The night stretched thin over the coast like smoke. Pale stars scattered above, some faint, others sharp—cold little knives in the dark sky. The crescent moon hung low, half veiled by clouds, its light doing just enough to stain the edges of the waves in silver.
Cassian knelt at the treeline, staring down at the enemy camp.
Wooden walls enclosed the settlement, hastily built but solid, reinforced by layered trunks and sharpened spikes. Inside, campfires glowed like coals scattered across sand. Banners bearing the golden sun of Helios whipped in the wind. They were everywhere—on the walls, on the tents, branded onto the leather armor of patrolling soldiers.
Noah crouched beside him, slower, his hands curled in the grass. The air smelled like salt and fire. Far below, torches swayed in ordered rows—an army at rest, but not asleep.
He glanced back once, toward the distant outcrop where they'd left Abel.
"I hope he doesn't move," he whispered.
Cassian gave a small grunt. "He won't. That stab wound looked like hell."
They had made camp far enough into the forest to avoid torchlight, setting no fire, barely speaking. Abel had protested at first—said he could handle it—but Cassian wouldn't hear it. Neither would Noah. So now it was just the two of them, sneaking into the dark with only branches for cover and heartbeats for guidance.
Cassian tapped his fingers once on Noah's arm. "We go left. That slope curves around the outer fence. Might be able to spot more without getting too close."
Noah nodded. Together they moved—quiet as shadows—down through the trees.
The walk was tense. Every snap of twig or flutter of leaves sent adrenaline rushing to Noah's chest. His body still felt too warm, charged from days of power and fear. But his steps were careful, practiced.
Closer to the camp, the land dipped and flattened. The path became dirt—trampled by wheels and boots. Here, at the edge of war, the forest grew thinner. Pines gave way to twisted shrubs and dry grass, burned at the edges. Bits of rope and old bones lay tangled among charred roots.
Cassian held out a hand.
They dropped low. Just ahead, two guards stood near the perimeter wall—chatting beside a post built from dark timber and sun-emblazoned shields.
"I heard one of the Pillars is coming," one said, adjusting his bracer.
Cassian frowned.
"A real Pillar?" the other scoffed. "Why would they waste one of those on this backwater?"
"No, I'm serious. The Lady sent word. She's pleased with the progress. Said it's time to finish the cleansing."
The second guard spat. "Those freaks and their moon-boy festival. One more week and we burn their little village to the ground."
The first snorted. "They'll be too busy praying to that dead brat in the sky."
"Name was... what, Lada?"
Noah flinched.
From the nearby cage row, one of the prisoners—a pale-skinned woman with a bloodied mouth—spat through the bars. "You dare defile his name with that tongue, sun-worshipping scum?"
One of the guards stepped forward and backhanded her hard.
Noah reached for Cassian's arm to stop him from moving. The tension in his body was tight enough to snap.
"Let it go," Noah whispered. "We can't fight them all. Not now."
Cassian's jaw worked, but he gave a tight nod.
They slipped backwards, crouched low, hearts pounding.
Behind them, the night continued—wind in the trees, embers rising.
The deeper they crept along the forest's edge, the more the heart of the enemy's camp unfolded like a festering bloom—sickly radiant, wrong in all the ways a holy place should never be.
Past the cages and the brutal laughter of guards, past the soldier barracks, beast pens, and mess tents, rose a structure unlike the rest. Where the rest of the camp was crude wood and iron, this place shimmered with reverence and power. A shrine—gleaming, solemn, and grotesquely beautiful in the moonlight.
It stood atop a raised stone platform, elevated above the chaos of the soldiers like a beacon. Brass suns framed its base, while tall mirrors flanked its stairs, angled toward the sky, catching and reflecting slivers of starlight and torchglow. Thin golden banners whispered in the sea wind, anchored to obsidian poles sunk deep into the stone.
At its center loomed a towering effigy: a woman cloaked in sculpted robes, arms lifted toward the heavens. From behind her stone-carved head extended a halo of burnished metal rays, each etched with prayers in a language Noah didn't recognize. Her eyes—crafted from polished amber—gleamed faintly, as if lit from within.
Noah felt something tighten in his gut. A creeping cold, not from fear, but from revulsion.
"Lady of the Zenith," Cassian murmured beside him, voice barely a breath. "The sun-witch herself."
Around the shrine, twelve robed figures stood in a perfect circle. Priests—or mages. Likely both, from the electric pressure in the air. Their hoods shimmered with embroidered gold: stitched suns, solar flares, and concentric halos. They moved in sync, their ritual slow and deliberate. Each gesture—a raised palm, a twist of fingers, a bowed head—released threads of golden magic into the air.
The light coalesced into shifting shapes: sharp-edged geometry, sacred patterns pulsing like a second heartbeat. The magic didn't flicker like fire. It glowed with certainty. With judgment.
Noah's fingers curled into the earth beside him.
Then, through the glow, a shape emerged. Silent. Massive.
A lion.
