They stepped beneath the canopy like it was a curtain to another world.
The sunlight fractured into impossible colors—violet, cyan, deep indigo. Leaves the size of shields shimmered overhead, catching the wind like velvet sails. Bark glowed faintly where it cracked, and moss bloomed in pale blue between roots twisted like sleeping serpents.
Noah slowed to a halt.
This wasn't the Womb. This wasn't blood-soaked stone or blackened vines. This was—finally—a forest. Still strange, still wrong in the way magic stained everything here, but beautiful. Untouched.
"Okay," Cassian muttered, gaze flicking upward. "Points for aesthetics."
Abel hummed low. "Still quiet. Too quiet."
Birdsong filtered through the air—soft whistles, trills, chirps—but no animals appeared. No beasts, no movement, just a gentle breeze tugging the painted leaves.
They followed the river, which now flowed slow and clear. Fish darted beneath the surface—pale and long, like threads of light. A flock of floating petals drifted overhead, dislodged by the wind.
Noah kept pace, but every so often he caught himself looking back. Like the forest might close behind them. Like the door they came through might disappear.
It didn't.
Everything stayed.
Everything remained… still.
"Not gonna lie," Noah said, voice softer than usual, "I kept expecting something to jump out and kill us by now."
"Same," Cassian said. "It's weird."
"It's peaceful," Abel corrected. "You've just forgotten what that feels like."
The path narrowed as the trees grew denser. It wasn't a real path—just soft soil and wildflowers, the river their only guide. But even that had changed. It bent toward the east now, curling around a gentle rise. The further they walked, the more color stained the foliage—some trees looked half-dipped in blue ink; others wore pale purple blossoms like frost.
Then they saw it.
Half-hidden between two leaning trunks, a small rise of stone. A shrine—or what was left of one.
The trio stopped.
"Is that…?" Noah began.
Cassian nodded. "Looks old. Real old."
They stepped closer. Moss covered much of the base, and time—or violence—had cracked the structure nearly in half. A crescent moon, carved in white stone, still arched over the center, and seated gently within it was the statue of a young boy.
Delicate. About twelve. Carved robes falling around thin limbs, a soft smile etched into marble lips. One hand reached out. The other rested on the curve of the moon beneath him.
He was cracked down the middle. Burn marks stained his side. But he still sat.
Still smiled.
And at the base of the ruined altar lay a fresh bundle of wildflowers—bluebells, nightshade, and something golden Noah didn't recognize.
No dust. No rot.
Someone had been here.
Recently.
Noah crouched in front of the altar, fingers brushing the edge of a stone step half-swallowed by moss. His palm came away damp and cold. Old, yes—but this place wasn't forgotten. Not entirely.
The flowers didn't lie.
Neither did the folded leaf at the base of the statue, cradling three pale berries like an offering plate. Someone had placed it with care. Recently. Reverently.
He looked up at the statue again. The boy-god—if that's what this was—still sat crookedly in the crescent moon, one eye chipped clean off by whatever cracked the marble down the middle. Ash stains and char marks marred his robes. The damage wasn't natural. Someone had tried to burn this god. To erase him.
"You think this was a temple?" Cassian asked from behind, his voice unusually quiet.
"A shrine," Abel said. "Small. Personal. For a local god, maybe."
Noah tilted his head. "A kid. That's their god?"
Abel shrugged. "The gods in our lands don't always look like kings. Some of the old ones are animals. Or clouds. Or statues with three faces."
Cassian tapped a boot against a loose chunk of marble, then knelt beside Noah. His eyes flicked over the offerings, the faded carvings, the half-ruined stone moon.
"But why try to burn it down?" he murmured. "Why not just leave it to rot?"
That was the real question.
Noah stared into the statue's half-missing face and found himself wondering the same thing. Anger did this. Not neglect. Hate.
He imagined a torch. Flames licking the boy's carved smile. Someone trying to erase his name.
But someone else—someone who still remembered—had come back. With berries. With nightshade. With bluebells and a folded leaf.
