The morning mist clung low to the terraces like breath that refused to leave.
It rolled over the stone railings and drifted between the hanging charms that marked the Menari training ground—small discs of polished bone etched with lunar runes. They clicked together in the wind like teeth.
Noah stretched his fingers and exhaled slowly. Every breath came out as fog. The mountain air was sharp enough to sting.
Across from him, Abel adjusted his new shield, testing the balance. The metal caught what little sunlight pierced the fog. Cassian, beside him, spun his short spear in lazy circles, already grinning.
"You ready, sunshine?" Cassian asked, voice warm and cocky. "Or do you need to stretch your divine joints first?"
"Keep talking," Noah said, flicking a card between his fingers, "and I'll stretch your face instead."
Abel sighed, like a man used to mediating between hurricanes. "Focus. The priestess said no killing blows, remember?"
Cassian smirked. "Did she say anything about bruises?"
Noah rolled his eyes. "If you can land one, be my guest."
Mist curled between them as they circled each other, the sound of boots and soft earth their only rhythm. The charred valley below spread wide and silent—a reminder of what waited beyond these walls.
When Noah moved first, the ground answered.
Two Fate Lines snapped from his hands—ribbons of pale gold that cracked through the air like whips. Cassian leapt back, laughing, staff raised. Abel stepped in front of him with his shield up, the threads colliding with a metallic hum. The impact shivered through the mountain air.
Noah flicked another card—kinetic—the glowing symbol streaking toward their feet before detonating in a burst of compressed air. Dust flew. Cassian lost footing and cursed. Abel barely steadied him, teeth gritted as the shield absorbed the shock.
"Improved aim," Abel said flatly. "Still too predictable."
Noah smirked, but sweat already gathered at his neck. He stretched one hand, palm upward; three cards floated above it, orbiting lazily, glowing faint blue. The telekinetic weave—his newest trick—spread through his arms like a second pulse.
A deep hum filled the terrace as loose stones rose from the ground, dust trembling around his boots. He sent one stone flying—not at them, but high, as a distraction—then pivoted, launching another at Cassian's side.
Cassian ducked, laughing again. "You're showing off!"
"I'm practicing!"
Abel advanced, shield first, sword low. Each step measured, deliberate. Noah could read his rhythm now—the faint shift of weight before a strike. He dodged right, threw a card left. The card hit the shield and exploded, showering sparks. Abel didn't flinch; he drove through the smoke and slammed the shield's rim against Noah's shoulder.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. He rolled, came up kneeling, palms braced against the stone.
"Still standing," he panted.
Cassian lunged from behind—fast, reckless. His spear sliced the air where Noah's head had been. Noah's reflexes caught the moment: he twisted, dragged both Fate Lines up in a cross. The threads met the spear's haft with a flash of light, halting it mid-swing.
For one heartbeat, all three froze.
The energy crackled between them—gold, white, blue. Then Noah released the threads and shoved Cassian backward with a telekinetic pulse. Cassian staggered, barely catching himself, and burst into laughter.
"Holy hells, that's cheating!"
"Everything's cheating if you lose," Noah said, voice tight with concentration.
He raised both hands, and the barrier came alive.
Lines of light bloomed in front of him—thin filaments weaving themselves into a shimmering lattice. The pattern resembled a spiderweb, each intersection glowing brighter, humming with power. The barrier rippled under the mountain wind, throwing back the mist like waves against glass.
Abel halted mid-charge, eyes narrowing. "That's new."
"Figured I'd add decoration," Noah muttered. His hands shook from effort; maintaining the weave burned through energy faster than he liked.
Cassian approached cautiously, circling. "Looks pretty," he said, tapping the edge with the butt of his spear. The impact rang like struck crystal. "Feels solid, too."
"It better," Noah grunted. "Took me all night to not fry myself making it."
He let it dissolve. The threads unwound in slow, graceful arcs before vanishing into the air.
The spectators murmured—Anya among them, seated on a raised platform beneath a canopy of woven reeds. Her blindfold fluttered in the wind. She could not see the light, but she could feel it, the way the ground trembled faintly with Noah's control.
"He channels it differently than we do," one of the Menari whispered beside her.
"Because it isn't ours," another replied. "It's something… else."
Anya tilted her head, listening to the hum fade. "It is his," she said softly. "And that is enough."
Down in the ring, Noah braced again. His breathing came steadier now, his focus sharper. He'd learned to measure his Zorya the way others measured breath. Flow, not force.
