Noah was dreaming about coffee.
Specifically, the smell of it. Hot, dark, bitter salvation. Then the dream shifted to chanting. Rhythmic. Repetitive. Loud.
His eyes snapped open.
"No," he said out loud, face buried in his pillow. "Absolutely the fuck not."
The chanting didn't stop. It intensified.
He rolled over and groaned. "If this is a holy wake-up call, I'm declaring war."
Abel was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed like some kind of tragic statue, brows furrowed, shirt half-on, as if caught in the act of dressing but distracted by the world being stupid.
Noah sat up and squinted toward the window. "Tell me I'm hallucinating."
Outside, dozens of Kindle Ones marched in tight lines through the fleshy main paths of the city. They held scent-lanterns above their heads, chanting in eerie unison. Adults followed behind, also chanting, some of them swaying, others walking with solemn precision. The lanterns left glowing trails that spiraled in the air like smoke signals to dead gods.
Noah stared for a long moment, then flopped dramatically back into the bed. "It's too early for a cult parade."
A sharp knock hit the door.
Noah glared at it. "You answer that. I'm not emotionally stable enough."
Abel rolled his eyes and stood. "Get dressed."
"I'm going to get sacrificed before I even get breakfast, aren't I?"
Abel didn't answer.
By the time they were dressed—Noah in a loose shirt he'd borrowed from a trunk in the corner, Abel in his usual dark layers—Cassian was already leaning against the doorway, grinning like he hadn't been part of a militant religion ten minutes ago.
"Morning, sleepyheads," he said. "You missed the good part. One kid almost passed out from joy."
Noah blinked at him. "Tell me that was sarcasm."
"Nope," Cassian beamed. "It was beautiful."
Noah looked personally offended.
Cassian offered a hand. "Come on. Let me show you around while the incense is still thick enough to make your eyes sting."
They stepped into the streets. The air was heavy with burned spices and ash. People were already returning to their routines, and the city pulsed with a quiet, obedient energy.
Cassian led the way, talking easily. "The Kindled Ones are trained early. Most of them lost their families to the plague—or monsters. Some had parents who sacrificed themselves for the community. That's seen as the highest honor."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "So 'congratulations, your mom died heroically, here's a knife and a hymnal'?"
Cassian shrugged. "It's more elegant in the chants."
Despite the flippant tone, there was something else beneath Cassian's words—a flicker of something deeper. Reverence. Loyalty.
He paused by a shrine made of melted brass and bone, its center filled with fire-runes. "The Saint found me when I had no one. Gave me purpose. He's... not just a leader. He saved us."
Abel's gaze darkened slightly, but he said nothing.
Noah studied Cassian's expression. There was no irony in his voice. No mask. Just simple, unshakable belief.
Cassian noticed Noah's silence and nudged him playfully. "Don't go all serious on me now. I preferred when you were making fun of my height."
Noah smirked. "You are absurdly tall. It's suspicious."
Cassian winked. "I'll show you a suspicious alleyway later. You'll love it."
Noah's grin grew sharper. "If it's shady and morally compromising, I'm in."
Abel made a noise of protest.
Cassian grinned. "Relax. I'll keep him out of trouble. Mostly."
Noah leaned into Abel slightly, smug. "See? He's charming and corrupting. What's not to love?"
Abel looked skyward, as if begging whatever gods still listened for strength.
And so the tour began.
By the time they circled back toward the upper tiers of the sanctum, Noah's legs were tired, his brain slightly overheated, and his mouth very dry.
Cassian had shown them everything: the bone-sculpted kitchens where food was prepared in massive communal vats over slow-burning heartstones, the main dining halls where the community ate in ritual silence, the sealed-off inner temple where Linnéa conducted rites with eerie serenity, and—most striking of all—the palace of the Saint.
It was less a palace and more a cathedral carved from the fused remains of spine and ribcage, glowing with a hundred scent-lanterns and guarded by four adult warriors in mask-helmets shaped like flame motifs. They hadn't been allowed near it. Cassian had simply gestured to it with quiet reverence, and Noah—unusually—had said nothing.
They were just heading toward what Cassian called the "market tier" when one of the Kindle Ones jogged up, breathless and urgent.
"Cassian," the boy said, voice clipped but respectful, "a flesh beast has been sighted near the south farms. They're assembling a hunt."
Cassian's entire demeanor shifted.
One moment he was grinning like the town flirt, and the next he was pure focus. Eyes sharp, jaw tense. He straightened and nodded without hesitation.
"I'll join them. Tell Karo I'll be ready in five."
The boy nodded and sprinted off.
Cassian turned back to Noah and Abel, and the grin returned—but it was dimmer now, more practiced.