That mix didn't make sense.
Bluebells for hope. Nightshade for sorrow. Golden fenroot—the one he couldn't name—for remembrance. Someone had left all three. Someone caught between mourning and loyalty.
Someone who still prayed.
"We should go," Abel said, glancing to the trees. "I don't like how exposed this place is."
"Wait." Noah rose slowly, brushing dirt from his knees. "Do you hear that?"
Cassian froze. "Shit. Yeah."
It started faint—metal on stone. Then a low clatter. The sound of armor. Footfalls. Not stealthy.
A group.
Close.
Noah's heart jumped. He grabbed Cassian's arm and pointed toward the thick brush behind the shrine.
They ducked low, hiding between roots and ferns.
The sound grew louder. Boots. Cloaks rustling. Voices.
"…move camp to the ridge before sundown…"
"…no sign of the rebels since last week. Cowards…"
"…Lady of the Zenith will be pleased. The new wards are holding."
Then they came into view.
Soldiers.
Half a dozen, marching two by two, spears slung over shoulders. Their armor was dull bronze, shaped with flowing lines—sunbursts and spirals etched into the chestplates. Not like anything Noah had seen before. Almost Roman, but sharper. Cleaner. A symbol like a rising sun gleamed on each of their left pauldrons.
Their faces were mostly young. Hard. Tanned from sun and wind. Most had short hair, tied back with cords or tucked under helmets.
One of them laughed. "Saw another one of their bone totems today. Fucking creeps. Bet they don't even have real gods—just these twig dolls and curse chants."
"The locals are stubborn," another said, voice laced with mockery. "Still leave food at these little shit altars, even when we torch them. Still pray to the moon like it's listening."
The first snorted. "The Lady's gonna purge that nonsense soon enough. Light always wins."
Noah didn't move. Didn't breathe.
They walked right past the half-destroyed moon shrine—right past the flowers, the berries, the broken boy-god—and didn't even glance.
Didn't care.
Just stomped through the sacred ruin like it was moss and rock.
As they passed, another soldier spoke up, older and with authority in his tone. "Orders are clear. We drive the rest of the hill tribes out of the region by next month. If they fight, we respond. If they run, we track them. Either way, the forest is ours."
"And what if they head into the lowlands?" someone asked.
"Then we follow. The Empire of Helios doesn't stop at the treeline."
A ripple of agreement. Some cheers. One man spat on the ground.
Then they were gone. Just like that. The sound of their armor fading into the trees, along with the stink of smoke, oil, and sweat.
The forest held its breath again.
And so did the three boys.
They waited a few minutes longer before crawling back out.
Noah brushed dirt from his shirt and stared after the path the soldiers had taken. His jaw clenched.
Cassian stood stiff, arms crossed, but his mouth had gone tight, and his eyes were glassy. He didn't speak.
Abel was the one to break the silence.
"They're invaders."
"Legion of Dawn," Noah echoed. "That's what they called themselves."
"And they serve someone called the Lady of the Zenith," Cassian added. "Probably a ruler. Goddess? General?"
"Both?" Noah muttered.
He turned back to the shrine.
The boy-god still sat in moonlight that filtered through the canopy. Still half-burned. Still offered to.
Still ignored by the people who thought they ruled this place.
"They didn't even look," he said.
"No," Abel agreed. "Because they don't care."
Cassian scowled. "They're trying to erase whoever lived here before. Culture, memory, gods—everything."
"And this is the first real group of people we've seen since the Womb," Noah said. "Our first contact."
"Not exactly the welcome party we hoped for," Abel said bitterly.
They stood there for a long time, the wind rustling branches above them.
Eventually, Noah spoke again.
"We should follow them."
Cassian stared at him. "Seriously?"
"Not to join. To watch. To figure out what the hell is going on. We're not gonna find answers hiding behind trees forever."
Abel didn't respond immediately. Then he nodded.
"We keep our distance. Stay hidden."
