The door creaked open, just barely, and Cassian's shoulder shoved through first, carrying Noah's weight with a surprising tenderness for someone so large. Abel followed close behind, eyes flicking around the room as if checking for danger out of habit, even here, even now.
The room itself was spare but warm, tucked into the central cluster of the Menari village. A single oil lamp glowed from the corner, its light bouncing off walls woven from polished reed and dark wooden beams. Furs layered the floor in mismatched patches—some rough, some soft—and an alcove along the far wall held a low table with a ceramic basin and a stack of clean linen. A small hearth, hollowed out in stone, glimmered with slow-burning embers that crackled softly, their warmth licking out into the room.
Cassian gently lowered Noah onto a cushion near the fire, then sat beside him without a word. He looked pale in the glow—hair flattened, clothes disheveled, dark circles under his eyes. Abel remained standing for a moment, arms crossed, as if unsure whether to stay or give space.
Noah closed his eyes. The warmth from the fire, the weight of familiarity, the absence of screaming wind—it all hit him at once. His throat tightened. The floor didn't tilt beneath him anymore. No mud sucking at his feet. No breathless panic clawing at his chest.
"Thanks," he murmured, voice low, hoarse. "For… dragging me in."
Cassian huffed a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "I would've carried you all the way from the fucking mountains if I had to."
Abel stepped closer and knelt near the hearth. He reached for a metal kettle set off to the side, poured some water from a clay jug into it, and hooked it above the fire without speaking.
Cassian reached for a folded blanket and draped it around Noah's shoulders with exaggerated care. "You're freezing. You look like shit."
"Thanks."
"No, like. Not the sexy, post-battle kind of shit. The sickly, half-dead kind."
"I get it." Noah let out a breath that shook a little. "It's been… a long day."
Cassian's teasing faded, and he leaned back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling where smoke drifted lazily toward the hole at the top.
"We thought you were dead," he said finally. Quiet. Honest.
Abel didn't flinch, but his jaw clenched slightly.
"I saw the fire from the ridge," Noah replied, gaze fixed on the flames. "Saw the elk run straight into it. I—I didn't think I was getting out, either."
Abel poured him a cup of hot water, steam curling up like a ghost. He handed it to Noah without meeting his eyes. "What happened?"
Noah took the cup with both hands, letting the heat soak into his fingers. "The storm hit. I ran. Tried to outrun the smoke. Ended up in the highlands. I don't know how long I wandered. I… I found a cave. And a hot spring."
Cassian blinked. "You got a spa day while we thought you were dead?"
Noah gave him a weak smile. "Basically."
"That's so like you."
Abel cut in gently, "We lost track of you during the escape. The fire spread too fast. When we saw the explosion from the temple, the Menari assumed the worst."
"But you didn't." Noah turned his head to look at him.
"No." Abel met his eyes now, voice steady. "I've seen what you survive."
Cassian nodded. "I wanted to believe. I did. I just—I couldn't stop thinking about it. About losing you. It felt like—"
He stopped. Looked down.
"Like losing someone else all over again."
Noah reached for his hand, squeezed it. "I'm here."
Cassian looked at him, eyes rimmed red. "Barely."
Footsteps approached, soft against the wood outside. A knock came at the door—three gentle taps. Abel rose and opened it slightly.
Two Menari warriors stood there, both wearing deep blue cloaks pinned with bronze clasps. One carried a tray of dried fruits and flatbread. The other bowed slightly.
"The evening meal is beginning," she said. "The High Priestess requests the presence of the Blessed."
Noah groaned. "Of course, that didn't change."
Abel turned to him. "You should eat. And rest. But we should go."
Noah's stomach growled loudly enough to answer for him. He nodded.
As the warriors departed, Cassian helped him to his feet. His body still protested, aching and heavy, but food and heat had done their work. He wasn't strong, but he could walk.
They stepped outside into the twilight.
The village looked different under nightfall. The lanterns that once danced between homes on strings were dimmed or gone. No music drifted from the central square. No laughter echoed off the buildings. The silence was loud—pregnant with grief, with fear, with resolve.
Noah felt it in his chest. Like ash settling into his lungs.
He looked up.
Stars blinked overhead, pale and hesitant, as if unsure whether they were welcome here.
"Let's go," he said.
And they walked, quiet and slow, toward the longhouse.