"Duty calls," he said, brushing ash off his jacket. "Try not to get into trouble while I'm gone. Or do. I won't judge."
He gave Noah a wink and Abel a nod before disappearing into the smoke-swept streets.
Noah stared after him. "How the hell is he real?"
Abel didn't answer, but his arms were crossed tighter than before.
Before they could even decide where to wander next, a familiar voice rose behind them.
"You haven't eaten yet."
They turned to see Linnéa, hands folded neatly before her, robes spotless despite the dust and movement of the day. Her voice was calm, ritual-soft, but her tone held no edge—just a suggestion practiced into perfection.
Noah tilted his head. "We were going to."
"You should," she said, almost motherly. "There's food and drink ready in the garden hall. The Saint said you are to be treated as guests."
Noah hesitated.
His stomach growled. Loudly.
He sighed. "I swear to whatever half-dead god runs this place, if the food bites back, I'm setting something on fire."
Linnéa's lips almost curved. "It's safe. Mostly."
"Mostly," Noah muttered, already regretting everything.
Abel gave him a look. "You're going to eat anyway."
"I'm going to die anyway," Noah muttered, following them both toward the looming garden hall. "Might as well have a snack first."
Linnéa led them not into the grand hall where the rest of the cult seemed to take their meals, but through a quiet corridor of sinew-draped arches until they reached a smaller, candle-lit chamber tucked between two walls of humming bone. It was cooler here, still and private. The scent-lanterns burned lower, and the air smelled faintly of roasted herbs and iron.
A round table waited for them, already set. Three places. The plates were bone-white and smooth, and bowls were filled with slices of meat—some charred, some steamed—and dense, spongey bread that seemed to breathe slightly when touched by steam. A jug of water sat in the center, the liquid inside unnaturally clear.
Noah eyed the food suspiciously.
"I swear to every tarot card in my deck, if that bread screams when I bite it—"
"It won't," Linnéa interrupted, taking a seat with practiced grace. "It's not flesh-beast. Most of our livestock is domesticated. Not... twisted. The bread grows well in this soil. It's dense but clean."
"To be clear," Noah said, gesturing vaguely at the walls, "your soil is blood-soaked meat."
Linnéa picked up a piece of bread and calmly bit into it.
Then she took a sip from the water jug and nodded. "See? Perfectly safe."
Noah waited. Watched.
Nothing happened. No screaming. No convulsions. No glowing eyes.
"Fine," he said with a defeated breath. "But I'm only doing this because starving makes me cranky."
They sat. They ate.
The meat, to Noah's surprise, was actually... good. Rich. Smoky. Almost sweet. The bread was chewy and earthy, the water crisp and metallic in a way that reminded him of river stones.
"So," Linnéa said after a few quiet bites, "did you sleep well?"
Noah snorted. "Aside from the holy chanting that tried to exorcise my REM cycle? Great."
She tilted her head. "REM... cycle?"
Noah froze for a beat, then forced a casual laugh. "Oh. Just something I call my dream rhythms. It's... slang. You know, for when your dreams get all weird and you wake up feeling like someone stomped on your brain."
She blinked slowly, clearly confused but too gracious to push further.
"It keeps me homicidal," Noah muttered, stabbing a piece of meat a little too theatrically.
She smiled softly—still curious, but letting it go—and turned to Abel. "And you?"
Abel shrugged. "Better than sleeping surrounded by ghosts."
There was a pause.
Linnéa leaned forward slightly, as if they were finally getting to the part she was waiting for. "How did you come here? Not many wander into the Womb of Creation."
"The what now?" Noah blinked.
"This cavern," she said. "The Womb of Creation. That is what we call it. It is the place the Saint led us to when the world above was dying."
Noah cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. "Well. Uh. I fell."
Linnéa raised an eyebrow.
"Really," Noah continued. "Running from monsters, ended up underground, ran into ghosts. Nearly died a few times. Met Abel. Survived together. Barely. The usual trauma-bonding experience."
Abel glanced at him with a side-eye glare, then muttered, "I've been saving your ass ever since. You're basically a chaos magnet with legs."
Noah smiled sweetly. "You like it."
Linnéa chuckled under her breath, then lifted her cup again. "And do you believe in gods?"
The question landed like a sword.
Noah froze.
His smile faltered. He looked at his plate like it had betrayed him.
Abel cleared his throat. "We... don't really know what to believe. We haven't had much experience with divinity, so we try not to claim what we don't understand."
Linnéa nodded. But her eyes never left Noah.
And her smile lingered.
She took another bite of bread, then wiped her fingers delicately. "I see. Well. I hope you stay with us for a long time. If you need anything—a map, a place to train, more food—just ask. The Womb provides for those who surrender to its warmth."