Night draped itself over the mountains like a heavy cloak.
The last traces of sunset had bled away into cold violet, and the training plateau glowed faintly in the afterlight of dying torches. Smoke from the practice fires coiled upward in thin ribbons, carrying the scent of pine, sweat, and faint ozone.
The others had already turned in. Below the plateau, the Menari warriors had built a rough ring of tents around the central shrine. Soft voices murmured prayers; blades were being cleaned, armor patched. Somewhere, Cassian laughed too loudly at something Abel said, his voice carrying through the thin air before fading into the steady drone of mountain wind.
Noah stayed behind.
He sat beneath a half-collapsed arch of stone at the plateau's edge, knees drawn up, the Book of Fate-Weaving open across them. A single lamp flickered beside him, its flame breathing in rhythm with the wind. Every few heartbeats, the flame stretched long, almost blue, then fell back into a soft golden pulse.
The pages shimmered faintly — alive in their own way. The ink didn't sit still; it flowed, rearranging itself into new lines, new runes, as though the book sensed what he was ready to learn.
He brushed his fingers across the surface. The parchment felt warm — warmer than his skin.
"Always changing," he muttered. "You and me both."
The words on the left-hand page glimmered, rippled, then settled into the familiar looping script of Menari glyphs. His translation ring burned faintly as it tried to keep up.
When a thread becomes many, the weaver must choose what to tie and what to let go.
The act of defense is not resistance but redirection.
Weave your intent into light, and let the light remember you.
Noah read it twice before understanding struck. A defensive weave. A barrier.
He exhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and stretched out one hand.
A faint hum followed. His Zorya answered — the soft, inner pulse he'd been practicing to control all day. It gathered in his palm, silver first, then deepened into gold. The light trembled, threads forming between his fingers like filaments of spun glass.
"Okay," he whispered. "Let's see if this works."
He pictured the diagram from the page: lines overlapping in a crisscross pattern, an invisible weave made of intention rather than motion. The threads extended outward from his hand, forming a small arc — delicate, translucent, trembling in the air.
He poured more energy into it. The arc expanded, grew thicker, gained texture — strands twisting around each other like braids of molten silk.
The golden weave shimmered, humming softly. Dust in the air froze mid-drift where the barrier curved.
For a heartbeat, it held.
Then it flickered, cracked, and shattered with a sound like breaking ice.
The fragments dissolved into light, sinking back into his skin.
Noah groaned and rubbed his temples. "Still better than nothing."
He glanced back at the book. The ink shimmered again, rearranging itself into another short passage.
Protection fails when born of fear.
The thread must believe it can hold.
He snorted. "Easier said than done."
Still, he tried again.
This time, he steadied his breath. Let the pulse guide him. Slow in, slow out. The Zorya gathered, thicker now, not in a rush but like water behind a dam. He lifted his hand — not forcing, but inviting.
The threads came smoother, softer. They rose from his fingertips and connected mid-air, weaving themselves into an intricate lattice — golden lines crossing at perfect angles, forming a half-circle shield in front of him.
The hum deepened. The air smelled faintly of rain.
He tapped a small kinetic card into existence and flicked it toward the barrier. The card struck — and stopped dead, frozen mid-impact. Light rippled across the weave like a pebble hitting water.
When it faded, the barrier was still there, solid and shining.
Noah grinned despite himself. "There we go."
The grin didn't last long. Sweat trickled down his neck, and his fingers shook slightly. The strain wasn't unbearable, but it was real — the same slow burn he felt every time he pushed too far. He let the barrier dissolve before it could bite back.
The threads melted away, leaving faint motes of light drifting like fireflies.
He leaned back against the stone and exhaled, watching them fade. The Golden Weave. Not perfect, but real.
For a long moment, he simply sat there, listening to the quiet.
Below, the last campfires burned down to embers. The Menari were sleeping. Even the wind had grown gentle, whispering through pine and ash like a lullaby.
He turned a page.
The next section of the book pulsed with deeper light — runes sharper, hungrier. The glyphs twisted, and his ring struggled to translate them. When it finally did, the words came out like a warning whispered too late.
