rub.
A gentle warmth spread across her belly, like sunlight breaking through a storm.
Nyxsha froze, her growl choking into silence.
Azareel's trembling palm rested on her fur, his touch feather-light but impossibly warm.
"I… didn't mean to hurt your stomach," he whispered, his voice hoarse and achingly kind. "I fell too hard. I'm sorry…"
A soft, golden glow pulsed beneath his hand—not the searing holy light she'd been taught to dread, but something softer, like heated rain seeping into her flesh.
It tingled through her fur, easing a tightness in her muscles she hadn't even noticed, soothing scars that had ached for centuries.
Her body, traitor that it was, purred—a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through her chest like a confession.
Her claws retracted slightly. Her tail curled, brushing against his leg.
Her ears twitched, mortified.
No.
No no no.
"Don't do that," she growled, her voice cracking with panic. "Don't touch—"
Rub.
He did it again, slower this time, a lazy, circular stroke across her warm, fur-covered stomach.
The glow deepened, and the warmth sank further, like a promise she didn't want to hear.
"You're hurt," he said sleepily, his words slurred with exhaustion, as if he couldn't quite grasp why that mattered, only that it did. "You don't sleep. You're cold…"
Purrrr.
Her pupils dilated in betrayal, her ears flattening against her skull.
"I—I'm not cold!" she shouted, smacking the side of her own head as if to knock the warmth out of her system.
"I'm not tired! I don't—don't—!" Her tail thrashed, knocking over a pile of bones with a clatter.
She reared back, her massive jaws snapping.
"STOP IT!"
Azareel blinked up at her, confused, his hand pausing mid-rub. "…Stop what?"
"This! That!" She jabbed a claw at her own stomach, her fur puffed out like an indignant porcupine.
"The—the rubbing! The soft! The—!" Words failed her, her growl dissolving into a frustrated snarl.
"I'm sorry…" he said again, his voice barely a whisper.
Then, as if he hadn't heard her at all, his hand moved—rub—soft, lingering, tracing a gentle circle that sent another wave of warmth through her core.
Puuurrrrrr.
Nyxsha's eyes widened in horror. Her body was a traitor, her instincts a disgrace.
"No! Bad! Bad angel!" she bellowed, and with a wild snarl, she flung him off her belly like a ragdoll.
Azareel yelped—a small, startled sound—as he sailed across the cathedral, bouncing off a broken pew with a thud and rolling to a stop near a pile of bones, his blood smearing the stone.
Nyxsha panted, her fur bristling, her chest heaving.
Her stomach felt… weird.
Nice. Warm.
Like a fire she hadn't known she needed.
She hated it.
She loved it.
She hated that she loved it.
Her tail lashed, her claws digging into the stone as she glared at the crumpled angel across the ruins.
"Stay away from me, you soft-feathered little—!"
Shff.
Azareel moved.
Slowly, limping, his torn tunic clinging to his bloodied frame.
He didn't flinch or cower, didn't beg or run.
He simply walked back to her, each step a quiet defiance of the Abyss's cruelty.
His silver eyes, dim but unwavering, met hers as he stopped at her side.
"Does your belly still hurt?" he asked, his voice gentle, as if he were speaking to a wounded child.
Nyxsha growled, her fangs glinting. "I will bite your hand off."
He tilted his head, his expression soft, almost curious. "I'll use the other one then."
Her mouth opened, a threat forming—but the purr returned, low and unbidden, before the words could escape.
Her ears twitched, her tail froze, and for the first time in centuries, Nyxsha, the Purring Extinction, felt something she couldn't name.
Not yet.