The longhouse loomed at the center of the village, its curved wooden spine arching like the ribs of a great beast fallen silent. Smoke curled gently from the slatted roof, not in cheerful plumes, but in thin, uncertain wisps—as if the fire inside flickered more out of duty than celebration.
Noah stepped inside, flanked by Abel and Cassian. The warmth hit first, then the scent—burnt herbs, boiled roots, dried meat. The comforting smells of community, once thick with laughter and idle chatter, now carried a strange hollowness.
Dozens of Menari sat on mats that lined the floor, forming two long rows with a low table of communal dishes running down the middle. Bread. Stew. Water. Nothing more. The feast was modest, and the hands that reached for it did so with tired grace. Some arms were wrapped in cloth. Others shook with quiet fatigue. Children sat between mothers and grandfathers, subdued, watching their food like it might vanish if they looked away.
No songs. No string instruments. No flute. No tapping of feet or clapping of hands.
Noah slowed his step. The air was heavy. And it wasn't just the heat from the hearths.
As they moved between rows of seated villagers, some looked up and nodded. Others whispered, barely audible.
"The blessed one..."
"He returned..."
"Lada's flame... still flickers."
Noah tried to hold his head high, but he felt the weight of every eye. Not expectation. Not adoration. Just weary hope, wrapped in the exhaustion of survival.
Cassian nudged him. "They're happy you're here. Even if they don't look it."
They settled near the far end of the hall, close to a small dais where elders usually sat. Tonight, the dais was half-empty. A single mat lay at the center, marked by an embroidered moon symbol. But the High Priestess was not there.
Noah glanced toward it, then at Abel.
"She's still recovering," Abel said under his breath. "Since the battle... she hasn't left her chamber."
Noah nodded slowly, eyes drifting over the flickering flames of the central hearth. "Her sight... is it permanent?"
Cassian frowned, then shook his head. "Yes. The solar rays that struck her... they burned everything. It's not something she can recover from. Not with time. Not with healing."
Abel added quietly, "She still carries herself with strength. But her world is darkness now."
They ate in silence for a while.
The food was warm, simple, filling. But every bite felt like chewing on guilt. Guilt for surviving. For not returning sooner. For not stopping what had happened.
Conversations around them remained hushed. Murmured planning. Murmured grief. A mother quieting her child with a lullaby too soft to hum. Two warriors debating route patrols. An elder listing herbs that were running out.
Noah saw old men sharpening rusted blades. Young girls wrapping cloth around their fists like they were learning to punch. War had come too close. And now, even the children carried its echo.
A shadow approached.
It wasn't a warrior this time, but a young woman—barefoot, wrapped in dark ceremonial cloth embroidered with the same moon crest. Her face was painted with a thin silver line down the bridge of her nose, a symbol Noah recognized from the priesthood.
She bowed. "The High Priestess calls for you. Alone, if you will."
Cassian immediately stiffened. "Why alone?"
The girl kept her head bowed. "The Priestess said it is a matter of visions. Of Lada's breath."
Abel looked to Noah. "You don't have to. Not if you're not ready."
Noah stood.
He touched Cassian's arm, then Abel's. "It's fine. She wouldn't call me if it weren't important. And we're not strangers anymore. I can go alone."
Cassian still looked unsure, but he nodded.
The priestess's apprentice turned and began to walk.
Noah followed her through the silent longhouse, the flickering firelight stretching both their shadows tall and strange behind them.
Outside, the night wind met him like a whisper. The sky overhead was clear now. Stars clung to the black like drops of silver, and the moon hung pale, watching.
The silence of the village felt deeper here. As if it listened.
Noah followed the apprentice into the stillness of night, his feet treading softly on the dirt path that curved around the outer edge of the longhouse. The quiet air tasted of soot and pine resin. Behind him, the longhouse dimmed into a hush of dying embers and half-eaten meals. Before him, the village thinned out toward the temple—its silhouette rising at the edge of the forest like the memory of something sacred.
The temple of the Fallen Moon, once a soft beacon of reverence, now stood like a monument of resilience. Its wooden spires curled like antlers toward the sky, carved with swirling lunar runes that caught the moonlight and shimmered faintly. The beams of the structure were bleached driftwood gray, reinforced by thick braided rope and iron nails. Its slanted roofs layered like scales, its doorposts etched with totemic shapes: owls, wolves, crescent moons cradled in open palms.
Noah stepped inside after the apprentice pushed open the door.
The air changed.
