In the deepest corner of the heavenly palace, far beneath golden halls and silent shrines, the air was colder than winter’s breath. The dungeons carved into the stone beneath the Celestial Court were not built for mortals. They weren’t built for anything living at all. This was where the gods buried things they feared—not because they were evil, but because they couldn’t be erased.

Abyzou sat in the shadows, motionless but never still.

The faint green light of a jade lantern hung from the ceiling above her, flickering with an otherworldly hue. It cast long, warping shadows across the floor, glinting off the golden rings clasped around her arms—celestial suppressors that bound the acid within her body from taking form. Her skin, dark as midnight and gleaming like obsidian, reflected none of the light. Her glowing red eyes did.

She was tall, lean, otherworldly. Her horns curved gently above her ears, delicate in shape but unmistakably demonic. Her brown hair, cropped short and strangely fluffy, shifted slightly when the dungeon’s breeze changed direction. She did not blink. She barely breathed.

The chains binding her wrists and ankles hummed with divine energy. They weren’t just meant to hold her in place. They were meant to hurt. Holy metal burned against her skin with quiet insistence, like a prayer whispered too close to her heart.

And still, she remained unbroken.

It had been three days since Serina last visited.

Or was it four?

Time no longer moved in any meaningful way inside this stone tomb. There was no sun to rise or set, no stars to mark the passing hours. Only the dripping of water somewhere beyond the cell and the heavy quiet of divine silence.

She had stopped trying to count.

But she had not stopped listening.

Even now, a faint sound stirred in the distance. Boots on the upper stairs. Two guards standing aside. A silence that always came before *her.

Abyzou’s lips curled faintly into something that might have been a smile. If you could call it that.

She shifted ever so slightly, and the chains clanked in protest. The noise bounced down the hallway like a warning. But she didn’t care. She wanted Serina to know she was awake.

The door opened.

And in she walked.

Serina, once her dearest friend, now the gatekeeper of her cage. A figure of fire and righteousness, wrapped in celestial cloth and plated armor. Her pale face was impassive, save for a flicker in her eyes—a fury not quite extinguished, and a grief she could never name aloud.

Her golden armor shimmered in the lantern light, thinner than the usual regalia worn by the Celestial Guard. She’d customized it over the centuries—lighter, more flexible, made for mobility rather than ceremony. A warrior’s armor. A survivor’s.

Her long, blonde hair was tied high in a ponytail, still as pristine as ever. She looked untouched by time. Only her expression gave her away. Tired. Sharp. Too old for her face.