Blood and iron

The scent of cooked rabbit still lingered faintly in the cold air as Azrael doused the fire. Ashes scattered across the stone, and silence once more claimed the dungeon. He glanced at Olivia, who was stretching beside the corpse of their last meal, her pale skin flushed with color. Her eyes—those glowing, vibrant pinks—burned with renewed vigor.

"We keep moving," Azrael said, adjusting the bloodstained wraps around his arms. His voice was low but resolute.

Olivia stood smoothly, brushing snow from her thighs. "We've come too far to rest long anyway."

She walked over to him, the sway of her hips unconsciously confident. Azrael tilted his head, curious, but said nothing—until her hands reached for his chest.

Her fingers brushed his collarbone.

"Just a sip," she murmured.

Before he could answer, her fangs sank gently into his neck.

Azrael clenched his jaw, breath catching as her lips sealed over the wound. He could feel his life essence being drawn out, not painfully—but powerfully. Intimately. When she pulled back, her eyes were glowing like twin embers.

"Still delicious," she whispered, licking her lips and turning away with a sultry grin.

Azrael chuckled, rolling his shoulder. "You know, that's starting to sound like a compliment and a threat."

"Maybe it is," Olivia replied, already walking toward the next stairwell.

The descent was slow. Cracks ran through the dungeon walls, as if the very bones of the tower were weakening. When they reached the seventy-first floor, the temperature dropped sharply, their breath visible in pale clouds. They weren't alone.

Hunched shadows darted between frost-covered pillars.

Then came the stomps—like distant thunder—growing louder.

"Company," Azrael muttered.

From the white mist emerged creatures that might've once been rabbits. Now they were monstrosities. Their limbs were thick and gnarled, their hind legs sheathed in an unnatural metallic sheen—like armor forged onto bone. Horns spiraled upward from their skulls like broken tusks, and their red eyes glowed with blind rage.

"New breed," Olivia said, drawing her sword.

"No kidding."

Azrael spun his spear and launched into the fray.

The Ironfoot Horrors—as he would later call them—moved in synchronized packs, coordinating like wolves. Their stomps cracked stone. Every kick could shatter bone.

Azrael manipulated the gravity on his spear mid-swing—heavier for momentum, lighter for speed. Olivia fought beside him, her shadow sword trailing flickers of crimson flame, poison magic enhancing every slash. The two moved like storm and shadow, carving through the monsters.

But the numbers were endless.

Azrael raised his palm and made the enemy's around them heavier, pining a group to the snow—but the effort drained him. Olivia skewered one with her blade, then flared it in fire, cooking the meat inside its armored shell.

"Seventy-one is a warm-up," Olivia said, panting.

Azrael nodded grimly. "Then let's sweat."

Each floor brought more Ironfoot variants. Some had spikes running down their spines. Others left toxic trails in the snow. One variant exploded upon death, sending shards of molten iron flying in every direction.

They adapted quickly. Azrael adjusted faster.

By Floor 73, his clothes were torn at the sleeves, blood—his and theirs—staining him crimson. Olivia, ever graceful, had taken a hit to the ribs but continued fighting without complaint. The warmth from Azrael's blood seemed to quicken her healing, and she drank every few floors.

They learned to use the terrain—narrow halls, elevated pillars, frozen lakes. Olivia set traps with blood-fire runes. Azrael would draw enemies into kill zones using gravity fluxes.

Floor 75 was a nest. Dozens of rabbits curled around a grotesque cocoon of bone and iron.

Azrael looked at Olivia. "You ready?"

She didn't respond. Instead, she stepped forward, arms out. Flames danced along her sword. Shadows wrapped around her like a second skin.

The nest burned.

By the seventy-sixth floor, they were near collapse.

They found a rare moment of respite in a collapsed chamber.

Snow drifted from above where the ceiling had broken, revealing a black, starless void. Olivia sat with her back to a crumbled statue, her sword laid in her shadow. Azrael watched her in silence, then sat beside her.