It padded into the ring, sleek and powerful, muscles rippling beneath gold-tinted fur. It didn't growl or pace. It lowered itself, slowly, before one of the priests—bowing. Submissive.
Noah's breath caught in his throat. He'd seen monsters, ghosts, gods. But this was different.
The lion wasn't tamed. It was devoted.
And the power radiating from the shrine wasn't warmth.
It was judgment. Purification. Fire that did not care who it burned, only that it burned bright.
The shadows around them quivered as if even darkness feared to linger too close.
Cassian leaned closer. "This isn't worship," he whispered. "It's control."
Noah gave a shallow nod, his chest tight. They needed to go. Now.
They retreated in silence, step by slow step. Every broken twig felt like a drumbeat. Every brush of a branch like a shout.
But no one noticed.
When they reached the thicker brush again—when the chanting faded into the distance and only the wind and the waves remained—Noah finally exhaled. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.
Cassian looked back once.
The shadows still curled wrong behind his eyes, and the image of the lion kneeling lingered like a bad dream that hadn't ended.
They didn't speak for a long time.
Not until the lights of the shrine were little more than flickers behind them.
They returned to the ridge in silence, both still riding the tension of the camp.
But as they neared the rocky outcrop where they'd left Abel hidden, something felt off. The air had changed. Heavier. Still. Like the forest itself was holding its breath.
Noah slowed.
"Abel?"
No response.
Cassian scanned the clearing, frown tightening. "He was supposed to stay right here."
The brush near their makeshift camp was disturbed—flattened grass, torn moss, scattered leaves. A broken waterskin lay near a stone, and beside it, a smear of blood. Just a few drops, but bright against the gray stone.
Noah dropped to his knees.
"Abel!" he called again, voice raw now.
Cassian moved past him, inspecting the nearby trees. "Footprints. More than one pair. Drag marks."
Noah touched the blood with the edge of his sleeve, trembling. His mind was already spiraling—calculating timelines, retracing steps, trying to undo it by sheer will.
"He fought," he whispered. "He didn't just let them. He fought."
Cassian exhaled harshly. "Looks like they came from the east. Back toward the road."
Noah's breath caught. "No. No, no—he was hurt, he couldn't have fought like that. He was just supposed to rest—we were supposed to keep him safe."
Cassian knelt beside him. "Noah—"
"What if he's in those cages?" Noah choked out. "What if—what if they already—what if I never see him again?"
His hands clenched in the grass. "I shouldn't have left him. I knew he wasn't healed."
Cassian gripped his shoulder tightly. "Listen to me. If we lose it now, we won't find him. We stay sharp. We stay smart. And we get him back."
Noah looked up, chest heaving. "But what if we're already too late?"
"We're not," Cassian said, with quiet conviction. "We're not."
But before they could move—before panic could become action—a soft rustle echoed from the trees.
Noah froze.
Cassian turned, immediately on edge. "...We're not alone."
Shadows moved. Silent and sudden. Figures emerged from the brush, melting out of the trees as if conjured from bark and shadow. Within moments, they were surrounded—circles of drawn bows, glinting spearheads, and masked faces staring them down.
The warriors wore bark-colored cloth and cloaks painted with pale dyes. Their faces were streaked with ash and blue pigment, eyes sharp and unreadable. Some bore masks carved from bone, others had braids adorned with shells, feathers, or pieces of obsidian.
A soft step.
Then a woman stepped forward from the half-ring of armed strangers.
She moved with grace, yet each motion carried weight—deliberate, steady, in control.
She wore a robe of gray and silver-blue, layered and flowing like water at dusk. Moonlight shimmered on inked tattoos that curled up both arms—ancient symbols, lunar phases, and thin constellations.
Her skin was pale, her hair braided to one side and laced with feathers and polished stones. In her right hand she held a staff topped with a crescent of carved bone. The air around her seemed calmer. Heavier.
A Moon Priestess.
Her gaze swept over them with quiet judgment. Then she spoke, her voice soft, but not weak—like wind through tall grass, or a whisper between stars.
"Strangers. You walk in stolen shadows."
Cassian tensed, one hand hovering near the hilt of his stolen dagger. But before he could act, Noah reached out and gripped his wrist.
"Don't," he whispered. "If they have Abel… we need them. Alive."
Cassian paused, his jaw clenched, but nodded once.
The priestess raised her hand.
From the ground, tendrils of glowing thread burst upward—woven from vine and pale light. They wrapped around Noah and Cassian's wrists and arms before they could react. Warm and firm, not burning but impossible to break.
They were bound.
Disarmed in seconds.
Bows remained drawn. Spears stayed level. But the priestess only turned.
Wordlessly, the warriors stepped into formation. Two behind, four ahead. One on either side.
Noah and Cassian were led forward—into the moonlit forest, into the unknown.
Prisoners now, under the eye of the moon.
And Abel, somewhere out there, lost or taken.
The silence between them said it all.
They had failed.
But they weren't done yet.