Warmth.
For the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn't from fire.
Noah surfaced slowly out of sleep, his body floating somewhere between comfort and confusion. His cheek was pressed against skin — warm, solid, alive. An arm rested heavily across his chest, fingers splayed possessively over his ribs. Another weight pressed along his back, breath stirring the hair behind his ear.
It took him several slow blinks to realize where he was.
Between them.
Abel's heartbeat pulsed against his shoulder from behind, steady and deep. Cassian's chest rose and fell in front of him, one hand still curled lazily around Noah's arm as though afraid he might vanish if he let go. They were both out cold, bare-chested and sprawling, a tangle of limbs, blankets, and hair.
Noah froze.
His brain, still half asleep, supplied the memory of last night — the reunion, the shouting, Cassian's sudden grip around his neck, Abel's silent relief that nearly crushed the air out of him. They hadn't let him out of their sight since. Somewhere between laughter, exhaustion, and too many tears that none of them wanted to name, they'd all collapsed together on the same bed.
Apparently without remembering shirts.
He tried to shift, but the arm around his waist tightened automatically.
"Don't move," Cassian mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. "You're warm."
"Cass," Noah hissed, his face heating instantly. "Get off."
"Mm. No."
From behind, Abel's low morning voice rumbled. "Stop squirming. You'll wake him."
"I'm awake," Noah shot back, whispering hard enough to make his voice squeak.
Cassian snorted softly against his shoulder. "Gods, you sound like a rabbit."
"I'm serious." He tried again to wriggle free, but the more he moved, the tighter Abel's arm came around his middle, half-asleep and heavy as iron.
Pinned between both of them, Noah gave up, glaring into the brown mess of Cassian's hair. "You two are unbelievable."
Cassian cracked one eye open, a sleepy grin tugging at his mouth. "You nearly died, sunshine. Let us have our emotional support cuddle."
Abel muttered into his neck, voice hoarse. "You talk too much in the morning."
"Because someone has to," Cassian replied.
Noah groaned and flopped back against the pillow. "You're both insufferable."
"Flattered," Cassian murmured.
For a moment, none of them moved. The quiet stretched — filled with the distant sound of birds and the rhythmic creak of the longhouse roof as dawn wind brushed through the mountain air. Beneath the heavy furs, the world felt small and safe, as though the chaos outside belonged to another life entirely.
Noah hated how much he liked it.
He could still feel their heartbeats against him — two anchors in a world that wouldn't stop falling apart.
And that, more than the warmth, made it dangerous.
Finally, he muttered, "All right. I'm getting up."
Abel loosened his hold first, stretching lazily. Cassian made a faint noise of protest but rolled onto his back, hair sticking in every direction. When Noah swung his legs off the bed, the cool air of the room bit instantly at his skin.
"Cold," Cassian complained, dragging the blanket over his head.
"You should've thought of that before kidnapping me in my sleep."
"'Kidnapping'," Cassian echoed, voice muffled. "That's dramatic even for you."
Abel's low chuckle came from behind. "He has a point, though."
"Thank you," Noah said sharply.
Abel added, deadpan, "You do sound cute when you're mad."
Noah spun around. "Both of you—"
They were grinning now — Cassian from under the blanket, Abel with that rare, amused curve of his mouth that somehow made everything worse.
Cassian propped himself on one elbow. "You've already seen all of this, you know. No need to pretend modesty."
Noah's voice jumped an octave. "I wasn't looking! And I'm not pretending anything—"
Cassian's smile turned sly. "You were looking."
"Cassian!"
Abel's quiet laugh filled the room. "You should stop teasing him before he combusts."
Cassian winked. "No promises."
Noah grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it. Cassian caught it easily, laughing, while Abel just shook his head and finally got up, reaching for his trousers.
"Get dressed," Abel said, calm as ever. "Anya wants us ready before dawn."
Noah tried very hard not to look as they both moved around the small room — not that his efforts helped when Cassian noticed and deliberately stretched, yawning.
"I'm surrounded by children," Noah muttered, pulling on his shirt.
"Love you too, sunshine," Cassian said.
By the time they stepped outside, the morning mist had begun to lift from the valley. The village lay wrapped in soft gray light, the edges of rooftops glistening with dew. The air smelled of pine resin, damp earth, and smoke from last night's cook fires.
The Menari were already awake.