"You've changed," he said softly.

"So have you."

The final floors were more than a test of strength. They tested will.

The Ironfoot Horrors were evolving. Larger, smarter. One had a third eye. Another could mimic sounds, throwing off their rhythm mid-fight.

The dungeon itself seemed to resist them. Gravity fluctuated. Walls shifted. Floor 79 was a twisted mirror of all they'd faced—dozens of horrors in a vast, echoing arena of cracked ice and shadow.

Azrael unleashed everything.

Gravity surged. Spears became black comets. Olivia erupted in a whirlwind of poison and flame, her eyes glowing as if possessed. She didn't just fight—she hunted.

At one point, a monster latched onto Azrael's back.

Olivia screamed, leapt, and impaled it—then drained it dry midair.

By the end of it, the arena was silent. Their boots crunched over frozen gore.

They stood at the stairwell leading to the eightieth floor.

Both of them bleeding. Both of them smiling.

"You still want rabbit for dinner?" Azrael asked.

Olivia grinned. "Only if you cook it this time."

They descended, side by side.

The flickering fire cast long shadows along the cracked stone floor, painting the world in amber and soot. Beyond the warmth, the rest of the chamber was cloaked in frost. Jagged icicles hung like daggers from the broken ceiling, and each breath misted in the cold air before vanishing into stillness.

Azrael sat with his back against the cavern wall, the worn furs they'd salvaged from the previous floor draped around his shoulders. The Ironfoot rabbit meat sizzled softly on a heated plate of scrap metal beside him—an improvised dinner before the inevitable.

The obsidian boss gate loomed ahead, silent and unmoving for now. Runes glowed faintly across its surface, pulsing like a sleeping heartbeat. They both knew what waited on the other side. They just weren't ready to face it yet.

Olivia approached quietly, her movements fluid but weary. Her armor was scratched and dented, her legs stained with dirt and dried blood. Without saying a word, she dropped down beside him. Her presence was cold at first, then warmer as she leaned against him, her hair brushing his collarbone.

Azrael turned slightly, wrapping one arm around her shoulder and pulling her closer. She didn't resist. Instead, she curled into him, letting herself be folded into the cocoon of furs and shared body heat.

He tilted his head toward her. "You okay?"

She didn't answer.

Her hand slid up the front of his chest, fingers brushing his collarbone, then resting gently on the side of his neck.

Azrael exhaled slowly, letting her decide.

A second later, her lips pressed against his skin. Warm. Soft.

Then came the bite—gentle, practiced. Her fangs pierced his flesh without hesitation, and the first draw of blood sent a tingling shiver down his spine. He tensed instinctively, then relaxed into it.

His free arm pulled her more firmly into his lap, cradling her as she drank. The fire crackled beside them, the only sound beyond their slow, steady breaths. Olivia's hands slid around his waist, gripping the back of his shirt as if anchoring herself to the moment.

Azrael rested his chin lightly atop her head. "Drink as much as you need," he whispered.

Her body was cold against his chest, but it was the kind of cold he'd grown used to. He could feel the strength she was drawing from him, the way her pulse quickened and her breathing grew steadier.

Minutes passed like that. Silent. Intimate.

When she finally pulled back, she didn't look up right away. She rested her forehead against his collarbone, lips parted slightly, her breath warm against his skin.

Azrael ran his fingers through her hair, gently untangling a few icy strands.

"You're warmer now," he murmured.

Her response was a quiet hum—content, sleepy even. Like a predator full for the first time in days.

He leaned back against the wall again, adjusting her in his lap so she could rest more comfortably. Olivia's body molded into his like a shadow returning to its source, her legs folded to the side, her arms tucked against his chest.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn't need to.

For the first time since they entered this hellish dungeon, there was no fighting, no screaming, no blood being spilled—only the quiet intimacy of shared warmth, mutual survival, and something tender growing in the dark.

The fire flickered lower, its glow reflecting off the black gate ahead.

Tomorrow, they would fight again.

Tonight, they held onto this.