The march began in silence.
Not the silence of peace, but the kind that swelled with tension—every crunch of leaves underfoot magnified, every snap of branch a warning.
Noah walked with his wrists bound in glowing threads of vine and light. They weren't painful, but they pulsed with an alien rhythm, like the forest itself had a heartbeat and had decided to lend it to his restraints. Cassian trudged beside him, posture tight, eyes sharp, though his shoulders were loose enough to look like he wasn't one twitch away from lashing out.
The priestess led at the front, her staff catching faint moonlight that trickled through the trees. She didn't speak. Didn't even glance back. She walked as if the path belonged to her, and in a way, it probably did.
The rest of the escort moved in quiet formation, but as Noah's eyes darted between them, he realized something: not all of them were warriors. The ones holding spears, yes—stern, masked faces, cloaks painted to melt into bark and shadow. But others carried no weapons. Their hands were rough with calluses, but not from blades—more like from tools. Farmers. Miners. Craftsmen. Ordinary people pushed into extraordinary violence.
That detail lodged in Noah's chest and stayed there.
The forest around them shifted as they moved deeper. Pines and oaks gave way to stranger growth—trees whose trunks glowed faintly from within, veins of silver light threading through bark like trapped starlight. Their leaves shimmered in impossible colors: deep violets, pale cyans, blues that seemed to drink the moon and reflect it back. Some swayed without wind, their branches creaking like tired bones.
Bioluminescent fungi crawled over roots, casting ghostly pools of green and blue on the ground. Fireflies floated through the underbrush, their light mingling with the glow of the restraints around Noah's wrists. The whole place felt unreal, like stepping into someone else's dream.
And yet, beneath the beauty, there was an edge.
The silence pressed in. No owls hooted. No wolves howled. Even the usual chirp of crickets was absent. Only the rhythm of footsteps, the whisper of cloth, and the faint crackle of magic from the priestess's staff.
Cassian leaned closer, his voice pitched low enough that only Noah could hear. "Notice anything?"
"Yeah," Noah muttered, keeping his eyes ahead. "Pretty colors. No soundtrack. Creepy as hell."
Cassian's mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile but couldn't quite manage it. "Means they cleared this path. No animals. No sound. It's deliberate."
"Or," Noah whispered, "the trees just have stage fright."
One of the escorts glanced back at him at that, eyes narrowing through ash-painted lines. Noah offered a quick, tight grin. Humor had never been less welcome.
They walked on.
The deeper they went, the more the air itself seemed to change. It cooled, dampened, carrying with it a faint metallic tang—like wet iron mixed with moss. The soil underfoot grew softer, springy with layers of fallen leaves and strange, pale flowers that curled shut as boots pressed them.
Noah found himself watching the way the Moonfolk moved. They weren't marching like the soldiers of Helios. They flowed, their steps deliberate but light, bodies close to the ground, every motion conserving energy. Even the ones who weren't warriors carried themselves with a quiet precision, like people who had learned long ago that noise could cost lives.
The priestess raised her staff once, not looking back, and the entire group shifted direction as one. Noah and Cassian stumbled a half-step before catching on. It wasn't military discipline. It was instinct—something older.
"How far do you think?" Noah muttered.
Cassian shook his head. "No clue. Depends where they're taking us."
"Cool," Noah said, his voice dry. "So, either a scenic tour or a quick execution. Love the options."
But under the sarcasm, his chest was tight. Every step into this glowing forest felt like stepping deeper into a story he hadn't agreed to play a role in.
The trees grew closer, their silver-veined trunks crowding together until the path felt like a throat tightening. Overhead, the canopy thickened, blotting out much of the night sky. The only light came from the strange foliage and the pale ribbons of moonlight that managed to slip through.
Noah glanced up once and caught the crescent moon framed between branches. For a second, it looked like it was watching him back.
He quickly looked away.
The silence held until the forest shifted again. The trees suddenly parted, their roots curling back like guardians stepping aside. Ahead, pale mist drifted low over the ground, and a faint glow rose where no torches burned.
The Sacred Glade.
Noah's stomach sank. He didn't know what waited for them there, but the air itself seemed to lean toward it, heavy with expectation.
And the priestess? She never slowed.
She simply walked straight ahead, staff raised, as if the forest itself had opened its mouth to welcome her home.
The glade opened like a wound in the forest.
Mist clung to the ground, coiling around the roots and stones, faintly glowing where silver-threaded fungi pulsed beneath. The trees had pulled back into a perfect ring, their trunks bowed inward as if acknowledging something sacred. Moonlight spilled freely here, unhindered, bathing the clearing in pale blue.
At the center stood a shallow pool, its surface still as glass. It reflected the moon overhead so sharply that for a moment Noah felt like he was walking straight into the sky. Around the pool, small altars of carved stone jutted from the earth, each etched with lunar phases and winding constellations. Offerings rested on them: clay bowls of herbs, feathers, carved bone figurines, bundles of wildflowers. Some were fresh, vibrant and fragrant. Others were half-rotted, sinking into moss.
Noah's breath caught—not at the beauty, not even at the strangeness—but at the figure he saw sitting near the largest altar.
