The day began in gold.
Not the warm, romantic kind. Not the glow of a campfire or the glimmer of sunlight breaking through morning mist. No—the gold of the Womb was sterile, unchanging. Suspicious. It bled from the ceiling in unwavering shafts, lighting every inch of the sanctuary with the precision of an operating theatre. There was no dawn. No progression. Just the heavy weight of another eternal cycle.
Noah was halfway through lacing up his boots when the door swung open without warning.
"Rise and shine, divine duo," Cassian said, his voice light but edged. "We're going hunting."
Noah blinked. "I don't remember joining the scouts."
Cassian strolled in without waiting for an answer. He wore reinforced leathers and light armor marked with sigils. His hair was slightly damp, pushed back from his face, and a long blade hung across his back. Behind him, two young Kindled Ones lingered—barefoot, faces painted with bone-dust, their eyes bright with reverence.
"You're not joining," Cassian said with a grin. "You're accompanying. There's a difference."
Abel stepped out from the side chamber, already dressed in his own muted leathers, arms folded. "What are we hunting?"
Cassian's smile tightened. "A Ruin-Tusk."
Noah's brows shot up. "That sounds like something that stomps churches for fun."
"It does," Cassian said, oddly proud. "They're not like the fleshspawn. Older. Wilder. Like the Womb's natural predators."
"And we're going toward it," Noah muttered. "Of course we are."
They traveled in silence.
The deeper wilds of the Womb weren't made for comfort. The ground was spongy in places, like walking across muscle stretched too tight, and brittle in others—flaky bone plates cracking underfoot with every step. The air shifted constantly between warmth and damp coolness, as though the lungs of something massive breathed somewhere far below.
The party was ten in total. Cassian led with two adult scouts—both masked, both armed with long glaives that shimmered with etched runes. Behind them came the Kindled Ones, five of them, each marked by ritual scars and clad in patchwork armor fused with organic material—horn, sinew, carapace. They moved with uncanny discipline.
Noah and Abel brought up the rear.
"I thought we were here to rest," Noah whispered.
"You were," Abel replied without looking back. "You just attract chaos."
"Thank you. I do try."
By mid-morning—or what passed for it in the timeless haze—they reached a break in the terrain.
The path opened into a wide depression, a sort of crater where the ground sagged inward, the walls formed by curling spines and root-flesh. A strange breeze stirred the thick air, carrying the scent of burnt oil and something wetter—like bile and blood.
Cassian raised a hand.
Everyone stopped.
The scouts moved ahead, slipping between the ribs like shadows. The Kindled formed a loose half-circle, weapons drawn, eyes forward. Abel stepped forward slightly, shielding Noah by instinct.
And then it came.
The Ruin-Tusk wasn't subtle.
It erupted from the far side of the crater with the sound of cracking bone and tearing earth. Towering—easily four meters tall, its limbs thick as tree trunks, its body armored in layered bone plates stained black by rot and time. It had no eyes. Its face resembled a fractured porcelain mask, split down the middle with teeth that didn't match in size or shape.
It moved like an avalanche. No pause. No warning.
The scouts leapt away just in time as it barreled into the Kindled's formation.
Noah stumbled back, heart slamming against his ribs. "That's not a beast, that's a nightmare with legs!"
Cassian didn't flinch.
"Kindled, formation two!" he barked.
The children responded instantly. They moved like a single body—one drew its attention with flashing runes, another flanked, two more struck from behind with spears tipped in glowing toxin.
The Ruin-Tusk roared—though it sounded more like a thousand bones grinding together—and flailed its arms, smashing one child hard against the spine-wall.
Noah didn't think.
He threw out his hand. Fate Lines!
Two glowing lassos of energy erupted from his palms, spiraling toward the beast's legs. They caught—barely—and held. The creature stumbled, one knee buckling.
"Now!" Cassian shouted.
Abel surged forward like a spear thrown by a god. His blade shimmered gold as he leapt, driving it deep into the exposed crack beneath the creature's chin.
The Ruin-Tusk thrashed once.
Then fell.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Blood—thick and black with iridescent veins—poured from the wound, seeping into the fleshy ground like wine into cloth. The floor pulsed once beneath their feet. Then again.
Cassian approached, breathing hard. His expression was flat. "Good kill."
Abel wiped his blade. "It wasn't just us."
Noah lowered his hands slowly. "I think I tore my ankle trying to hold that thing still."
"You looked hot doing it," Cassian offered, grinning again.
One of the scouts knelt near the fallen Kindled. The boy had a broken arm, but was conscious. He didn't cry. He whispered something, and the scout nodded.
They left him there.
Noah turned. "Wait—what?"
"He'll be collected by the roots," Cassian said, as if it were normal. "Taken back to the core. If he's strong, he'll return. If not... he becomes part of the Womb again."
Noah stared. "That's insane."
Cassian's grin faded. "That's faith."
No one spoke as they began the walk back.
As they ascended out of the crater, Noah glanced down one last time.
The Ruin-Tusk's blood had vanished—absorbed entirely by the ground. In its place, faint golden flowers bloomed.
Noah's boots squelched softly in the pulsing flesh beneath them. His legs were sore, his breathing shallow—but it wasn't exhaustion that gnawed at him.
It was the boy.
The one with the shattered arm. Left behind.
He kept seeing him in flashes. The way his lips barely moved when he whispered to the scout. How he didn't cry. How he didn't ask for help. Like he already knew he was disposable.