Those who grasp the threads may one day pull the entire loom.
But beware — for to judge fate is to rewrite one's own.
Noah's throat tightened. He traced the symbol at the bottom of the page — the Hanged Man, drawn in faint gold.
So that was the deeper level. The next step of the Threads of Judgment. He could almost feel it watching him through the page — waiting.
He closed the book halfway, thumb still between the pages.
"Not tonight," he whispered. "I'm not ready."
His gaze drifted upward to the sky. The clouds had broken apart, revealing slivers of silver moonlight. It painted his hands in pale light, catching on the lingering gold dust across his fingers.
He tried not to think about what Anya had said earlier — that fate magic didn't command; it conversed. That every time he pulled on a thread, it might be pulling on him in return.
He thought of the battle at the temple — of the way the Pillar's fire had drowned everything in white. Of the priestess screaming. Of how his own magic had answered Lada's voice, just for a heartbeat.
He swallowed the memory down. "Breathe with the thread," he muttered to himself, repeating Anya's mantra.
He closed his eyes and let the silence settle again.
Inside him, the Zorya stirred like a tide. He felt it moving — slower now, more familiar — a gentle flow beneath his ribs. When he focused, he could almost see it: a faint golden shimmer tracing veins, threading through bone and blood, then sinking back into stillness.
It was strange, how it comforted him now. A power that once terrified him felt almost human in its rhythm.
He opened his eyes again and glanced at the book one last time. The page had changed while he rested. New text shimmered faintly, written in the same hand but softer, almost tender.
To weave is to remember that all things are bound.
Even gods are held by the thread.
He smiled faintly, unsure if the book was teaching or teasing him.
"Even gods," he echoed. "Guess that includes me."
He stood slowly, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. His body ached — not just from training, but from something deeper, a fatigue that lived inside the soul.
He raised his right hand and summoned the simplest spell — Telekinetic Thread.
The air shifted. A small rock at his feet trembled, then lifted, swaying gently in front of him. He guided it with slow precision, tracing circles through the air. It wasn't power that mattered now — it was grace. Control.
The stone drifted between his fingers, hovering obediently. He pushed it farther, drawing faint lines in the air — small, measured, like practice strokes on invisible canvas.
"Faster," he whispered.
The rock spun, darting through the air in tight loops, then dropped as his focus faltered.
He caught it with a curse and laughed quietly to himself. "Still need work."
He practiced until the lamp burned low, switching between small telekinetic lifts and brief flashes of the Golden Weave. The barrier grew steadier with every attempt, the lines more symmetrical, the hum smoother.
Each time it shattered, he rebuilt it, slower and cleaner.
Each time he lost his grip on the hovering stones, he regained them sooner.
And somewhere between repetition and exhaustion, something shifted inside him — not in his magic, but in his resolve.
He no longer felt like he was borrowing Lada's gift. He was building something of his own.
When he finally stopped, the night had grown cold enough that his breath fogged the air. The lamp had gone out, leaving only moonlight.
He closed the book gently, its cover still faintly warm.
He looked out over the valley — the forest scarred by flame, the faint glow of Menari fires like constellations below — and whispered to the wind, "I'll get stronger. I have to."
The wind stirred, brushing through his hair.
In the puddle beside him, moonlight shimmered across the water's surface. For an instant, the reflection twisted — and there, faint and ghostly, appeared the outline of The Hanged Man, inverted and glowing softly.
Noah froze, staring. The image rippled once, twice, then dissolved back into silver light.
He waited, heart pounding, but the water stayed still.
"Guess you're watching," he muttered to the night. "That's fine. Keep watching."
He picked up the book, slung it under his arm, and turned toward the camp.
Behind him, thunder murmured somewhere far away — low, steady, and growing nearer.
Noah returned to the quarters late, the last of the night wind clinging to his clothes. The lamps had been dimmed to faint amber glows, the longhouse hushed except for the soft creak of wood.
Inside, Abel and Cassian were waiting.
Both sat near the hearth, stripped to their trousers, muscles slick with the sheen of a day's training. The air carried the scent of steel oil, pine soap, and faint smoke. Abel's white skin caught the light in pale contrast to Cassian's sun-touched bronze; they looked like day and night sitting side by side.
