The false sun pressed a patient gold through the bone-lattice, mottling the floorboards of their small room in cage-bars. The air smelled faintly of boiled root and incense burned down to ash. A bone charm above the door clicked whenever the corridor draft breathed—soft, regular, almost like a clock trying to convince time to be real.
Noah sat on the edge of the cot with his knees drawn up, chin on them, watching Abel lace his boots with the kind of care soldiers gave to rituals. The anchor between them—those thin, stubborn threads he'd woven yesterday—rested at the base of Noah's skull like a low hum. If he thought about it, he could almost feel the line running to Abel: steady, warm, a taut string on a well-tuned instrument.
"We should be making a list," Noah said into his knees. "And a second list about why the first list will get us killed."
Abel's mouth twitched. "We have a list."
"Do we?" Noah swung his feet down and started pacing because his body refused to store this much adrenaline without movement. "Palace basement, yes—unguarded, because our resident sun-fondler thinks he's a god. But the palace doors are not unguarded, and the inner corridors have songlocks, and somewhere down there a contract is waiting to ask for a 'willing gift' in vintage legalese. Meanwhile, I'm supposed to stroll into an audience and play conversational dodgeball with an immortal arsonist without getting my brain pickpocketed." He stopped, dragged a hand through his hair, and added, softer, "Again."
Abel finished tying the knot and straightened. In the weird, flat light he looked carved—broad shoulders, calm face, a kind of contained resolve that made Noah want to lean forward and press his forehead to his sternum until the world stopped spinning. Abel crossed the space instead and set two fingers under Noah's chin, an almost-scientific adjustment that tilted his face up.
"We split," he said. "Linnea needs a route map and a cover story that will stand up to scrutiny. I'll go to her, learn the sigils, walk the path. You—"
"Don't say nap," Noah warned.
"—find Cassian."
Noah blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You haven't stopped thinking about him." Abel's tone didn't judge; it simply named. "The cave weakens the Saint. If anyone here can be woken, it's him. We need someone inside the Choir who can choose."
Noah opened, closed, opened his mouth again. The anchor tugged once—heat under his ribs, shame and gratitude braided tight. "You're not jealous?"
"Of a man who bleeds for boys and forgets it by morning?" Abel's eyes softened in a way that felt dangerously like a touch. "No. I'm concerned. But I know you."
"Tragic for you," Noah muttered, and then, because the room was suddenly too full of things he couldn't say without combusting, he held out his hand. "Come here. Before I do something useful and ruin my brand."
Abel stepped in close. Noah went up on his toes and kissed him—brief, certain. It was not hungry; hunger had to wait. It was a seal on a plan and a promise, and it steadied him more than any speech. When he pulled back, Abel's palm was still against his jaw, thumb grazing the edge of his mouth as if memorizing it.
"Code phrase?" Abel said, quiet.
"If I say, 'Did you bring the ribbons?' you say—"
"'Only the blue ones.'"
"Good." Noah tried to put the grin back on like armor. "If I'm not back in two hours, assume I've been kidnapped by a very earnest cult and forced to form a tragic boy band."
"You are not debuting," Abel said, deadpan.
"Not with that attitude." Noah squeezed his wrist once and let go. "Three knocks, pause, two knocks if I need the cavalry."
Abel nodded. The anchor hummed, like agreement given sound.
They left the room together and separated at the threshold, two currents in the same river. Noah didn't look back, because if he did he might invent an excuse to stay. He took the corridor toward the market ribs, hands tucked into his sleeves in the universal pose of men with errands and nothing to hide.
He had everything to hide.
The charm above their door clicked as the draft shifted, counting him out.
The settlement's arteries were already moving—vendors propping up planks for bowls of ash-dusted seeds, women knotting ribbon charms into each other's sleeves, two Kindled children sweeping the stone with twig brooms like penitent angels. Scent-lanterns burned low and honey-colored, perfuming the air with resin and something sweeter under it, like roasted fruit. The false sun slanted through every gap with the same unblinking insistence.
