The sun rose like it had no idea what they'd done.
Noah didn't remember standing. Didn't remember walking. Just that the stairs had ended, and suddenly, the world was blue.
He dropped to his knees.
The stone beneath him was warm—not sick-warm, not blood-warm. Just… sun. A breeze stirred the edge of his sleeve. It smelled like moss, dry grass, and something living. Something normal.
Behind him, Abel's footsteps faltered, uneven but real. Cassian stepped forward and stopped cold, his shadow falling long over the stone.
No one spoke.
The sky above them was impossibly vast. Blue in a way Noah had almost forgotten existed—like the memory of a childhood you weren't sure had ever really happened. The clouds were soft, distant things. Not red. Not torn. Not screaming.
The valley sprawled below. Green. Quiet. Ringed by snow-brushed peaks and veined with rivers that glittered like someone had cracked a mirror across the land. Forests rolled over the hills in colors too kind for the world they came from.
It was beautiful.
And Noah hated it.
His hands curled against the ground. His breath stuttered. Because this? This didn't feel like salvation.
It felt like mockery.
Behind his ribs, the gold still pulsed. Not bright—but present. Like guilt with a heartbeat.
I didn't mean to, he thought.
I didn't want to.
I didn't know I could.
But now he did.
He wasn't bleeding anymore. That had been the first sign.
Then the strength.
Then the glow in his hands.
Then the screams.
He should've screamed with them. Instead, he'd run.
Noah turned his head. Abel stood beside him, pale and still, one arm pressed tight over his ribs. Cassian lingered just behind, arms crossed, like he didn't trust the sunlight not to vanish if he blinked.
"I didn't know the world still had places like this," Cassian muttered.
Abel didn't respond.
Noah looked at his fingers. They weren't glowing anymore. But they'd held gold. Souls. Power.
And the worst part?
It had felt good.
Not joyful. Not euphoric. But full. Like a hole he hadn't noticed until it stopped aching.
"I don't want this," he whispered, voice hoarse.
Neither of them answered. But Abel lowered himself beside him, slow, careful. Sat without touching. Close enough.
Cassian didn't sit. But he didn't leave.
They stayed like that for a while.
Three survivors.
Three sinners.
One sky.
And the world, as if nothing had happened, kept turning.
They didn't speak much as they descended.
The ridge trailed downward in wide, uneven steps carved by wind and time. Grass grew between the cracks. Wildflowers too—soft pinks, golds, and blues. The kind of colors you didn't find underground. The kind of things you didn't think could grow after so much rot.
Abel limped beside Noah, each step slow but deliberate. Cassian took the lead, silent, eyes scanning everything like it might vanish if he looked away.
Below them, a lake shimmered in the valley's heart. It wasn't massive—maybe a few hundred meters wide—but it was clean. Real. Crystalline in the way only unruined things could be. Around its edge, willows dipped their arms into the water. On the far side, sunlight slanted through the trees like someone had opened a door to heaven.
None of them said it, but they all felt the same thing:
They needed this.
Not the beauty. Not the quiet.
The proof.
That the world could still hold something good.
That not everything was gone.
The slope flattened as they reached the lower basin. Noah's cane carved little trenches in the soil behind him. His legs still ached from the climb, but the cool air helped. Abel stayed upright only because he refused not to. His jaw was locked tight. His hand never once left the hilt of his sword.
They reached the water's edge.
Cassian knelt first. Dipped his fingers in. Splashed his face. Then looked up and smiled—small, real.
"It's not cursed."
"Yet," Noah muttered, but he dropped his satchel anyway.
He sat down on a moss-covered stone and pulled off his boots with a groan. His toes felt like they'd never forgive him. He didn't care.
A second later, Abel collapsed beside him with all the grace of a downed statue.
"I'm going in," Cassian said.
He didn't wait for permission.
He stripped fast—shirt, belt, boots, everything but his shorts—then walked straight into the lake like a man daring it to kill him. It didn't. The water took him in up to his chest, then deeper as he dove.
Noah watched the ripples shimmer.
"…we could die," he said aloud.
"We've died before," Abel rasped. "Came back ugly."
"You still look pretty."
That earned him a side glance. Nothing more.
Abel leaned back on his elbows and winced. "I'll go after him. Just… let me breathe first."
Noah nodded. Then stood.
He peeled off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and stepped ankle-deep into the lake. It was cold. His skin prickled. But the shock helped.
Cleansed.
He cupped the water in his hands and dumped it over his head.
The feeling was almost too much.
Salt, ash, Saint's blood—it all tried to crawl off him. It wouldn't. Not fully. But for a second, he could pretend.
Behind him, Abel chuckled once, low. "You look like a wet cat."
"You look like a corpse," Noah shot back, voice muffled by his wet hair.
"I win, then."
Another splash. Cassian surfaced farther out, waving lazily. "It's deep in the middle! And there's a tree on an island!"
"What kind of tree?" Abel called.
"I don't know. Magic-looking."
"Because that's comforting."
But Noah was already wading deeper.
He didn't know why. He just… needed to move. Needed the silence and the cold and the weight of something that didn't feel like his fault.
The water reached his chest. He let himself float.
And for a moment—brief, soft, unreal—there was nothing.
No Zorya.
No Saint.
No screaming gold.
Just the sky above. The cold below. His breath. His heartbeat.
Alive.
Not holy. Not cursed.
Just Noah.