"Yeah." Cassian's voice was cold. "And if they start hurting more locals, maybe we do something."
Noah gave him a sideways look. "Like what?"
Cassian didn't answer.
But he didn't need to.
They kept to the shadows.
The soldiers moved in loose formation, boots crunching dry underbrush, their bronze armor catching flashes of light. Noah, Abel, and Cassian followed at a distance, never too close, always behind the trees.
It wasn't easy. The Legion didn't march in silence. They sang. Laughed. Shouted commands. But every so often, they stopped and turned on a whim, and the trio had to freeze in place, hold their breath, melt into bark and stone.
Every few meters, the soldiers would knock down something. A woven ring of twigs hanging from a branch. A small wooden totem. Tiny cloth bundles nestled between roots.
"They're charms," Abel whispered. "Dreamcatchers. Wards. Protection symbols."
Cassian muttered, "They destroy anything they don't understand."
The forest changed as they walked. The earth sloped downward, almost unnoticeably at first. Noah only realized it after nearly slipping on a patch of damp moss. Abel caught him.
"We're going downhill," Abel said. "They're heading toward the coast."
A little further, the trees parted to reveal a road.
Stone-packed, wide enough for carts. The Legion stepped onto it without slowing.
"We follow from the woods," Noah whispered. "Stay parallel."
They did. Stalking along the tree line, dodging scouts and patrols, twice ducking behind fallen logs as riders passed by on horseback.
By the time they reached the edge of the forest, the sun had begun to dip low. Through the thinning trees, the land spilled out before them.
A long stretch of coast. Windswept dunes. And nestled between the cliffs and waterline—a wooden fortress.
Barracks, walls, towers. A sprawling, makeshift base. And flags. Dozens of them.
The rising sun emblem of Helios snapped in the ocean breeze.
Noah narrowed his eyes. Something shimmered in the air, some layer of faint gold barely perceptible over the camp.
Wards.
He blinked. Focused. From this distance, others might have seen only movement—but his eyes, changed by power, saw more.
Figures in robes.
Some held staves. Others walked barefoot, heads shaved, sun marks tattooed across their skulls. Priests? Mages? Both?
They were not ordinary soldiers. They moved with ritual.
Then there were the beasts.
Lions—or something like them. Mostly females, stalking between tents freely, occasionally brushing against a legionnaire like oversized housecats. Controlled, but not caged.
And the prisoners.
Cages lined the southern edge of the camp, guarded by spearmen. Inside, people huddled together, their features barely visible from this distance. But enough for Noah to see they weren't dressed like the soldiers.
Their skin was pale. Their hair light, tied back with leather or cloth. Their clothes were simple—linen, wool, hand-stitched in patterns that echoed ancient roots. Long sleeves. Embroidered hems. Shell and bead necklaces. Not industrial. Not uniformed.
He felt something cold sink into his gut.
Cassian exhaled, low and bitter. "They're not just killing the locals. They're capturing them."
"Or relocating them," Abel said, jaw tight. "Slaves."
More ships bobbed near the coast. Two were anchored. One was already sailing away, hull full of supplies—or people.
They crouched there in silence, watching. Processing.
Until Cassian broke it.
"We can't stay here. Too open. We need to hide and wait for night."
Noah nodded. "No fire. No light. Just cover."
Abel shifted, but winced. He was still healing, and though he said nothing, Cassian caught it.
"You're not coming tonight."
Abel frowned. "I can still—"
"No." Cassian's tone was final. "You fight, you tear something open, you scream. Or worse, you slow us down. We can't risk it."
Noah didn't argue. He agreed.
"We find a place to hide you. Far from here. If we're right, they won't come out at night. Not into the forest."
"You think they're scared?" Abel asked.
"I think they know something." Noah stood slowly. "And whatever it is, we need to learn it."
Cassian looked at him. "We sneak in. Just us. Quick look. No heroics."
Noah gave a tight smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."
They disappeared back into the trees.
Night was coming.