Low bells rang from the temple steps — three soft tones, repeated every few breaths. Not a ceremony, Noah realized, but a signal. The rhythm of departure.
Down the main path, the first groups were assembling. Elders wrapped in woolen cloaks leaned on carved staffs, children clung to their parents, and warriors checked the straps of satchels and supply packs. The air hummed with quiet coordination — grim, efficient, too practiced to be anything but ritual by now.
Cassian rubbed a hand through his damp hair. "They're really doing it," he said quietly.
Abel's jaw tightened. "They have to."
Noah didn't reply. His chest ached as he watched a young priest lift a child onto a mule, tying small bundles of grain to the saddle. Nearby, an old woman pressed her palms together in prayer, murmuring words he didn't understand.
Everywhere he looked, he saw motion — movement meant to survive, not fight.
He hated it.
He'd seen an evacuation before, in his world, but he would rather stop thinking about it, as it only brought a sad, painful throb. It never stopped feeling the same — that mix of disbelief and determination, like people building order on the edge of the abyss.
"Come on," Abel said. "We should help."
They joined the flow of activity. Abel helped load a wagon with medical supplies, muscles shifting under his rough tunic as he lifted crates like they weighed nothing. Cassian crouched beside a group of children, showing them how to tie their travel packs tighter, his bright grin somehow convincing them everything was fine.
Noah fetched water, passing canteens to the elders. One woman clasped his hand before leaving — her fingers dry and trembling.
"You're the moon's chosen," she whispered. "We saw you fight. Lada must have blessed you."
Noah wanted to deny it, to tell her he wasn't anyone's chosen anything — but her eyes were full of fragile hope. So he only nodded.
"Keep faith," she said, and joined the caravan.
When he turned back, Abel and Cassian were watching him. Abel's expression was unreadable. Cassian's smile was faint, tired.
"You're getting used to the hero thing," Cassian teased softly.
"I'm not—" Noah began, then sighed. "It's not heroism. They just… need something to believe in."
Abel adjusted the strap of his sword. "Then be that, for now. Belief keeps people alive."
"Until it doesn't," Noah muttered.
By midmorning, the caravan had begun to move.
A long line wound up the mountain path toward the hidden temple of Lada's Last Light — the final refuge carved into the cliffs above. Priests carried relics wrapped in silk, their hands steady despite exhaustion. Warriors in bone-and-iron armor flanked the line, eyes scanning the forest edge for any hint of gold or light.
The bells continued — soft, rhythmic, keeping time with each step.
The sound of it broke Noah's heart a little.
Children waved weakly to those staying behind. A few of the older ones tried to be brave, grinning as Cassian lifted his hand in mock salute. When they turned away, his smile faded.
"You okay?" Noah asked quietly.
Cassian shrugged, forcing brightness. "I just hate goodbyes."
Abel's low voice came from beside them. "They'll reach the temple. The scouts cleared the way last night."
Noah nodded, though he knew Abel was saying it more for Cassian's sake than his own.
The last of the elders passed under the archway. Anya stood waiting there, tall and still, her blindfold fluttering in the wind. Her hands moved in a slow, intricate pattern as she chanted — a blessing carried on moonlight and breath.
Her voice rose and fell, ancient and melodic. Threads of silver light unfurled from her palms, weaving through the air above the departing crowd like strands of silk. Where the light touched, the Menari's steps grew lighter, their burden eased.
Even from a distance, Noah could feel the hum of power. It wasn't like his — sharp and unpredictable. Hers was steady, ritualized, woven through centuries of devotion.
When the final group vanished into the fog, the light faded. Anya lowered her hands slowly, exhaustion creeping into her posture.
Noah, Abel, and Cassian approached her.
"It's done," she said softly. "For now."
Abel bowed his head. "They'll be safe in the mountain temple."
"I hope so," she replied. "But we will need to keep their path hidden. And prepare for what comes next."
Noah's gaze drifted toward the valley — toward the faint column of smoke rising far beyond the trees. He could still see flashes of gold when the sunlight hit the forest floor.
"She's still out there," he murmured.
"Yes," Anya said. "And she will come to us. But when she does, we will be ready."
Cassian leaned against the post beside the temple gate. "I'd rather not die in another temple, if it's all the same."
Abel shot him a dry look. "Then train harder."
Cassian grinned, weary but genuine. "Working on it."
