The Sacred Glade stank of iron and smoke.
Ash drifted on the wind like gray snow, settling on scorched grass and broken bodies. Fires still licked at the underbrush where torches had been thrown. The once-still pools of moonlight shimmered faintly on the blood-stained soil, now more red than silver.
The battle was over. But peace hadn't returned.
The Moonfolk survivors gathered in loose, shaken circles. Some clutched crude spears slick with blood, knuckles white. Others fell to their knees beside the dead—mothers, fathers, children—voices muffled under tears and whispers. Many looked at Noah, some with awe, others with fear. A few knelt outright, pressing their hands to the ground where his blood had spilled, as if expecting more miracles to rise out of the soil.
Noah hated it. Hated their eyes, hated their silence. He wanted to shake them and shout: I didn't choose this. I don't want this. Instead, he just stood there, too tired to do anything but breathe.
Cassian wiped his spear clean on a dead soldier's cloak, then looked back at Noah. His expression wasn't awe. It was something sharper. Relief. Pride. Like he wanted to say you saved them but knew the words would choke Noah. Abel stayed close, leaning on a borrowed sword for balance. He hadn't collapsed, but the blood on his bandages was fresh again, his jaw tight with pain. Even so, his eyes stayed on Noah—steady, unreadable.
The priestess was the last to approach.
Her silver-blue robes were torn, ash smeared across her tattoos, and the crescent on her staff was cracked at the edge. But she held herself straight, her gaze locked on Noah. The surviving Moonfolk parted for her without a word, like a tide opening a path.
She stopped a few paces from him. For a long moment, she just looked. At the glow still faintly clinging to his skin. At the place where his blood had fallen. At the man himself, pale and shaking, trying too hard not to crumble.
When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than before. "I owe you an apology. I doubted you. I thought you enemies—spies of Helios. I nearly condemned you. And yet…" She gestured at the ruined battlefield. At the people still alive because of him. "The God of the Moon touched you. I cannot deny it."
Noah barked a laugh—short, bitter. "Touched me? That what you call it? Felt more like being set on fire and shoved on stage."
A flicker of a smile ghosted across her lips, gone almost instantly. "Call it what you will. You are marked. Chosen."
"No." His voice cut hard, sharper than he meant. "Don't use that word."
Her brow furrowed, but she didn't argue. The other Moonfolk, though—they were whispering, voices threading into the air: blessed, chosen, savior.
Noah looked away, jaw tight. "I'm not your saint. I'm not your savior. I'm just a man who got stabbed and got lucky."
Cassian stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow. "Lucky doesn't keep an army from slaughtering us. He's more than lucky, Priestess. You saw it. We all saw it."
Noah shot him a look, ready to snap something back, but the words caught. Cassian's face was open, raw, lit by the glow of the still-burning fires. For one terrible second, Noah saw not Cassian, but the boy from the cages again—bloodied, defiant, surviving when everyone else had been butchered.
The guilt stabbed deeper than the legionnaire's blade had.
He forced himself to look away. His chest tightened, his throat burned. "We'll help," he said suddenly, voice low but steady. "At least for now. We'll keep your people safe. Protect your settlement as long as we're here. But don't expect more than that."
The priestess tilted her head. "And after?"
"After," Noah said, "depends on if we're all still breathing. And if your people don't ask us to fight a whole empire on our own. Because we can't. Nobody can."
The priestess studied him for a long moment, then bowed her head—not in reverence, but in acknowledgment. "That is fair."
For the first time since the battle ended, Noah let out a shaky breath.
The priestess drifted back to her people, leaving them a wide circle of space. Survivors gathered around her, tending to wounds, murmuring prayers, stacking the bodies of the fallen. The glade was still half on fire, but the Moonfolk moved through the smoke with practiced hands, stamping out embers, dragging water from hidden springs.
Noah sank onto a boulder, his hands dangling between his knees. The adrenaline was gone now, leaving only trembling fingers and a hollow ache in his chest. He stared at the dirt, at the faint shimmer where his blood had burned brighter than any torch. He hated the sight of it.
