Noah used to count the days.
Not with numbers. Not with marks on a wall. Just a rhythm in his body—the quiet cycle of tension and release, wake and sleep, hope and disappointment. But here, that rhythm had shattered. Somewhere along the way, in the warmth of this golden cage, time had stopped meaning anything.
It wasn't just the absence of night. It was the stillness. The unchanging glow that pressed down on him like velvet suffocation. The world outside had been viscera and horror, but at least it obeyed the rules of reality. Light and dark. Hunger and rest. Here in the Womb, those rules had been rewritten—and Noah had no say in the new language.
The worst part? He didn't know how long he had been here. Four days? A week? More? Abel had guessed once, but even he sounded unsure. There were no shadows. No clocks. Just the soft, golden glow bleeding from the stone above like a sun that had forgotten how to set.
And that wasn't right. Noah knew it wasn't right.
When he and Abel first arrived, when they stood atop the stone mountain overlooking the Womb from above, they hadn't seen a dome of light. No sun, no sky. Only flickers of distant fire.
So where had it come from?
The question had wormed its way into Noah's brain, burrowing deep. This light wasn't natural. It couldn't be. And if it was magic, it wasn't the kind you learned in a book. It was something older. Hungrier. Something built on sacrifice and secrets.
And yet, here it was—this warm, comforting lie that bathed the cult in peace and made them pray.
The warmth from above—the golden light that bled from the cave ceiling—felt more artificial with each passing cycle. It didn't flicker. Didn't change. It was the same no matter where he stood. And the worst part? He had never seen it from the outside. Not once. When he and Abel stood atop the stone mountain days ago, they'd seen only a distant firelight. No glowing sun. No sky. No dome of gold like the one overhead now.
So what the hell was it?
A trick. A lie. A lamp lit by blood.
He sat with Abel near the edge of one of the older, quieter chambers—a half-walled terrace carved into bone and stone where overgrown root-vines coiled and shifted like sleeping snakes. They were alone. The Kindled Ones had scattered for mid-cycle training. The scouts were gone.
Noah's body ached with slow, stubborn soreness. The hunt had left him with bruises on his arms and the sharp ghost of adrenaline in his veins. Abel was polishing his blade with steady strokes, sitting cross-legged, his back straight and shoulders tense.
It was strange how easy the silence between them had become.
"You're staring," Abel said without looking up.
"I was thinking."
"About?"
Noah didn't answer immediately. He shifted, drawing his knees to his chest.
"How long have we been here?" he finally asked.
Abel paused. Then frowned. "…Four days?"
"Are you sure?"
"No."
Noah stared at the wall, where thin strands of bioluminescent moss curled upward like veins.
"There's no night. No rest. No way to tell if we're even awake or dreaming. I keep closing my eyes, but I don't remember sleeping."
Abel turned toward him then, studying his face. "You're unraveling."
Noah gave a sharp, tired smile. "No. I'm adapting. Or losing it. Hard to say."
Abel didn't smile. He set his blade aside and leaned closer.
"You're not wrong," he said. "Something about this place feels... slow. Like the sun freezes time and just melts our edges."
That was it. That was exactly it. Like erosion of the soul.
"We should leave," Noah said, softly.
Abel didn't flinch. He didn't argue. He just nodded once.
"We'll need supplies. Weapons. Rations. A way to slip past the guards."
"And Cassian?" Noah asked.
Abel was quiet for a beat. "He can't come with us."
Noah nodded slowly. The ache in his chest surprised him.
They didn't speak for a while after that. The plan didn't need more words. They both understood the stakes. No one just left the Saint's Womb. Not willingly. And not with a divine candidate.
Later, they trained. Light sparring. Abel coached. Noah cursed. They danced around each other in the dry chamber air until Noah was breathless and flushed. When they paused, Abel handed him water, and their fingers touched just long enough to linger.
Then came the meal.
They sat side by side in one of the communal alcoves, eating slow-cooked root meat with some kind of sour paste spread on stone bread. Noah grimaced at the taste, but it was better than nothing. Around them, Kindled Ones and older cult members ate in reverent silence.
Their knees touched. Abel's shoulder brushed his. Neither moved away.