They didn't laugh—not really. Not the way people laugh in taverns or before weddings.
But they smiled.
They sat beside each other on the lake's edge, wet clothes drying in patches under the sun, and let the silence stretch without breaking it.
Cassian lay flat on his back in the grass, fingers laced behind his head, eyes half-closed. Abel leaned against a boulder, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee.
Noah sat in the middle.
He didn't touch them, but he didn't need to. The closeness felt warm enough.
Somewhere, a bird cried out. The wind rustled the leaves. A fish jumped, scattering droplets into the air like broken glass.
For the first time in what felt like years, nothing hurt.
No monsters. No screaming. No blood.
Just light.
Just now.
Cassian opened one eye. "Bet you I can catch a fish with a stick before sunset."
"Well, you already have the stick, so maybe," Noah muttered, "but I wouldn't bet on it."
"Oh, trust me, I'm a provider, my prince." Cassian winked with a chuckle
Noah just rolled his eyes, but the blush forming on his pale face was proof enough of the effect that comment had.
"I believe it when I see it,"
Cassian groaned dramatically. "I am trying to offer us food, thank you very much."
Abel grunted. "You should offer silence. We'd starve happier."
Noah snorted. Cassian threw a pebble at Abel, missed, and stretched again.
"Fine. Fine. I'll go forage." He sat up. "Get some firewood. Find us a nice branch or two. We can try spear-fishing."
"And when that fails?" Noah asked.
"I'll emotionally manipulate the fish into giving up."
"I'd believe you could."
Cassian flashed a grin and stood. "I'll be back. Don't die. Or kiss. Or both."
He wandered off into the treeline, humming something tuneless.
Abel remained seated, picking up one of the long branches Cassian had found earlier and beginning to sharpen it against a flat stone. He worked slowly—carefully. Each stroke of the stone made a soft rasping noise, steady as breath.
"You can rest," Noah said.
"I am."
"You're working."
Abel glanced up. "You're watching."
"Touché."
They let that hang between them.
Then Noah stood and stretched. His shirt clung to him, still damp. He glanced at the lake, then at the small island with the tree in the center—the one Cassian had pointed out earlier.
Abel followed his gaze.
"You going?"
"Just a swim," Noah said too casually.
"With your bag?"
"Maybe I want to sketch the tree."
"You can't draw."
"Not the point."
Abel narrowed his eyes but didn't stop him. "Don't take long."
"I won't."
Noah slipped into the water again, this time fully clothed, his satchel slung over his shoulder. The lake welcomed him—cool, clear, and still. He waded out until the bottom dropped off and then began to swim.
The water around the island shimmered slightly—silver glints just under the surface. Noah felt them before he saw them. Zorya.
But not gold.
Silver.
He reached the tree.
It towered above him—tall and pale, bark shimmering like starlight. Its leaves were faintly translucent, pulsing with slow, steady light. They chimed softly in the wind, like the remnants of a lullaby.
And floating around it—
Zorya.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
Silver threads.
Soft.
Gentle.
He stood at the base of the trunk, breath caught in his throat. The Zorya danced around him like fireflies—swirling, inviting.
And then they tried to enter him.
He felt them brush against his skin, press gently, try to fold into him like they were part of him—like they belonged.
But they didn't.
Not this time.
They couldn't.
His body didn't let them in. His divinity blocked them. His chest glowed faintly—and then rejected them.
A limit. Again.
Noah laughed. Sharp. Bitter.
No joy in it.
"Of course," he whispered.
Of course he couldn't absorb more. Of course his body had rules now. Divine ones.
Ascend, the voice whispered—unheard, but felt.
Climb. Change. Sacrifice.
Again. And again.
He dropped to his knees at the base of the tree, the wet fabric of his clothes sticking to the moss.
"This is how it starts, right?" he said to the tree. "They give you power. They tell you it's a gift. They tell you to carry it. And then they ask what you're willing to lose."
He opened his satchel.
Took out the tarot deck.
The cards shimmered faintly even in the daylight. Some were warped now. Others still bled color.
"I don't want it," he said. "I don't want any of this."
He dug a shallow hole with his hands. The earth here was soft—rich. Maybe magical. Maybe sacred. He didn't know, and to be honest, he didn't care. If his divinity was good for anything, then it was definitely for ignoring other holy and sacred things.
He placed the deck inside.
Not carefully. Not like it was holy.
Like it was a curse.
"I don't need you," he whispered. "I don't want to become what you want me to be."
The cards didn't answer.
He covered them. Pressed the dirt flat.
Then stood and stared at the tree for a long time. The Zorya swirled, still watching, still waiting.
"I'll find another way," he said. "I'll burn before I repeat what happened down there. This stupid fate magic is more than enough." A small tear fell down his face and onto the mossy ground.
"Noah!"
He turned at the voice.
Across the water, Abel waved. A small fire was already flickering behind him, and Cassian stood waist-deep in the lake with a stick, furiously trying to impale something that was probably laughing at him.
"Come back before he drowns!" Abel called.
Noah nodded once. Turned his back on the buried cards.
And walked into the water, never noticing the small white flower that began to bloom—rising slowly from the earth where his tear had fallen, reaching for the sun.
The tree didn't stop him.
The Zorya didn't follow.
But the flower tilted gently toward his retreating form, as if it mourned the distance.
He swam back toward the fire.
Toward something that wasn't redemption.
But maybe—just maybe—was the start of forgiveness.