Abel and Cassian exchanged a quick glance. That look meant: Go again.
Cassian darted forward, Abel following a half-step behind—a pattern they'd honed over days of sparring. Cassian drew Noah's focus with fast strikes while Abel closed in from the blind spot.
Noah countered with cards, three rapid bursts that flared against Abel's shield, each weaker than before but perfectly timed to stagger rhythm. Cassian spun low, sweeping his spear toward Noah's legs—
—and found himself yanked off balance.
Noah had extended a Fate Line down, curling it around the spear's shaft like a leash. He pulled hard, sending Cassian sprawling into the dirt.
Abel's strike came a moment later. Noah ducked, using the same thread to snag a fallen branch and fling it into Abel's side. The blow glanced off armor, harmless but unexpected.
Abel grunted, stumbled, then laughed—a deep, rare sound. "You're learning."
Noah, panting, allowed himself a crooked smile. "About time someone said that."
Then the world burst into light again.
One of the discarded kinetic cards, still charged, detonated a few feet away—his own mistake. The blast lifted dust and leaves, knocking all three backward. For a heartbeat, they were a tangle of limbs and curses.
Cassian hit the ground laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. Abel pushed himself up, shaking dust from his hair, eyes narrowed in mock irritation.
"Remind me to never trust your cleanup spells," Abel muttered.
"I said it might go off," Noah protested.
"You said that after it went off," Cassian wheezed, still laughing.
Noah brushed ash off his sleeve. "Semantics."
The Menari observers clapped politely, some smiling, others whispering. To them, this wasn't just practice—it was proof that the strange foreigner who'd once stumbled into their temple was now something else entirely.
Anya raised her chin, the faintest curve of pride touching her mouth. "Enough for today," she called. "You'll burn through your strength before the real fight comes."
Abel saluted her with his sword. Cassian bowed dramatically, mud still clinging to his chest.
Noah, catching his breath, looked between them—their sweat-slick skin, the light in their eyes, the laughter that somehow still lived here despite everything.
For a fleeting second, the world felt balanced. Threads held.
He didn't notice the faint shimmer around his hands—the trace of Threads of Judgment trying to form on instinct—until Anya spoke again, quiet but certain.
"Careful, Noah. Even the gods forgot what happens when the weave pulls back."
He glanced down, startled, then let the light fade from his palms.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I know."
The wind carried the scent of ash from the valley below.
The sun broke over the ridge, pale and thin, scattering mist across the terraces. The air smelled of pine resin and smoke, the kind that clung to clothes long after fire died. Down in the valley, the stream still whispered through the stones—one of the few sounds left untouched by war.
At the village's lower trail, the Menari gathered in silence. Wagons creaked under bundles of cloth, grain sacks, and dried roots. The path wound upward toward the cliffs where the hidden temple—Lada's Last Light—waited. Its bells chimed faintly in the wind, guiding them like stars that hadn't yet burned out.
Each bell in the village answered the temple's echo. Not celebration—timing. Every chime meant another group departing: children, elders, the sick. Every chime meant one more farewell.
Cassian hauled two sacks of grain onto a cart with casual ease, his shirt half-open and damp with sweat. He grinned down at the little boy who clung to the side of the wagon.
"Guard this for me, champ?"
The boy puffed up. "I'm the strongest one here!"
Cassian winked. "Then the cart's in good hands. Stronger than Abel anyway."
"I heard that," Abel said as he passed, tightening a rope on another wagon.
Cassian's grin widened. "Just keeping morale up, Captain Serious."
Abel ignored him with professional grace, checking each wheel, counting every arrow bundle, making sure the older travelers had food and blankets. His movements were steady, practiced, reassuring.
Noah trailed behind, sleeves rolled up, arms full of folded clothes. He handed out scarves, cloaks, water skins—whatever needed moving. When one of the elders dropped her bundle, he knelt without a word and tied it back together with the same focus he'd give to any spell.
"Bless you, child," she murmured.
"Just helping," he said, brushing dirt from his knees. "You'll need this more than I do."
The woman's eyes lingered on his golden hair, the faint shimmer of his skin in the light. "You're the one the Priestess speaks of," she whispered. "The moon-touched boy."
Noah smiled thinly. "Just Noah. And make sure you keep to the trail. The scouts will lead you the whole way."
"Will it be dangerous?"
He shook his head. "No. They're the best we have. Haven't lost a soul yet."
"Then the Lady truly watches us."