"We could go tomorrow," Noah whispered.
Abel looked at him. "You think we'll be ready?"
"We won't ever be ready. That's the point."
He said it with a smile, but his stomach felt cold. He knew it would be hard. Knew the Womb wasn't just a place—it was a trap of comfort, of warmth, of control disguised as safety.
But he couldn't stay.
Not after what he saw.
Not under this golden sun that never rose, never fell—only watched.
They were halfway through their meager meal when the stillness around them shifted.
Noah felt it first—not the sound, not a footstep, but a presence. Like someone exhaling right beside your neck, a ripple through the air that made his skin tighten.
Abel felt it too. His hand moved slightly, not to his weapon, but enough to prepare. A low tension curled in his shoulders.
Then came the soft voice.
"May I join you for a moment?"
Noah turned—and found himself face-to-face with the priestess.
She stood without sound, without weight, wrapped in a layered robe of bleached linens and bone charms that clinked gently with every breath. Her long dark hair had been bound with crimson thread and gold wire, and her gaze… gods, that gaze.
It wasn't unkind.
But it saw too much.
Noah blinked once, then quickly set down his half-eaten bread. "Of course."
She sat with the elegance of someone long trained in ceremony. Across from them, but angled slightly toward Noah. Her eyes didn't leave his face.
"You've adapted well," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "Most outsiders take longer to find their rhythm here."
Noah forced a smile. "I'm flexible. Like a rat in a pipe."
Abel didn't laugh. But the priestess… smiled.
"A strange metaphor," she said. "But not inaccurate. This place is a pipeline, of sorts. For power. For change. You feel it, don't you?"
Noah's fingers tightened slightly on the edge of his plate.
"I feel… watched," he said carefully.
"Not by the Saint," she corrected, her voice calm. "By the Womb itself. It accepts you. You've fed it."
Noah almost gagged on his tongue. Fed it?
She must've seen the twitch of revulsion. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, lips barely parting.
"You were there," she continued, voice lower now. "During the sanctification."
There it was. The word they used to excuse slaughter.
Noah looked down, as if examining the paste on his plate. "Yeah."
"You looked… distressed."
There was no accusation in her voice. Just observation. Like someone commenting on the weather—or the twitch of a dying animal.
Noah gave a low laugh, throat dry. "I'm still not used to your… rituals."
"And you shouldn't be." Her reply came too quickly. Too softly. She leaned in, her voice a whisper now, as if sharing a secret not meant for the air. "You're not one of us. Not truly. Not yet."
Noah looked up slowly, meeting her eyes again.
She didn't blink.
"I don't mean that as threat," she said. "Only… invitation."
"To what? Weekly bloodletting and barbecue?" Noah murmured.
This time, Abel choked on his water.
The priestess did not smile.
Instead, she studied him more closely. Her eyes flicked over the fine details of his face—the tension around his mouth, the false calm in his shoulders.
"Not all of us were born here, Noah," she said. "Some of us woke up one day and realized we had been buried in gold. Drowning in warmth. And only then did we notice the cracks in the stone."
Noah's breath caught.
It wasn't what she said.
It was how she said it.
Like she had once sat exactly where he sat now. Under the same false sun. Watching something she couldn't stop.
"You have questions," she continued. "And no answers. That's dangerous."
Noah's eyes narrowed. "And you want to give me some?"
"I want to talk," she said simply. "Nothing more."
She rose without waiting for an answer, robes spilling like water around her feet.
"If you ever wish to unburden your thoughts," she said, turning her head slightly, "come to the temple. The outer sanctum. Afternoon cycle."
He opened his mouth to reply—but she was already walking away, her bone charms whispering in her wake.
Noah stared after her, then let out a long breath and sat back against the stone wall.
Abel finally spoke.
"What the hell was that?"
"An invitation," Noah murmured. "And a warning."
They both looked toward the center of the settlement, where the glowing temple loomed beneath the eternal sun. A place of prayers, silence… and secrets.
Noah wasn't sure if he wanted to go.
But he knew, deep down, that he would.
Because the priestess had seen what no one else dared to say aloud—
That even in paradise, some hearts still rotted.