The path wound deeper into the Moonfolk settlement, silver lanterns strung high between trees, their glow caught in branches like trapped stars. The light shifted with the breeze, shimmering in hues of blue and violet, painting the forest floor in restless constellations. The air smelled faintly of pine resin and some sweet herb Noah couldn't name, something sharp but comforting, like mint bruised between fingers.
Everywhere they walked, eyes followed. Farmers paused with dirt still clinging to their palms. Miners in roughspun tunics streaked gray with dust leaned on their tools. Children peered from doorways, braids adorned with shells and little carved moons that clicked softly when they moved. None of them carried weapons. They weren't warriors — just villagers, ordinary people, and yet they stared at Noah like he had torn the sky open.
"Blessed," one voice whispered.
"Moon-touched," another hushed.
Noah kept his head down. His skin prickled, as though the weight of their gazes could peel him open. His chest felt too tight, his footsteps too loud. He wanted to vanish, to melt into the shadows and deny the way those whispers pressed against him like invisible chains.
The priestess led without a word, her staff clicking softly against roots and stone. Her stride was steady, measured, as though each step marked out a rhythm no one else could hear. Her silver-blue robes caught the lantern light, making her seem both part of the night and apart from it.
Cassian leaned in close enough that his shoulder brushed Noah's. "Friendly bunch," he muttered, voice low. "You'd think we were ghosts."
"Not far off," Noah said under his breath, trying to sound flippant, but it came out hollow.
They reached a structure unlike anything Noah had ever seen. Not stone, not timber, but living wood: a great tree hollowed carefully, without killing it. The trunk curved like a cathedral arch, windows framed in polished bone, a door bound with silver thread. Faint light glowed from within, bluish-white, spilling across the ground like the tree itself breathed illumination.
The priestess stopped, turned, and gestured with her staff. "These are your quarters. Rest here until summoned."
Her voice carried the same controlled weight it had since the forest — not hostile, not warm. Unreadable.
Cassian tilted his head, peering past her. "Looks big enough for three. We'll stay together."
One of the Moonfolk guards frowned. "Three? There are separate chambers—"
"No," Cassian cut in, firmer than usual. "Together."
Abel's voice followed, quiet but iron. "We've had enough separation."
The priestess regarded them with narrowed eyes, weighing something unseen. "You don't trust us."
Noah almost laughed — a sharp bark that he swallowed back into a grimace. "You noticed," he muttered.
For the first time, something flickered across her face — not quite offense, not quite amusement. Then she gestured curtly, and the guards stepped aside.
Inside, the air was cool and fragrant with dried herbs hung in bundles from the ceiling. The walls curved smoothly, polished wood glimmering faintly as though it still pulsed with life. Beds lined with woven moss and furs rested against one wall, three of them, close enough that they nearly touched. A small basin gleamed in the corner, filled with clear water that trickled from some unseen spring channel. A slit of a window opened onto the glowing forest, violet and silver leaves swaying outside.
Cassian dropped onto the nearest bed with a dramatic sigh. "Better than sleeping under roots."
Abel lowered himself carefully onto another, testing his weight against his healing wound. His hand lingered on his side, but after a moment he nodded once — approval enough.
Noah lingered by the doorway, fingers brushing the frame. The faint light from the window spilled across his hand, and for the first time since leaving the Womb, he felt the world didn't press quite so hard against his chest. Still, the whispers from outside clung to him. Blessed. Moon-touched.
He shut the door. The sound echoed louder than expected, like sealing them off from the entire settlement.
The silence inside stretched — softer than the silence of hiding or fighting. This one carried no blades in it. Just the hum of the forest pressing against the walls, the faint drip of water into the basin, the slow rhythm of three sets of lungs.
Cassian leaned back on his elbows, watching Noah with that half-grin that always resurfaced, even in ruins. "So. Fancy beds, running water. They treat all prisoners like this?"
"We're not prisoners," Noah muttered, pulling at the hem of his torn shirt. "We're… moon-blessed guests who got tied up and dragged here."
Abel snorted — a small, reluctant laugh — before he lay back fully, eyes closing. His posture was all calm indifference, but the lines at his jaw betrayed the pain still tugging at his wound.
Noah sat on the edge of the third bed, restless. His fingers drummed against his knee. The room felt too close. Not because it was small — but because Abel was here, and Cassian was here, and the air between them was thick with things none of them had dared to say.
Cassian broke it first. "So, are we gonna talk about it?"
"About what?" Noah asked, sharper than intended.
"You know." Cassian's grin softened, turned lopsided. "The sleeping pile. The hugs. The…" He gestured vaguely between them. "Whatever that was."
Heat crawled up Noah's neck. He stared at the moss bed, the polished wall, anywhere but their faces. "That was survival. Don't overthink it."
"Mm." Cassian leaned closer, voice dropping. "Didn't look like you hated it."
Noah shot him a glare, but it lacked venom. Abel cracked one eye open, gaze sliding from Cassian to Noah and back again. Calm. Steady. Almost amused.