Inside, the scent of burned herbs still lingered, curling through the incense smoke that danced above silver dishes and dried flower offerings. Animal bones painted with pigment lay in spiral arrangements near the altar. Moonlight slashed through high slits in the roof, casting pale bars across the stone floor.
It was quieter here than anywhere else in the village. Reverent. Almost sacred.
The apprentice led him deeper, past the altar, through a narrow hallway where embroidered hangings muffled every step. They reached a dark wooden door, bound in iron. The apprentice raised her hand and knocked.
"Come," said a voice within—firm, but worn.
The door creaked open.
Noah stepped inside.
The room was small and dim. It smelled of salve and dried herbs. A thin oil lamp burned on a short table carved from white stone, illuminating a simple bedding mat, several scrolls, and a water basin with rose petals floating listlessly in it. Faded silk drapes hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in a wind that didn't exist.
The High Priestess sat cross-legged on her mat, her face turned toward him though her eyes were shrouded beneath a length of moon-embroidered cloth. Burn marks laced the edges of the fabric—reminders of where the solar rays had struck. Her silver hair was bound back in a thick braid, and her ceremonial robes pooled around her like water. She looked fragile, but her spine was straight, and her presence radiated clarity.
"Close the door behind you, Noah," she said gently.
He obeyed, his throat catching at the sound of her voice.
"Are you all right?" he asked, stepping closer. "Your eyes—"
She lifted a hand to quiet him. "I live. That is more than what the sun tried to allow. The people say it is a miracle, and perhaps it is. But I will not see again. My sight is lost."
Her voice did not shake, but Noah saw her fingers tighten briefly over the edge of her mat.
He lowered himself to his knees before her. "I saw you fight. You stood against the Pillar like a storm. You were—impressive isn't even the right word. You were... something else. Something I'm not."
To his surprise, the priestess chuckled—soft, dry, but kind. "You are too harsh with yourself. I see—or rather, I feel—the shape of your magic. It is different from ours. Wild, but full of something old. You're not weak, Noah. You're just... afraid of what you carry."
He exhaled slowly, eyes lowering. "That's fair. But it's not just fear. I fought, yes, but I was mostly running. The fire, the collapse, it wasn't even me—"
"No," she interrupted again, voice still calm. "It was you. The mages you stopped, the way you moved, the way you chose to stay. That wasn't luck. That was choice. Power guided by heart."
He shook his head. "I'm not ready."
"Neither was I," she said simply. "But we never are."
They sat in silence for a moment, the oil lamp crackling faintly.
Then her voice shifted, colder now—less comfort, more purpose.
"I called you here because we don't have much time."
Noah looked up.
"The scouting parties grow bolder," she said. "Each day they get closer. And my blindness makes me less of a threat. The Pillar will not fear me now. That's good—for us. It means I can plan while they underestimate. I intend to evacuate the village before we are discovered, or at least prepare it to fall without taking all of us with it. But for that... I need help."
"Anything," Noah said at once, then hesitated. "I mean... I want to help. But I nearly died just surviving. I don't know what I can really do."
The Priestess tilted her head. "You can help. More than you think. I saw how you fought. I felt it. No mere traveler would've done what you did. You killed the Legion mages. You disrupted the battlefield. You gave us a chance to run. That's more than enough."
He thought of Lada—of the offer. Of the divinity.
"I promised someone I'd help his people. That I'd... try. That I'd fight. Not because I'm a hero. But because I was asked."
The Priestess smiled faintly, knowingly.
"Then let this be your answer."
Noah swallowed hard.
"I want to grow stronger," he said, voice firmer now. "I have a spellbook I barely touched. There's magic I haven't even begun to learn. But I will. For myself. For the village."
"Good," she said. "You have time. Not much, but enough to begin. I will train you. And together, we will leave the Legion a scar they won't forget. Even if they take our walls, they will pay for every stone."
She paused.
"And one more thing. Call me Anya."
He blinked. "What?"
She smiled gently. "I am your High Priestess no longer, not in this moment. We fought beside each other. You saved me. You deserve to know my name. Use it."
"Anya," he repeated softly. The name felt warm on his tongue.
She nodded. "Now go. Rest. Be with your men. Tomorrow, we begin anew."
Noah stood, feeling strangely lighter, yet a blush formed on his cheeks from her comment.
"Thank you," he said. And when he left, he looked back only once—to the woman who sat in moonlight and shadow, blind but unbroken.
He stepped out into the night. The wind had risen. And somewhere, above the clouds, the moon watched still.