Cassian crouched nearby, not close enough to crowd him, but not far either. His golden hair was damp with sweat, his tunic slashed from a near miss. He was breathing harder than he let on, though he tried to hide it with a grin. "So. Marked by a dead god, huh? That's one hell of a way to make friends."
Noah's laugh came out jagged. "Yeah. Friends. Until they realize it doesn't mean a damn thing."
Cassian tilted his head. "Doesn't it?"
"Don't start," Noah muttered.
"I'm serious." Cassian's voice sharpened, uncharacteristically firm. "They need hope. Look at them—they've been hunted, caged, burned. And then they see you light up like the moon itself, healing like it's nothing. You don't think that matters?"
"It shouldn't." Noah rubbed a hand over his face, smearing sweat and ash. "Hope's just another leash. Give them too much, and they'll chain me with it. Just like the Saint's people did. You saw how that ended."
The words landed heavy, and for a moment neither spoke. Abel, leaning against a tree with his bandaged side, finally broke the silence. His voice was quiet, but steady. "He's not wrong. If they start seeing him as more than he is, it'll turn ugly. Sooner or later."
Cassian turned, frustration flashing. "And what then? We just walk away? Leave them to burn?"
Abel didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed on Noah, unreadable, as if waiting for him to speak first.
Noah felt the weight of both of them—Cassian's anger, Abel's silence—pressing against him. His stomach twisted.
He thought of Cassian's people, gone in fire and chains. He thought of the cult in the Womb, how he'd tried to help and instead destroyed them. He thought of Abel, cursed for years because no one was there to save him.
Guilt sank like a hook into his ribs.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost defeated. "We'll help. At least to protect them. Their settlement, their homes. As long as we're here."
Cassian's shoulders loosened, just slightly. Abel inclined his head once, as if that was all he'd been waiting for.
"But," Noah added sharply, lifting his gaze, "don't mistake that for me signing up to fight their whole damn war. I'm not here to lead an army. I don't care how much they want to see it. I can't be their savior. Not again."
Cassian opened his mouth, then closed it, swallowing whatever argument lingered. His expression softened instead, like he understood more than he wanted to admit.
Abel finally spoke again, his voice even. "Then that's the line. We stay, we defend, and when the time comes—we decide again."
Noah nodded, though the knot in his chest didn't loosen.
The three of them sat there, side by side, in the ash-stained glade. Around them, the Moonfolk whispered prayers, rebuilt fires, and kept stealing glances their way.
For the first time since arriving in this strange world, Noah felt the weight of being seen not just as a stranger, but as something more. Something dangerous. Something divine.
He hated it.
But he also knew—deep down—they couldn't run from it forever.
The priestess returned when the fires were nearly out and the wounded settled. Her silver-blue robes were smudged with soot, her staff streaked with ash. Yet her bearing hadn't bent—her gaze sharp as moonlight on steel.
She stopped before the three of them, eyes lingering longest on Noah. The weight of her stare made his chest tighten, though he forced himself not to flinch.
"You fought with us," she said simply. Her voice carried the weariness of someone used to giving orders and watching them fail. "Without you, more of my people would have fallen. For that, you have my respect."
She dipped her head—not a bow, not quite, but an acknowledgment. Then straightened. "You will come with us. To our true home. A hidden valley in the mountains. There you will rest. Heal. And explain yourselves in full."
Cassian shifted, ready to nod, but Noah's sarcasm slipped out first, his shield against tension. "Wow. From 'we'll kill you on sight' to 'sleepover at our secret base.' You people don't waste time."
The priestess's eyes narrowed, but there was a twitch at the corner of her mouth—whether humor or irritation, Noah couldn't tell. "Consider it a test. Strangers who survive the glade may be worth hearing."
Noah exhaled, half a sigh, half a laugh. "Lucky us."
They were given no chance to argue further. Guards closed in, spears angled just enough to remind them this was an invitation with edges.