He forced a nod, not trusting himself to agree or disagree.
At the archway near the trailhead, Anya waited beneath hanging prayer cloths. Her blindfold fluttered with the updraft from the valley. Every person who passed paused to touch her hands or bow. Her voice was calm, low, and steady.
"Lada's light watch you," she said again and again. "The path will rise, not fall."
The line moved slowly—priests carrying relic chests, hunters with bows slung low, mothers balancing sleeping children on their hips. A mule snorted, impatient. Bells kept time with the steps.
Cassian hopped onto the back of one wagon to tighten its rope, then jumped down again, dust puffing around his boots. "All good! Strong wheels, stronger escort!"
Abel gave him a look. "You talk more than you lift."
Cassian hefted another crate with exaggerated ease. "Lifting now, commander."
Noah laughed quietly. "You two sound like a married couple."
Cassian grinned over the crate. "Don't tempt him; he'd make me fill out reports."
"Correct," Abel said. "And file them."
Even Anya smiled faintly at that.
When the last wagon creaked forward, its wheels clicking on the stones, the three men stood side by side watching it vanish into the mist. The trail wound upward until the figures became shadows, then nothing. The bells faded with them.
"It's too quiet," Noah said finally.
Cassian leaned on the gatepost. "Peaceful quiet, sunshine. Enjoy it while it lasts."
"It doesn't feel peaceful."
Abel folded his arms. "It feels empty. But that's what survival sounds like."
Noah nodded, swallowing. "Guess I'll take empty over gone."
Cassian nudged him with an elbow. "That's the spirit. Depressing optimism."
"Better than reckless optimism," Noah shot back.
"Hey," Cassian said, feigning offense. "Reckless got us this far."
Abel sighed, half smiling. "Barely."
The brief laughter that followed eased something tight in the air.
By afternoon the trail had swallowed the last caravan, and only the soldiers and the few who could fight remained. The square buzzed again—hammer blows, shouted counts, the rhythm of preparation.
Noah carried baskets of herbs toward the storage hut while Cassian hauled timber for the new barricades. Abel moved between them, directing workers with calm precision. Every so often Noah glanced toward the horizon; smoke rose faintly where forest met sky, too far to tell if it came from fire or war.
When the final load was stowed, he sank onto a low wall, stretching his aching arms. Anya approached quietly.
"They've reached the ridge," she said, voice soft but certain.
He looked up. "Already?"
"The wind carries their bells."
He listened—and thought he could hear it too, a faint distant chiming like the echo of hope.
"They'll be all right," she said.
Noah managed a small smile. "So will we."
"Good," Anya said. "Because the Legion is moving again."
Cassian appeared, brushing sawdust from his hands. "Abel says the barricades will be done by nightfall. He's bossing half the camp like a general."
"That's because he is a general," Noah said.
Cassian smirked. "Fine, commander, but I'm claiming morale officer. Someone has to keep you two from dying of tension."
Anya turned her blindfolded face toward them. "Laughter strengthens the heart. Keep doing your duty, Cassian."
Cassian pressed a hand over his chest in mock salute. "Yes, ma'am. It's my sacred mission to annoy everyone into happiness."
"Mission accomplished," Noah muttered, but the corners of his mouth lifted.
Abel's shadow fell over them as he joined the group, sweat darkening his shirt. "Supplies secure," he said. "Tomorrow, training. Tonight—rest."
Cassian sprawled on a crate. "Hear that? Permission to be lazy. My favorite order yet."
Abel arched an eyebrow. "Five minutes."
"Five minutes is long enough to start trouble," Cassian said with a grin toward Noah.
"Don't you dare," Noah warned, voice caught between exasperation and laughter.
"I'm just saying," Cassian said, stretching theatrically, "trouble builds character."
Anya's voice drifted over them again, gentle as dusk. "Then be young while you can. The world will age you soon enough."
For a moment, none of them answered. The wind sighed through the burned pines, carrying the scent of ash and pine resin together — sweet and bitter.
They sat quietly until the first lanterns were lit and the valley turned gold again. Laughter came back, soft and stubborn.
The night came in slow this time — not falling, but folding around the village like a heavy blanket.
The fires burned low, their smoke curling toward a sky veiled in drifting cloud.
Every ember looked like a memory.
Noah sat near one of the smaller fires, knees drawn up, hands extended toward the warmth. His palms still tingled faintly from the day's training. Across the flame, Cassian roasted a strip of dried meat on a stick, clearly pretending it was a feast, while Abel sharpened his sword by lantern light, the rasp of steel on stone steady and patient.