Noah lingered near a rib arch that had a good view of three walkways and the habit of catching a breeze. It took less than a minute for Cassian to appear because the universe sometimes rewarded bad decisions with efficiency.
He came around the corner with his usual careless grace, hair shoved back by a thoughtless hand, jacket half-fastened like he'd been dressing while walking. He carried a coil of rope over one shoulder and the grin of a man who made a hobby of being everyone's favorite problem.
"There you are," he said, stopping when he saw Noah like he'd been hoping for exactly this and was thrilled the world had agreed. "You look like you're about to ask for something irresponsible."
"Observant," Noah said. "Show me your cave."
Cassian blinked. "My what."
"Your cave," Noah repeated, bland. "The quiet vein with the river where saints can't eavesdrop and boys go to pretend they don't have feelings."
A beat. Cassian's grin edged; it always did when something poked him where he didn't expect to be tender. "How do you know about that?"
"I'm annoying and omniscient," Noah said. "Also very pretty. Are we going, or do I need to write you an invitation?"
Cassian laughed, short and delighted despite himself, and tilted his head toward a narrower lane. "Come on then, pretty. But if you're luring me somewhere to murder me, you'll have to carry the body out. I refuse to be an inconvenient corpse."
"Relax," Noah said, falling into step. "You're far too heavy to murder."
They moved through slatted corridors where the light broke in ribs of gold and shadow. With every turn the air cooled a degree; the resin-sweet smell thinned, replaced by damp stone, mineral, a hint of iron. Scent-lanterns grew sparse; the hum at the base of Noah's skull eased in tandem, as if the anchor itself was sighing.
"Busy morning?" Cassian asked as they walked, a harmless question wrapped in an appraisal. "Or are you avoiding being useful again?"
"Deeply useful," Noah said. "I'm scouting the acoustics of natural caves for a tragic boy band."
Cassian bumped his shoulder lightly. "Leave room for me on lead vocals."
"You can have backup dancer," Noah said primly. "I don't share the spotlight."
"Gods, you're insufferable," Cassian said, fond.
"Practice," Noah said.
They ducked under a low arch where calcified cartilage had frozen into a ridged wave; both had to turn sideways, Cassian more than Noah. The bone gave way to rock pitted by old water. Sound changed here—softer, blurred, as if wrapped in cloth. A breath later the corridor elbowed sharply and opened onto the river cave.
It looked almost gentle, if you didn't know better. Black glass water, slow as a held breath. The ceiling caught the false light and shredded it, laying torn silver across stone. The air tasted clean in a way nothing else in the Womb did, like the world had washed its mouth before speaking.
Cassian's shoulders loosened the moment he stepped in. He breathed like a man shrugging off armor. "There," he said, spreading his arms as if he'd invented it. "You happy?"
"Ecstatic," Noah said, and meant it.
Cassian dropped the rope and toed off his boots, sitting near the lip where damp made the stone darker. He looked up at Noah and patted the place beside him with theatrical invitation. It would have been ridiculous if it didn't also make something warm tilt under Noah's ribs.
Noah sat, careful not to catch his robe hem on the rough patch. For a while they said nothing, and the cave didn't require them to. The drip from somewhere deep made a slow metronome. Somewhere the river touched a rock and made a sound like a fingertip around a glass rim.
"So," Cassian said at last, leaning back on his palms. "You dragged me to my own secret place. You planning to confess a crime?"
"Several," Noah said, dry. "But we'll start small." He tipped his head to look at Cassian from the corner of his eye. "My mother loved audiences. It made her better at love. Or louder at it, at least. I was a good prop. Golden child, clean shoes, never cried on cue. My father liked briefcases and not being home."
Cassian's mouth softened. "That sounds lonely."
"Oh, it was very fashionable," Noah said, and the joke landed crooked in his own throat. "I learned early that warmth is often about angles and lighting. If you can make it look good, people don't ask if it is."