"I don't mind," Abel said simply.
Noah blinked. "What?"
"You. Him. Both." Abel's tone was matter-of-fact, like he was commenting on the weather. "I don't mind."
The words landed heavier than they should have. Noah's chest tightened. Abel's acceptance — casual, unshaken — left no space for the guilt or hesitation Noah had been hoarding.
Cassian chuckled under his breath. "See? He's the adult here."
Noah buried his face in his hands. "You two are going to kill me."
Abel closed his eye again. "Already tried. Didn't work."
For the first time in what felt like forever, Noah laughed — sharp, ragged, but real. The sound lingered in the hush of the room like fragile glass, a truce suspended on breath.
Cassian shifted closer, his shoulder brushing Noah's. Not a demand — just presence. Abel reached out from his bed, fingers brushing Noah's wrist, a silent anchor.
Noah froze, caught between them. The warmth, the ease, the terrifying simplicity of it. He wanted to run. He wanted to stay forever.
He didn't move.
The knock came soft on the doorframe, but it jolted him like a blade unsheathed in silence.
A young Moonfolk woman stood there, her braids threaded with tiny shells that clicked as she bowed slightly, not meeting his eyes. "The priestess invites you to join the evening meal."
Abel pushed himself upright with a low groan, hand braced on his side. Cassian stretched like a cat and murmured, "Dinner. Thank the gods — or moons. Whoever."
They followed her through winding paths lit with silver lamps. The settlement had transformed with nightfall. Lanterns hung like floating stars from branches, casting rippling blue light across faces, banners, the forest floor itself. Voices rose — laughter, chatter, the scrape of benches dragged into place.
At the heart of the valley stood the hall. If it could even be called a hall. It wasn't stone or timber but living grove: six colossal trees bent together at their crowns, fused by some ancient spell. Their trunks formed walls, hollow yet alive, bark pulsing faintly with veins of moonlight. The air inside was warm, fragrant with roasted meats and herbs.
Everywhere, Moonfolk filled long tables. Families. Elders. Children. They looked up as one when Noah, Abel, and Cassian entered.
Silence fell. Just for a heartbeat.
Then the whispers spread like fire through grass.
"Moon-touched."
"The boy of the god's light."
Noah's stomach knotted. He wanted to melt into the bark and vanish.
Cassian, unfazed, grinned and gave a cheeky little wave. Abel walked steady, ignoring the stares entirely. Noah fixed his eyes on the nearest table leg until they were guided to seats near the center, where food already waited: smoked fish glistening with oil, loaves of thick bread, bowls of berries and roasted roots.
The meal began quickly. The hush gave way to chatter again, music swelling as a group of youths lifted carved flutes and stringed instruments. The tune rose — lilting, rhythmic, haunting yet joyful all at once.
Cassian's foot tapped under the table almost immediately. He laughed, shoved his chair back, and before Noah could blink, he was stumbling into the dancers' circle. The Moonfolk wove intricate steps, quick and sure, and Cassian mimicked them with exaggerated carelessness.
The hall erupted with laughter, delighted rather than cruel. He stumbled, spun the wrong way, caught a girl's hand, and still managed a ridiculous bow that had even the musicians grinning through their notes.
Abel smirked faintly into his cup. "He'll embarrass us all before the week is out."
Noah tore a piece of bread and chewed slowly, pretending he wasn't smiling. The music, the warmth, the lantern-light flickering across faces — it felt wrong, almost, to be at peace here. Wrong and yet desperately needed.
For a moment, he let himself breathe.
Later, when the music softened and the platters sat empty, the priestess appeared at Noah's side. She hadn't eaten. Her gaze fixed on him like she was still balancing scales only she could see.
"You're strangers here," she said. "You don't know our world."
Noah raised a brow. "Sharp observation."
Her lips twitched — not quite a smile. "If you wish to understand, tomorrow I'll bring you to the lore keepers. They know the lands better than anyone left."
Noah leaned back, wearing his best deadpan mask. "That'd be useful. We were on such a long quest, we lost track of where we even are. Maps, compasses — all gone in a battle. You know how it is."
Her eyes narrowed, amused despite herself. "Convenient."
"Tragic," Noah corrected.
For the first time, she chuckled. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we see what truths the past still holds."
As the hall emptied — families drifting, children yawning, musicians packing up with tired smiles — Noah leaned closer to Abel and Cassian, voice low.
"This might be it. Finally figuring out where the hell we even are. Kings, countries, what's changed… a hundred years of answers, maybe."
Cassian's grin softened. "About time. I was starting to think we'd wander forever, just you, me, and brooding over here." He jerked his chin toward Abel.
Abel's lips curved the faintest fraction. "Better than dying in a pit."
"High standards," Noah muttered. But his chest felt lighter. Hopeful, almost. Dangerous word, that.
The three of them left the hall together, slipping into moonlit paths. For once, the night didn't feel like it was waiting to devour them. It felt like it was watching.
And maybe — just maybe — waiting to be understood.