Noah swallowed thickly, his voice low. "That kid… he was barely breathing. You're really going to leave him there?"
Cassian didn't look back. "He'll be fine."
"That's not an answer," Noah snapped.
The others kept walking. Only Abel tilted his head slightly, listening.
Cassian finally slowed, turning with that damn smile again—too sharp, too clean. "The Womb takes care of its own. If he has the strength, the roots will return him."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then he returns in another way. Nothing is wasted here."
Noah stared. "He's a child. Not… not compost."
Cassian's grin faltered. Just for a second. "He's Kindled. That's more than a child. He's flame-bound. A chosen spark."
Noah felt something cold settle behind his ribs. A weight that wouldn't shift. "You say that like it's a good thing."
"It is."
Cassian didn't wait for a reply.
He walked ahead, weaving between the others like he hadn't just justified leaving a bleeding kid behind to die—or ascend. Whatever the hell that meant anymore.
Noah looked to Abel. "Is this what loyalty looks like here? Turning your back and calling it faith?"
Abel was quiet for a long time. His gaze was steady, unreadable.
"It's survival," he said eventually. "And maybe… maybe it's all they've ever known."
Noah didn't answer.
He just walked a little slower after that.
The return to the settlement was quiet at first. The Kindled Ones, streaked with dirt and blood, walked with their weapons slung over their backs like dutiful shadows. Their expressions were strangely serene—no jubilation, no exhaustion. Just grim resolve. The ruined body of the Ruin-Tusk beast, massive and still steaming in some places, had been dragged behind a crude sled of bones and sinew. Its hide reeked of rot and sulfur, but none of the Kindled Ones flinched.
Noah walked in silence, only a few steps behind Cassian. Abel flanked his other side, unusually close, their fingers brushing now and then as if by accident. They hadn't spoken since the fight. Noah's body ached from the strain of dodging, running, and nearly being trampled to death—but his mind wouldn't stop spinning.
Not because of the monster. Not even the way the children fought, with such wild, rehearsed cruelty.
But because of the way Cassian smiled through it all.
It wasn't joy. It wasn't bloodlust. It was a devotion Noah didn't understand, but it scared him more than the monster ever could.
The settlement came into view as they reached the outer bone markers. The fleshy ceiling above had begun to dim. The sun—the artificial sun suspended impossibly high inside the cavern—shifted to a deeper amber, casting long shadows over the winding structures of stone and tendon. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Lanterns buzzed to life.
"Back just in time for prayer," one of the older children murmured.
Cassian clapped the boy on the shoulder and gave Noah a glance. "You've got the luck, I swear."
Noah didn't respond. He was too busy watching the streets fill. People emerged from their houses like they'd heard a silent bell. Old men. Pregnant women. Teens. Children still holding weapons. All of them walked toward the center of the settlement with quiet purpose.
Noah's stomach twisted. "What is it now?" he asked, voice low.
Abel's brow furrowed. "A gathering. Something's wrong."
Cassian had already broken away from them to speak with one of the Kindled. The boy's voice carried through the thickening air: "The Saint is calling the dusk offering. It's time."
"Offering?" Noah echoed, cold crawling down his spine.
But then a girl—barely twelve—tugged at his sleeve and pointed. "Come," she whispered. "You're guests. You should witness it."
Witness what?
They followed the girl down twisting paths, deeper into the heart of the colony. A circle had formed around the central stone altar—more elaborate than the rest of the settlement, with thorn-wrapped pillars and bones woven into ceremonial arches. Dozens had gathered. Hundreds, maybe. All eyes were on the stage.
On it, two adults knelt side by side. A man and a woman, arms bound in front of them with braided sinew. They weren't struggling.
They were smiling.
Noah felt bile rise in his throat.
The Priestess Linnea stood above them in her crimson robes, holding a polished bone staff. The Saint stood beside her—tall, shrouded in his pale linen mask, hands raised like a conductor.
"It is with gratitude," Linnea intoned, "that we accept the Gift of Flame."
The crowd repeated the phrase like a hymn: "The Gift of Flame."
Noah grabbed Abel's wrist. "What the fuck is happening?" he hissed.
Abel didn't answer. He stared ahead, jaw clenched, muscles tight.
Linnea spoke again, voice rising over the crowd. "These souls return to the flame of the Saint. Their devotion fuels the miracle that warms our hearts and feeds our crops."
The Saint stepped forward. His linen mask tilted down toward the kneeling couple.
Noah's breath hitched. "No. They're not—no, they're not seriously—"
The Saint drew a thin blade from his robes.
"No," Noah said louder.
Abel turned. "Don't look."
But Noah looked.
And when the blade slashed across the woman's throat, clean and fast, her blood arced like ink through the air—Noah flinched, spun, and buried his face against Abel's back.
The man followed moments later.
The chanting grew louder. Praise. Joy. A collective ecstasy.
Noah trembled.
Abel reached back, one hand curling around Noah's, the other shielding him from the crowd.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit. But mostly, he wanted to forget what he saw.
He had never felt so far from Earth.
Not even when he died.
Not even when he woke up in a world of blood and monsters.
But now?
Now, watching people willingly throw themselves to death, not as martyrs, not even as sacrifices, but as fuel—
That was something else.
That was divine rot.
The Saint lowered his arms. The blood pooled at his feet, and for a moment, his body glowed faintly golden.
The sun above grew brighter.
The crowd gasped in awe.
Noah closed his eyes.
Abel didn't say anything, but he didn't let go of him either.
And Noah, for once, was grateful for silence.