Noah looked between them — these two people who had refused to leave him even when the world burned — and for the first time in days, he felt a fragile thread of calm.
The sky above was still gray, but through it, faint sunlight pierced like a promise.
He exhaled.
"Let's make sure this time," he said quietly, "we're the ones who decide the ending."
Anya smiled faintly. "Then you had better start with the beginning — training begins at noon."
Cassian groaned. "You hear that? No rest for the beautiful."
Noah rolled his eyes, but couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from lifting.
"Come on," Abel said, already turning toward the training grounds. "We have work to do."
Noah followed, the sound of the bells still echoing faintly behind them — a rhythm of departure, of hope, of people who refused to vanish quietly.
The training plateau stretched like an open wound above the valley.
Once, it had been a gathering place for the Menari — a stone terrace carved into the mountainside for festivals and rites. Now, it had been cleared of banners and altars, its surface darkened with soot and the faint, lingering scent of burned pine.
From here, Noah could see almost everything.
The forest below was a patchwork of ruin and life: half of it blackened, still smoking faintly from the fires Helios had left behind; the other half stubbornly green, threaded with silver mist. In the far distance, the sun caught on what remained of the temple — a dull flash of white stone and ash.
He tried not to stare too long.
"Focus," came Anya's voice.
Noah turned. She stood beneath a small canopy of stretched linen at the edge of the terrace, staff in hand. Her robes today were simple — gray and white, bound at the waist with a woven sash. The faint shimmer of moon sigils pulsed across the fabric, like quiet breathing.
Even sightless, she faced him perfectly.
"I am focused," Noah said.
Her lips curved faintly. "You're watching ghosts."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's hard not to."
"I know." She raised her staff slightly. "That's why you must learn to listen instead."
He didn't quite understand — but he nodded.
The air up here was thin, cool, and biting. Every breath carried the smell of stone and grass, touched with faint ozone from the spells the Menari warriors were practicing farther down the plateau. He could hear them — short bursts of chant and the ring of wooden practice weapons — but Anya and he were alone on the higher tier.
"Begin as before," she said softly. "Show me the thread you already know."
Noah inhaled. The motions came automatically now: palm outward, wrist twist, flick — the lines of energy unfurling from his fingers in two radiant arcs. The Fate Lines glimmered faintly, like thin strands of moonlight caught in water. He made them lash, retract, and coil again, the hum of power vibrating through his palms.
Good, but not steady. The lines wavered whenever his breathing did.
"Too fast," Anya murmured. "Your heart outruns your will. Slow down."
He slowed.
She paced a few steps closer, staff tapping lightly against the stones. "Again. The cards now."
Noah drew a sharp breath, and the Kinetic Cards answered.
Six of them, glowing pale and sharp-edged, spun in a slow orbit around him. He flicked his wrist, sending one slashing into a boulder. It struck, detonating in a burst of compressed air and blue light.
The stone cracked — but not cleanly.
"Overextended," Anya said. "Too much Zorya, not enough precision. You fight like a storm. Learn to fight like the moon."
Noah frowned. "Which means?"
"Stillness," she said. "Control. The moon does not rush to burn. It moves, and the world follows."
He exhaled, letting the cards dissolve back into light.
When the silence settled again, Anya lifted her staff and pressed its butt into the ground.
"Now," she said quietly, "breathe. Close your eyes."
He hesitated. Then obeyed.
"Find the rhythm of your pulse," she said. "Follow it with your breath. That pulse is your Zorya — your thread. You do not command it. You move with it."
Noah tried. The air cooled around him. He felt the faint tingle under his skin, the hum that came before every spell — except now it wasn't something separate. It was his heartbeat, his breath, his very bones.
Something shifted.
When he opened his eyes again, faint trails of silvery light followed the motion of his hands — barely visible, like echoes.
Anya smiled faintly, sensing it. "Good. You're beginning to see yourself."
He blinked, astonished. "This is what Zorya circulation looks like?"
"To the untrained, it's invisible. To one who listens, it sings."
The shimmering threads lingered as he moved, weaving lazy patterns through the air before fading. They reminded him of spider silk caught in dawn light — fragile, but alive.
"I think I get it," he murmured. "The flow isn't just in me. It is me."
Anya inclined her head. "Exactly."