Abel's dark hair hung loose, damp with sweat, the faint scar on his collarbone catching the glow. Cassian, by comparison, leaned back lazily on one arm, his golden-brown hair a mess, smile too bright for the hour.
"Took you long enough," Cassian said, tossing him a towel. "We were starting to think you ran off to join the monks."
"I was studying," Noah said defensively, catching it. "Some of us care about not getting stabbed in the future or turned to ash."
"Some of us care about not smelling like a dead wolf," Cassian shot back, grinning.
Abel chuckled low in his chest. "He's right, you know. You need to wash before the sheets start running away."
Noah gave them both a glare that only made Cassian grin wider.
"Come on," Cassian said, standing up and stretching. "The river's cold as hell this time of night. Let's suffer together."
"Pass," Noah muttered.
"Not optional," Abel said, already pulling on his boots.
And that was how Noah found himself trudging toward the river under a sky of broken stars. The forest whispered on both sides, alive with the quiet pulse of insects and the distant call of owls. The river shimmered ahead — dark, narrow, and fast-moving, its surface silvered by the moon.
Abel waded in first, as unbothered as if it were warm milk. Cassian followed, shivering violently the instant the water hit his waist.
"F–fuck!" he hissed, splashing. "It's freezing!"
Abel didn't even flinch. "You'll live."
Noah hovered on the bank, already regretting every decision that led him here.
"Come on!" Cassian called. "We're not hauling you in like a fish."
Noah sighed, rolled up his trousers, and stepped in.
The cold hit like a slap. "Stars above!" he yelped, jumping backward. "It's ice! Literal ice!"
Cassian burst out laughing, nearly slipping on the rocks. "You sound like a dying cat!"
"Then stop laughing and help me!"
"Consider it training," Abel said mildly, scrubbing his arms with the towel.
Noah splashed water at both of them in retaliation. It earned a laugh from Cassian and a quiet shake of the head from Abel, but for a moment—just a moment—the air lightened. The fear of war, the exhaustion, the weight of magic and gods—it all slipped away in the sound of water and laughter.
When they finally clambered out, dripping and shivering, Cassian grinned and said, "Right. Now for the reward."
"The what?" Noah asked suspiciously.
"The hot spring," Cassian said, pointing up the slope where steam curled between the rocks. "You didn't think we were ending with frostbite, did you?"
Noah groaned but followed.
The path wound through low pines until the heat reached them — that soft, wet warmth that clung to the air. The spring was tucked into a hollow between boulders, surrounded by moss and dim lanterns hung by woven cords. Steam drifted lazily over the water, glowing pale under the moonlight.
No one else was there.
Abel tested the water first, then stepped in, sinking until it reached his shoulders. "Perfect."
Cassian followed, sighing in relief. "Oh, gods… I'm never leaving."
Noah lingered at the edge again, suddenly too aware of the two of them — the way steam coiled around their shoulders, the play of light on skin, the easy familiarity between them.
Cassian noticed his hesitation and grinned. "What, afraid of hot water now?"
Noah crossed his arms. "I just— It's— There are—"
"Bodies?" Cassian teased.
"Muscles," Noah snapped.
Cassian laughed. Abel looked faintly amused.
"Relax," Abel said. "You've seen worse in battle."
"That's different!" Noah said, voice higher than intended.
Cassian's grin turned wicked. "He's blushing. Look at him."
"Shut up!"
But eventually, he gave in. He stripped down to his underclothes and slid into the water, biting back a sigh as the heat wrapped around him. The tension in his body melted instantly.
They sat in silence for a while, steam curling between them. The only sounds were the soft bubbling of the spring and the distant hiss of wind through the trees.
Cassian leaned back against the rock edge, eyes half-closed. "You ever think," he said lazily, "how insane this is? Fighting gods, running from an empire, soaking in a hot spring like it's just another day?"
"Every day," Noah said quietly.
Abel's voice was softer. "We've come this far. Might as well enjoy the moments between the storms."