Abel.
He wasn't bound. Not kneeling under threat. Just… sitting. His shirt had been stripped away, leaving the bandaged wound across his side exposed. A woman knelt beside him, her hands hovering just above the injury. Light pooled between her palms, soft and silvery, bleeding into Abel's skin like moonlight sinking into water.
He looked exhausted—paler than usual, lips tight—but alive.
The relief hit Noah so fast it made his knees weak. He staggered forward before his brain caught up.
"Abel—"
A spear haft slammed across his chest, halting him. The Moonfolk guard on his right didn't say a word, just pressed the weapon harder, eyes cold.
Noah swallowed hard, jaw tight. He wanted to shove through, to claw his way past, but the glowing restraints at his wrists pulsed, reminding him of his place.
Abel's head turned at the sound. His gaze found Noah's instantly, sharp even through the haze of exhaustion. A flicker of something passed through his eyes—relief, anger, maybe both.
"Noah," he rasped.
The healer shushed him gently, pressing her hand closer to his wound. "Do not speak. Save your strength." Her voice carried an accent Noah didn't recognize—soft, lilted, every word measured.
Cassian, walking just behind Noah, exhaled in visible relief. His shoulders slumped for a heartbeat before he straightened again, wary of the watching guards.
"You're alive," Noah said anyway, because he couldn't not. His voice cracked on it, bitter and raw.
The priestess leading them stopped near the pool. She planted her staff into the soil with a deliberate thud, and the faint threads of light binding Noah and Cassian's wrists unraveled in a soft hiss. Not freedom—just a reminder that their fate wasn't theirs to choose.
The Moonfolk began to spread out around the ring, settling into crouches or leaning against trees. They weren't cheering, weren't sneering. Just watching. Eyes full of suspicion, curiosity, and something else Noah couldn't name.
Farmers, miners, craftsmen. Ordinary people playing at warriors because someone had to.
Noah lowered his hands, rubbing at the faint glow-scars the restraints had left. His gaze didn't leave Abel.
The healer sat back, lowering her hands. The glow faded from Abel's skin, leaving his bandages cleaner, whiter, tighter than before. She murmured something under her breath—maybe a prayer—and rose, bowing her head toward the priestess before stepping aside.
The priestess turned then. For the first time since taking them, she faced Noah and Cassian directly. Her silver-blue robes caught the moonlight, making the ink on her skin gleam like constellations come alive.
"Talk," she said flatly. Her voice was calm, but there was no warmth in it. "Why are you here? Why do you carry the stink of the sun army on you?"
Noah's first instinct was to throw his hands up and tell the truth—the whole mess of it, spilled like guts on the floor. But panic and sarcasm came easier.
"Because we like sightseeing?" he said, forcing his voice steady. "Sorry for not booking ahead. Next time I'll make a reservation."
A murmur rippled through the Moonfolk—confusion, annoyance, maybe amusement. The priestess didn't flinch.
"You mock. That makes you sound even more like spies." She lifted her staff slightly, the carved crescent at its tip glowing faintly. The air thickened.
Noah's heartbeat stumbled. His mouth was dry, but he forced a grin anyway. "Spies? Really? You think we're signed up to the whole sun-banner club? You've seen me, right? I don't exactly scream 'loyal follower of the goddess of tanning oil.'"
Cassian shot him a look that said: You're going to get us killed.
The priestess's eyes narrowed. The glow of her staff brightened.
Noah's own sarcasm faltered as the air pressed heavier on his skin, like a hand lowering on his chest. His throat bobbed. He didn't doubt for a second that she could kill them both where they stood.
He swallowed. "Look, we're not your enemies. If we were, would we have walked straight into your forest without weapons, without backup? We'd be dead already. And if you think we're with those Helios freaks…" He shook his head sharply. "Trust me. We're not."
The tension held for one long, brittle moment.
And then—just beyond the glade—a crack split the night. Not the snap of a branch, but the clash of steel on steel.
Shouts. Boots pounding. The unmistakable roar of war.
The Moonfolk froze, heads snapping toward the trees.
Noah's chest tightened. He knew that sound. Soldiers. Legion of Dawn.
And they were coming straight for the glade.
First came the snap of branches. Then the roar of men. Then the light—torches bursting through the trees like falling stars, their flames clawing the shadows into shapes too jagged to be natural.
The Sacred Glade shuddered with noise. Armor clashed against shields, orders barked in the harsh cadence of the Legion of Dawn. Sun-banners whipped in the air, firelight catching on their gold threads.
The Moonfolk didn't scream at first. They froze, wide-eyed, like deer caught in the sudden blaze. Farmers with hands more used to soil than steel. Miners who knew only pickaxes, not spears. Children clutched mothers, healers dropped herbs and poultices into the dirt.
Then the lions came.
War-beasts—massive, lean, eyes burning like embers. Collars of gold dug into their fur as handlers loosed them. They bounded forward, ripping through the line of frightened villagers. One man went down with a cry that cut off too soon. Another tried to swing a branch, only to be thrown aside like cloth.
The air turned iron-hot. Shouts, fire, steel.