The journey back into the woods was quieter. Smoke thinned behind them, leaving only the cool press of night and the whisper of insects in violet grass.
Abel walked slower than the rest, his side still bandaged, though he refused to lean on anyone. Cassian stuck close enough to steady him without making it obvious. Noah trailed at the edge of their little triangle, eyes flicking to the Moonfolk around them.
They weren't soldiers. Not really. Farmers, miners, fishers, people with dirt-stained hands and tired shoulders. A few still clutched spears with shaking grips, as if they barely knew what to do with them.
Noah muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the others. "These people aren't warriors. Half of them look like they should be mending nets, not fighting lions."
Cassian leaned closer as they walked, whispering back. "All the more reason to help them. They're not built for war. They need someone who is."
Noah glanced sideways at him, jaw tight. "And what, you think we can just… take on a whole empire for them? With what? My card tricks and your big stick?"
Cassian's grin flashed, weary but stubborn. "Worked so far."
Abel's voice cut in, quiet but dry. "Worked barely." He adjusted his bandage, then fixed Noah with a look. "Still, he's right about one thing. If we want to understand this world, this is a chance. A safe place. People who actually live here. Better than stumbling blind."
Noah exhaled through his nose. He hated that it made sense.
"You're saying we should stay," he muttered.
"I'm saying," Abel replied, "that wandering forever isn't a plan. Sooner or later, we need to know where we are. Who we're up against. Who we can trust."
Cassian added softly, "And if this is really your new god fan club, maybe we'll learn why you keep glowing."
Noah groaned. "Don't start with that."
Cassian only smirked. Abel hid a chuckle behind his usual stoicism. For a moment, the heaviness lifted, replaced by something almost normal—a rhythm between the three of them that felt like survival, not just struggle.
But when Noah looked up again, he caught the priestess watching them from ahead, unreadable as the moon itself.
He didn't know if they were walking toward safety, or straight into another trap.
Either way, they were committed now.
The path wound upward for hours. At first, it was just forest—dense trunks painted in hues of indigo and cyan, leaves rustling with soft whispers when the night breeze cut through. But as they climbed, the trees changed. Their bark glowed faintly, streaked with veins of pale silver that pulsed like distant stars. Roots arched above the ground like frozen waves, wide enough to crawl beneath.
Cassian stopped once, running his hand across one of the glowing trunks. "This doesn't feel real," he muttered.
Noah brushed past him, muttering back. "You'd be surprised what counts as real these days."
The climb was hard on Abel. He said nothing, but his breath grew heavier, his hand pressed tighter to his side. Twice Noah almost reached out to help, and twice Abel straightened his shoulders and forced the thought back into him with a glare. Cassian hovered protectively anyway, the golden retriever instincts Noah secretly counted on.
Then, without warning, the path widened—and ended.
The trees broke open into a cliffside ledge. Below them stretched a valley so wide it seemed carved from a dream. Moonlight spilled across it like liquid, turning every surface into silver.
Forests filled the bowl of the valley, but not like the ones they'd passed through. These trees shimmered with deeper magic—trunks like marble, leaves glowing in blues, violets, and ghostly whites. Their crowns bent toward the crescent moon overhead as if paying homage. Between them wound rivers so clear the starlight seemed to ripple in the water itself.
Noah's throat went dry.
"This…" Cassian whispered. "This is beautiful."
It was more than that. It was alive.
Fireflies glowed brighter here, drifting like stardust shaken loose from the sky. Small animals darted through the grass—silver-furred hares, birds with violet feathers that caught the moonlight like shards of glass. Even a stag stood at the treeline, its antlers shaped like crescents, eyes glowing faintly as it watched them without fear.
And strangest of all—the creatures seemed drawn to Noah. When he stepped closer to the ledge, the stag tilted its head, almost bowing. The birds wheeled overhead, their flight circling in slow, lazy arcs above him.
Noah froze, every nerve on edge. He didn't move, didn't breathe.
Cassian, of course, noticed immediately. "Guess they like you." His grin was quiet but sharp.
Noah's jaw clenched. "Guess they're broken."