Cassian opened one eye, smiled faintly. "Deep, coming from you."
Abel smirked. "Even I can manage wisdom once a week."
Noah laughed under his breath. The sound surprised him — light, unforced. He leaned back, closing his eyes. For the first time in days, his body felt weightless.
They talked about training, about the high priestess's strange calm, about the way the Menari children had started calling Cassian "gold wolf" because of his hair. Cassian preened at the nickname until Abel dunked him underwater.
Noah couldn't stop smiling.
But beneath the warmth, a quiet ache still lingered — fear, exhaustion, longing. It caught him off guard, rising like a tide.
He looked at them — Abel's steady calm, Cassian's bright grin — and something inside him broke.
Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and kissed Abel.
It was quick, soft, trembling. Abel froze — then his hand came up, gentle, touching Noah's cheek like something fragile.
Noah pulled back before his thoughts caught up. "I—sorry, I just—"
But then Cassian's voice came, low and teasing. "You forgot me."
And before Noah could respond, Cassian leaned in and kissed him too — warmer, bolder, tasting faintly of steam and laughter.
When he pulled back, Noah was staring at both of them, red-faced and utterly speechless.
Cassian grinned. "Careful, little mage. You keep that up, and I can't promise what happens next. We're all naked, and I have very poor self-control."
"Cassian!" Noah squeaked, his voice pitching high.
Abel chuckled softly beside him. "He's teasing you."
"I know that!"
Cassian leaned back, utterly unbothered. "You sure? You're turning the color of your spell circles."
Noah splashed water at him, hiding his face. "You two are impossible."
Abel's smile was small but genuine. "And yet you keep us around."
"Unfortunately," Noah muttered, though his tone betrayed him.
They sat there a while longer, the steam rising around them like a veil. The moon hung high, silver and perfect, watching.
Cassian stretched his arms with a satisfied sigh. "All right. We'll leave the poor mage alone before he combusts."
Abel stood, water streaming down his chest, and offered Noah a hand. "Come on. We need rest if we're to train at sunrise."
Noah hesitated, then took it. The warmth of Abel's palm sent a flutter through his stomach.
As they climbed out, Cassian smirked and said, "So now you want to sleep with us, huh?"
"Cassian!"
Abel laughed quietly, tugging Noah toward the path. "Ignore him. He'll be out cold in five minutes."
Cassian grinned, wrapping a towel around his shoulders. "Don't count on it."
The three of them walked back through the forest, steam still clinging to their skin, the night alive with soft light and whispering trees.
Behind them, the hot spring bubbled gently — a pocket of warmth in a world preparing for war.
And as they disappeared into the longhouse, laughter echoing faintly through the dark, the mountain wind carried the scent of pine and moonlight.
Dawn broke slow and golden across the highlands.
The mist clung to the mountains like silk, soft and cool against the skin. The hidden village stirred awake beneath it — quiet voices, clattering pans, the crackle of rekindled fires. Smoke curled from the roofs, sweet with pine and resin.
Noah sat on the porch of their small quarters, tying his boots with half-awake hands. His hair was still damp from the spring the night before, glinting like pale gold in the morning light. Behind him, Abel moved with the unhurried grace of someone who'd already been awake an hour — polishing his sword, rewrapping the leather on his shield grip. Cassian, by contrast, yawned loud enough to startle a bird from the eaves.
"Ugh. Who invented mornings?" Cassian muttered.
"People with discipline," Abel said evenly.
"People with issues," Cassian countered.
Noah smirked. "You two sound married."
That earned him twin stares — one amused, one horrified.
Cassian broke first, grinning. "See? He gets me."
"You're incorrigible," Abel muttered, standing.
Cassian stretched, the movement all lazy muscle and golden skin. "You love it."
Noah pretended to focus on his boots. "If you two are done flirting—"
Cassian shot him a grin. "Oh, we're not. Not until you pick a side."
Abel sighed. "There is no side. There's training."
"Right, right." Cassian waved a hand, utterly unbothered. "Speaking of which, Noah—why don't you train near us today? You know, keep us company while you do your magic thing."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "You want me to 'keep you company' or you want to make sure I don't accidentally blow something up?"