The three of them had eaten little, but no one complained. The air was filled with small noises — the creak of rope, the murmur of watch shifts changing, the occasional laughter of soldiers trying to remember what it felt like to be human.
Cassian broke the silence first. "You know," he said, staring at the meat like it had offended him, "if we survive this war, I'm opening a tavern. Warm food, hot baths, and not a single sword in sight."
Abel didn't look up. "You'd drink your own profits."
"I'd enjoy my own profits," Cassian corrected. "Big difference."
Noah smiled faintly. "You'd be broke within a week."
"Not if you're there, sunshine. You'd attract customers just by sitting in the corner glowing."
"I don't glow."
Cassian smirked, eyes glinting in the firelight. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."
Abel snorted, but the sound was fond. "You do, actually."
"Shut up," Noah said, turning away to hide the small grin tugging at his lips. "Both of you."
The warmth of the fire mixed with something else — a fragile kind of peace that felt borrowed from another life.
Anya passed nearby with a pair of warriors, her white robes pale as bone in the dim light. She paused when she sensed them. "You should sleep soon," she said. "The Legion moves faster than pride allows us to think."
"Any word from the scouts?" Abel asked.
She tilted her head. "Not yet. But they will come before dawn."
Cassian leaned back on his hands. "So, basically, we should enjoy our last full night of peace?"
Anya smiled faintly. "If you can call this peace."
When she moved away again, the silence she left behind settled like dust.
For a while they said nothing, just listened to the crackle of fire and the low chorus of crickets.
Noah stared into the flames, watching how they curled around the wood — bright and alive and merciless all at once. It reminded him of the Pillar, of the temple collapsing in light and heat. The image crept in uninvited, like a stain beneath his thoughts.
Cassian noticed. He always did. "Hey," he said softly. "You're drifting."
"I was just thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
"About the people who left," Noah said. "How we're all pretending we'll see them again."
Cassian's teasing faded into quiet. Abel set the whetstone aside, the steel gleam of his sword dimming with the light.
"You'll see them," Abel said simply. "We all will."
Noah looked up at him, trying to read that certainty. "You really believe that?"
"Yes."
The word came without hesitation — firm, almost too steady.
Cassian threw another stick onto the fire. "I believe in trying to believe it," he said after a moment. "That counts for something."
It did. Somehow that made Noah smile again.
Later, when the fire sank to glowing embers, Cassian stood and stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal the clean lines of muscle along his stomach. He caught Noah looking and grinned.
"What? You can stare. It's free."
"Cassian," Abel said warningly.
"What? He was staring."
"I was not," Noah muttered, pulling his hood up to hide the color in his face. "You just exist too loudly."
Cassian laughed and dropped back beside him. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
Abel sighed but his mouth curved slightly, betraying his amusement.
It was easy to forget the war for a moment — easy to let the world shrink down to warmth, laughter, and the quiet rhythm of shared breathing.
Noah leaned back against Abel's shoulder without thinking about it. Abel didn't move away. Cassian watched them both, eyes softer now, the grin fading into something almost gentle.
"Don't go dying on me tomorrow, sunshine," he said quietly.
"I'm harder to kill than I look," Noah replied.
"That's what everyone says before they die," Cassian teased — but his voice cracked just a little, and that said more than the words.
The night deepened. One by one, the fires dimmed across the village. Somewhere high above, the bells of Lada's Last Light echoed faintly down the mountain — a sound like prayer half-forgotten.
Noah's eyelids had just begun to drift shut when a horn split the air.
Short. Urgent.
The sound came from the north ridge — the direction of the scouts.
Abel was on his feet instantly, hand on his sword. Cassian swore and grabbed his spear.
Noah's pulse jumped. "What is it?"
Abel's expression told him before the words did. "The Legion," he said grimly. "They're here. Or close enough."
The horn sounded again — one long note this time, echoing through the cliffs.
The village erupted into motion: shouts, boots striking earth, the sound of metal clashing as armor was fastened. The night's peace shattered like glass.
Noah stood frozen for one heartbeat, then felt Cassian's hand on his shoulder.
"Hey," Cassian said, voice firm, grounding. "We've got this. Together."
Noah nodded. His hands glowed faintly — instinctive, fearful, ready.
Above them, the wind shifted. Ash lifted from the cold firepits and danced through the air like pale ghosts.
The last night before the war had finally arrived.