Noah staggered back, breath ragged, as chaos ripped the Glade apart. He saw Abel—still weak, still half-healed—struggle to rise, clutching his side. He saw Cassian grab for a fallen spear, face pale but fierce. And he saw the priestess—her silver-blue robes glowing faintly in the moonlight—hesitate.
For the first time, she faltered.
Her staff trembled in her hand, caught halfway between striking and shielding. Her eyes flicked to her people—collapsing, running, burning—and something broke there.
"Shit," Noah muttered, low and sharp, his chest tightening.
He stepped forward, voice carrying through the madness. "Let us fight with you."
The priestess snapped her head toward him, disbelief painted across her face. "You're not one of us. You could be spies—"
"Do I look like a fucking spy?" Noah cut in, sarcasm sharp and desperate. He gestured at the torches closing in, the lions tearing through the line. "Because if I am, I'm the worst one alive. You want to live? You need us."
Cassian was already moving, bracing his spear, ready to strike. Abel dragged himself upright with stubborn defiance.
The priestess's jaw clenched. Her hesitation cracked under the weight of fire and screams.
"…Fine," she said, bitter but resolute. "Fight. Or we all die here."
Noah grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's the spirit."
Then the first soldier broke into the clearing, blade raised high, and the battle began.
The first soldier lunged.
Noah reacted without thinking. His hand snapped out, and a card of raw light shimmered into being—thin, sharp, crackling with kinetic force. It sliced through the air like a thrown blade, striking the man in the chest. The impact sent him sprawling backward into the firelight, armor denting with a hollow clang.
More poured in behind him. Five. Ten. A dozen.
Cassian moved fast, reckless in his fury. He rammed his spear into the gut of a legionnaire, twisted, and yanked it free with a grunt. Blood sprayed across his arm. Another soldier swung at him, but Cassian ducked low, bashing the man's knee with the butt of the spear before driving it up through his jaw. His teeth were bared, not in a smile—never that—but in something wild, animal, a boy forced into war with nothing left but rage.
Abel, pale and sweating, still stood his ground. A Moonfolk villager shoved a short sword into his hand, and he wielded it like it had always belonged there. He fought slower than usual—every swing careful, every block strained—but his strikes were efficient. A clean slash at a soldier's throat. A heavy chop through leather armor. He bled from his reopened wound, but his eyes never wavered.
Noah fought differently.
Cards flickered at his fingertips, conjured and released in flashes of kinetic light. One burst outward midair, exploding into a shockwave that flung three soldiers into the dirt. Another sharpened into a spinning blade, cutting through a shield before vanishing in sparks. His body moved on instinct—ducking, weaving, throwing, lashing. And when one soldier got too close, Noah called forth his whips of fate, snapping them out in luminous arcs that wrapped around steel and tore it from grasping hands.
The Moonfolk tried to fight, but most were butchered where they stood. Spears wobbled in uncertain grips. Torches fell from hands and set the underbrush ablaze. A healer screamed as a lion pounced, silenced only when Abel cut the beast across the throat. But for each foe they felled, more surged into the clearing.
"Too many!" Cassian shouted, eyes wild, teeth clenched as he yanked his spear free from another kill.
"Then kill faster!" Noah shot back, another card spinning from his fingers, detonating against a shield wall.
The priestess herself joined the fray. She raised her staff, and arcs of pale moonlight split through the dark—searing beams that carved across the battlefield. A lion reeled back, blinded. A soldier screamed as his armor melted with silver fire. Yet even she faltered, her defenses stretched thin, her people dying around her.
Then it happened.
Noah didn't see the man until it was too late. A legionnaire, taller, broader, with the bearing of command, broke through the chaos. His blade arced high—catching moonlight on steel—and drove into Noah's side.
The pain was white-hot. His breath left him in a scream. He stumbled, blood spilling onto the glowing grass beneath him.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
And then the ground itself shuddered.
Where Noah's blood touched the soil, light flared. Not fire. Not silver. Moonlight—pure, cold, endless. It spilled across the Sacred Glade like water, bathing him in radiance. His wound sealed in an instant, flesh knitting under the glow. Strength surged into his limbs. His heartbeat steadied, fast but certain.
The legionnaire swung again. Noah caught the blade between two luminous whips, twisted, and with a single motion shattered steel like it was brittle glass. His reflexes burned sharper, his body lighter, his mind sharper.
Moonlight poured through him. Not borrowed. Not stolen. Given.
The priestess froze, mid-strike, her staff lowering as awe hollowed her face. The Moonfolk fell silent, even as the battle raged. Soldiers, lions, villagers—all seemed to pause, drawn to the impossible sight.
Noah stood in the center of it, wrapped in silver light.
And then he moved.
He lashed out, card after card exploding from his hands, blades of light slicing through armor as if it were cloth. His whips cracked like thunder, breaking weapons, snapping necks. The commander who had cut him down fell to his knees, eyes wide with horror, before Noah struck him across the chest with enough force to send him flying into the burning undergrowth.
The glow didn't fade.
It burned brighter.
Every Moonfolk eye was on him. Not Cassian. Not Abel. Him.
Enveloped in the blessing of the dead god.
"Fuck, not again."