"Both?" Cassian said too quickly.
Abel gave him a flat look. "You just want an audience."
"What? No! That's—" Cassian hesitated, then grinned sheepishly. "Okay, maybe a little."
Noah squinted. "What are you plotting?"
"Nothing!" Cassian said innocently, glancing at Abel. "Just… making sure someone appreciates the artistry of my movement."
"Artistry," Abel repeated dryly. "You mean vanity."
"Tomato, tomahto."
Noah shook his head, standing and slinging his spellbook over his shoulder. "Fine. I'll watch. But if you start preening, I'm leaving."
Cassian smirked. "If you leave, I win."
"What?"
"Nothing!"
Abel muttered, "I never agreed to this bet," as they made their way uphill.
The training grounds shimmered with morning heat. The plateau stretched wide and open, framed by pine ridges and the faint haze of smoke from distant fires — reminders that Helios still burned the world below.
Menari warriors practiced in scattered groups: the clang of bronze on bronze, the hum of magic, the thud of feet on packed dirt. In the far distance, a few scouts were already departing toward the mountain passes, their silhouettes sharp against the light.
Noah set up near the edge — a flat rock for his book, a stretch of ground marked with faint white circles from yesterday's training.
Abel and Cassian moved toward the center ring. The contrast between them was striking:
Abel in his pale armor, calm and deliberate, sword and shield gleaming with the polish of care; Cassian bare-armed, training spear slung over one shoulder, grin quick and easy.
They circled each other.
"You're sure you don't want padding?" Abel asked.
"Are you offering to hold back?" Cassian said.
"No."
"Then no."
Noah, already watching, hid a smile.
The spar began fast — Cassian lunged first, spear cutting the air in a sharp arc. Abel caught it on his shield, the impact echoing like a drumbeat. Cassian spun, the motion fluid, snapping a kick toward Abel's leg. Abel blocked again, moved forward, pressed the advantage.
It was a dance — violent, beautiful, precise. Cassian darted like flame; Abel struck like stone.
Noah found himself leaning forward without realizing it, tracking each movement. Cassian caught his glance mid-swing and flashed a grin that was pure mischief.
"Eyes on me, mage!" he called.
Abel took advantage of the distraction immediately, sweeping Cassian's legs out from under him.
Cassian hit the ground with a grunt. "Unfair!"
"You talked," Abel said simply.
Noah burst out laughing.
Cassian pointed at him accusingly. "You laughed! He cheated!"
"I didn't cheat," Abel said, offering him a hand. "You lost focus."
Cassian took the hand, yanked Abel down instead, and rolled back to his feet in one fluid motion. "Focus regained."
Noah clapped slowly, still smiling. "That was petty."
"Effective," Cassian said. "And for the record, I'm winning."
Abel raised a brow. "On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that the audience is still watching me."
Noah groaned in frustration. "Stop it!"
Cassian winked. "Never."
The spar went on until both were slick with sweat and panting. Abel's armor bore scratches, Cassian's hair stuck to his forehead, and the air around them shimmered with heat. The Menari had paused their own training to watch; even Anya, from the shaded terrace, smiled faintly at the display.
When it was over, Abel dropped his sword point into the dirt and offered Cassian a nod. "You've improved."
Cassian leaned on his spear, grinning. "You mean I finally hit you once."
"Twice," Abel corrected.
"See? Progress."
Noah walked over, shaking his head. "You two are ridiculous."
Cassian ruffled his hair as he passed. "Admit it, though. You enjoyed the show."
"I'll never admit anything," Noah said, but his grin betrayed him.
Abel smirked. "Then we'll take that as a yes."
The morning light caught them all then — three figures against the scarred land, laughing despite the storm gathering beyond the mountains.
"It's clear I won the bet; I'm the hotter one!" Cassian exhaled in triumph as they walked towards the dining hall.
"I never agreed to the bet, and besides, you wish," Abel sighed in defeat, but couldn't stop himself from a comeback
"Noah! Tell him I was hotter; you looked more often at me." Cassian groaned out his competitiveness, never stopping.
"Leave me out of it."