Abel's gaze lingered on him, unreadable, before he turned his eyes back to the valley.
The Moonfolk around them were silent. For the first time since their capture, some even softened their stares. A few murmured among themselves in low voices, words Noah couldn't catch, but the way their eyes cut toward him made the meaning obvious enough.
Chosen. Marked. Blessed.
He hated it.
The priestess stood at the front of the group, her staff raised slightly as if claiming the view for herself. The wind tugged at her silver-blue robes, and her hair caught the moonlight. "This," she said, finally breaking the silence, "is the last place untouched. Our god's blood runs deepest here. His power lingers in every root, every stone."
Her gaze turned to Noah, sharper now, heavy as a blade across his skin. "And now… it lingers in you."
Noah looked away, swallowing hard. The valley below shimmered like a promise he didn't want.
Cassian leaned close, whispering so only he and Abel could hear. "If this is how they treat him just for glowing once, imagine how they'll react if he ever actually does something."
Abel's mouth tightened. "That's the problem."
Noah stayed quiet. He couldn't answer, not with the priestess still watching him.
Not with the weight of an entire dead god pressing against his chest.
The descent into the valley felt like crossing a threshold. The further they went, the heavier the air grew—not oppressive, but charged, as if the ground itself carried memory. Every step stirred faint glimmers in the grass, tiny sparks of silver that clung to their boots before fading.
The path wound through groves of marble-barked trees and over streams that sang like crystal chimes. Bridges of woven wood arched across the water, not built but grown, roots curling together in impossible patterns. Noah glanced once at Cassian, expecting a joke about fairy tales, but Cassian's face was oddly reverent.
"Feels like walking inside a prayer," he whispered.
Noah scowled but didn't argue.
At last, the forest opened into a wide basin where the Moonfolk had built their settlement.
It wasn't a city—not like the sun banners and barracks of the Legion. It wasn't even a village in the sense Noah knew. It was… woven. Homes grew from the trunks of massive trees, their walls carved with crescent sigils that glowed faintly in the dark. Rope bridges stretched between high branches, lanterns of silver fire swaying gently above. On the ground, low stone houses hugged the riverbanks, their rooftops covered in moss and flowers that only bloomed at night.
Children darted between the structures barefoot, their laughter echoing faint but clear. Farmers carried baskets of pale fruit that gleamed like glass apples. Hunters returned with strange deer whose antlers shimmered faintly with starlight.
But the moment the strangers entered, silence rippled outward.
Dozens of eyes turned toward them.
Toward Noah.
The air shifted. It wasn't fear. It wasn't hatred. It was something worse—expectation.
Whispers spread like wind over water. Some dropped to one knee. Others pressed fingers to their brows in some gesture Noah didn't recognize. A few just stared, wide-eyed, at the boy who had walked into their sacred valley carrying the echo of their god.
Noah felt his chest tighten, panic curling like smoke in his throat. He wanted to vanish. To scream that they were wrong, that he wasn't holy, that he wasn't anything but broken.
The priestess raised her staff, silencing the crowd. Her eyes never left Noah.
"He carries the moon's breath," she said, her voice carrying easily through the glade. "Our god's hand has not touched this world in a century and a half. Tonight, it has."
Murmurs broke again, some in awe, some in fear.
Cassian shifted closer, whispering fast. "If we're going to learn about this world, this is our chance. Don't waste it."
Abel's voice followed, low and steady. "And don't forget—we need them as much as they need you."
Noah's fists clenched. He wanted to laugh, to curse, to tell them he wasn't their miracle. But the eyes staring back at him held too much hope, too much desperation. He couldn't crush it—not yet.
The priestess lowered her staff and motioned them forward. "Come. You will be given rest. Food. And then… answers."
Noah exhaled slowly, the weight of expectation pressing down on every step as he followed into the heart of the settlement.
He had left one world behind—the Womb, the cult, the blood.
And stepped into another.
Not safer. Not freer.
Just heavier.
The moon had chosen him, whether he wanted it or not.