Cassian didn't laugh. He watched Noah in that way he sometimes did—like a dog who'd suddenly realized the joke was a wound and put his head on your knee instead. The usual glint in his eyes dimmed, not gone, just… gentled.
"And you?" Noah asked, because he hadn't come here to perform, and because if trust was a door it needed two hands. "Your family."
Cassian's grin returned on reflex. "A mess," he said promptly. "Me, primarily. I—"
He stopped. A tiny line cut between his brows. He frowned as if trying to see something in bad light.
"My father's hands," he said slowly. "They smelled like… iron. Oranges." His nose wrinkled. "That's wrong. Citrus is wrong here. There were no citrus. Resin, maybe? Sap? He—" He reached up and rubbed his temple. "He had a laugh that startled birds. I think. Or that was—"
The headache was visible when it hit him, a flinch that wasn't from anything in the room. Cassian's smile thinned. He shook his head once like a dog shaking off water and tried to stand.
"We should—go," he said. "You've seen it. It's nice. Congratulations."
Noah's hand moved before his permission. He caught Cassian's wrist, not hard, just enough. "Stay," he said, and the word came out softer than he meant. "Just—pick one thing. Not big. Hold it. I'll hold it with you."
Cassian stared at him, and for a heartbeat Noah saw the exact place where the Saint's net pressed—an invisible web tugging. His expression tightened. "Noah—"
"Take the smallest thread," Noah said, very quiet now. "What color were the market ribbons the day you were inducted?"
"My—"
"Don't think. First true thing."
"Red," Cassian said, and the word landed with a thud. He blinked, surprised by his own mouth. "Red," he said again, firmer. His breath hitched. "They tied a—cord."
"Where?" Noah's fingers had slid from wrist to palm without permission; his other hand had risen to Cassian's shoulder. "Show me."
Cassian's free hand rose, slow as if moving against heavy air, and hovered in front of his own chest where a cord would lie, knots neat and proud. His eyes widened—some flash behind them, a kitchen's low fire, a hand bigger than his roughing his hair. He sucked in a breath like a man surfacing.
The pain slammed into him at the same instant.
He made a small, startled sound, folded over himself, palm pressing hard against his temple. "No—ah—" His voice frayed. He tried to stand and swayed. "We have to—go. I don't—" He took a step that wasn't there.
Noah moved without thinking, both hands up, catching him by the shoulders. "Cassian—hey—hey, look at me."
Cassian looked. His pupils were blown wide, color drowned. He was still beautiful in the ruin of it, which Noah hated on principle.
"Don't go," Noah said, because he had nothing else left that wasn't a spell he refused to use without consent. "Please."
He leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't calculated and it wasn't fair; it was brief and human, a press of mouths like a hand on a bell to stop it ringing. He pulled back immediately, searching Cassian's face. "Stay."
For one suspended second, Cassian did.
Something in the air snapped—like a string cut somewhere out of sight. A ripple went through the black water. Cassian's mouth parted; his hand rose half an inch as if to catch Noah's wrist.
Then the pain surged like a wave breaking. He gasped, eyes rolling, knees buckling. Noah grabbed for him, but Cassian was heavier than memory; they went down together in an untidy fold. Noah got an arm behind his head before it hit stone. Cassian's breath came in harsh, fast pulls, then settled into something ragged but regular. His lashes fluttered; some stuck-thought slid away behind his eyes.
"Okay," Noah whispered, useless, angry with tenderness. "Okay. I've got you."
The cave listened. The river ticked. Somewhere far overhead, the false sun pretended to be morning.
Noah stayed there with Cassian's head in his lap and the anchor to Abel humming like a second heart inside his own. He did not cast, not yet. He waited—because consent mattered, because he was not the Saint, because love, chosen, was the only thing strong enough to hold against a god's bad habits.
After a while, the light on the water shifted, and the reflection it threw up shook on the curve of Cassian's wrist like a band. A memory of a memory.
Noah bent his head close to Cassian's ear and said, as if he could speak it into being, "I'll get you out."