They stayed like that for a while — him practicing, her correcting, the rhythm of instruction and silence blending into a kind of meditation. By the time the sun reached its peak above the mist, Noah's breathing had steadied, his motions smoother.
And yet, every success carried a weight of frustration. The spells were cleaner, yes, but something inside him still felt unfinished — that same hollow ache where divinity used to live.
A quiet moment passed, and then Anya added, "When you returned to the village, you showed me your book — the one on fate weaving." Her tone softened with faint curiosity. "I studied it that night. The spells within are far beyond what most mortals could even attempt. Most of them would shatter you before they obeyed."
She turned her head slightly toward him, her blindfold catching the silver light. "But one stood apart. Threads of Judgment. It's the only working I believe your body might survive. It will hurt. It will test you. But it will not kill you — not if you respect the weave."
Noah blinked, surprised. "So you already knew."
"I've had time to think," she said simply. "If you wish to push your limits, then that's the thread to pull. You've read the book, haven't you?"
He hesitated. "Only the passage. It didn't exactly come with instructions."
"It never does," she replied. "Magic like that doesn't teach through words. It teaches through failure."
He grimaced. "Encouraging."
She almost smiled. "Come. Draw the circle."
Noah stepped forward into the open stone clearing. He exhaled, wiped his palms on his trousers, and focused.
"Slowly," Anya said. "The thread must know where to begin."
He began to move. His finger traced glowing lines in the air, each stroke dragging light like paint — vertical, diagonal, crossing over in the pattern he half-remembered from the book's sketch. Lines folded over one another, forming an incomplete circle. At its center, the faint outline of a hanged figure began to shimmer — upside down, bound by one glowing ankle.
The Hanged Man.
The symbol of surrender, patience, fate reversed.
The air around him grew dense. The faint whine of energy thickened into something physical, like silk pulled too tight.
Then — crack.
The sigil shattered, threads snapping like glass. The backlash flared against his palms, stinging with static.
Noah hissed, shaking out his hands. "That went well."
"Again," Anya said simply.
He frowned. "You're not even going to—?"
"Again," she repeated, unwavering. "The thread broke because you broke first."
He grit his teeth, drew a deeper breath, and began once more.
This time, he moved slower. Every line traced in air was an act of intent — drawn from the pulse beneath his ribs, guided by the rhythm of his breath. Sweat gathered at his temple. His jaw clenched.
The shape took form again, clearer now. The figure glowed faintly gold instead of silver. The circle closed.
The world hushed.
Dust lifted from the stone around him — leaves, grass, loose pebbles — all caught in the shimmer of invisible tension. They floated upward and hung there, motionless, suspended midair.
Noah stared, panting. "I—"
The threads trembled, but held.
Every sense in his body screamed that he'd touched something immense.
Not just magic. Something divine.
He could feel it gripping him back — like the spell was aware, alive, and testing him. The pull wasn't violent, but heavy. Intimate. As if the weave wanted to claim him, thread by thread.
"Enough," Anya said sharply.
He exhaled and snapped his fingers. The light fractured and dissolved. The air rushed back in, warm and free.
Noah stumbled a half step forward, gasping. His arms tingled, numb.
Anya's staff tapped across the stones as she approached.
"You did it," she said, voice low with awe. "The sigil responded to you."
He swallowed hard. "It felt like it was alive. Like it was holding me too."
She nodded. "It was. And that's why you must be careful. The Threads of Judgment don't distinguish between you and your enemies. They bind whatever they touch — mind, body, or soul."
He stared at his hands, the faint shimmer of power still ghosting over his fingertips.
"This power doesn't just hold your enemies, Noah," she said. "It holds you. Don't weave too tightly, or the thread won't know which of you it belongs to."
Noah met her covered eyes, chest heaving.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he nodded once. "Understood."
"Good." She turned slightly toward the sound of the wind. "That will do for today."
Noah looked out over the valley — at the broken forest, the line of smoke still trailing faintly on the horizon. His heartbeat was still heavy, but under it pulsed something new.
Not peace. Not confidence.
A tremor of possibility.
He flexed his fingers, watching faint threads of light flicker between them like cobwebs catching the sun.
"Next time," he murmured, "I'll make it perfect."
Behind him, Anya smiled faintly — proud and afraid in equal measure.
The moon above the highlands shimmered pale even in daylight, its ghostly outline watching over the boy who had just dared to grasp a god's thread.