The bone arch loomed above them like a gate to another world—colossal, ribbed, and impossibly fused. From beneath its spires, the scent-lanterns pulsed in soft waves, casting the entire entrance in hues of red-gold and deep violet. Every so often, a gust of wind carried the sharp tang of incense mixed with something faintly charred, like burned hair and citrus.
Noah stepped beneath the arch with the subtle grace of someone walking into a dentist's office at gunpoint.
Abel was silent beside him, sword sheathed, but his eyes moved constantly—counting exits, calculating threats.
The gates ahead weren't traditional iron or wood, but grown: thick, sinew-strung membranes held together by bone hinges. Two guards flanked the entrance. Adults, this time. Their faces were hidden behind smooth bone masks carved with what looked like tears and smiles. Each of them held a scent-lantern close to their chest, gripped like a sacred weapon. The lights inside pulsed brighter as Noah and Abel approached, as if reacting to their presence.
"So," Noah whispered, "we're not just walking into a cult town, we're walking into a mood-lit cult town with glowing air fresheners. Great."
One of the guards turned and gave the tiniest bow—not to Noah or Abel, but to the children behind them.
The gates opened without a sound. The scent-lanterns flared, casting dancing lights across the walls, and then they were ushered inside.
The town—or village, or sanctum, or whatever the hell this was—opened up before them in tiers, built into the inner flesh of the corpse they now realized surrounded everything. Bone beams and organ-like bulges formed houses and towers. Bridges of stitched tendon and hide spanned narrow canals filled with glowing fluid. Everything pulsed faintly, like it was still alive.
And it was quiet.
No chatter. No laughter. Just the soft hum of the scent-lanterns and the eerie, ritualistic rhythm of existence.
Then a new voice broke through it.
"You've returned early, little fires."
A woman stood atop a short bone-platform ahead. Her robes were pristine white, a rarity in this ash-stained place. Her long hair was bound tightly with copper rings, and her eyes—lightless grey—watched the procession with unsettling calm.
She stepped down slowly, unarmed, but the children all straightened like acolytes at prayer.
"I see you've brought guests," she said softly.
Noah raised a hand. "Hi. Prisoner, hostage, divine snack—jury's still out."
The woman blinked. Then, unexpectedly, smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
"I am Linnéa," she said. "Priestess of the Inner Flame. Speaker for the Saint. These are the Kindle Ones, blessed children of fire."
"Kindle Ones," Noah echoed under his breath. "Cute. Creepy. Very on-brand."
One of the children spoke—firm, unwavering.
"They must be cleansed."
Linnéa turned to the speaker, a boy who couldn't have been more than ten, and bowed her head as if addressing a superior.
"Of course. Who am I to disregard the wisdom of the Kindle Ones?"
Noah blinked. Abel's jaw clenched.
And just like that, two of the children stepped forward, sickles lowered but not gone.
"This way," Linnéa said. "Purification is the beginning of belonging."
Noah sighed. "You know, every time someone says something like that, I get the strong urge to flee shirtless into the woods."
They were led deeper into the sanctum with blades never far from flesh. The children remained silent, but their presence was deafening. Eyes wide with ritual focus. Sickles gleaming with quiet promise. Abel walked stiffly beside Noah, shoulders tense, every inch of him coiled like a beast barely tolerating the leash.
Their destination soon revealed itself: a pavilion of bone and iron, open-roofed, and built around a massive bonfire. The flames roared skyward, flickering strange patterns that licked the air with colors not found in natural fire—indigo, sickly pink, ember-gold. Around the fire, low tables bore ceremonial tools: brands shaped like spirals, carved daggers, hooked needles, glowing ash-bowls.
Noah took one look and paled.
"I don't like the ambiance," he muttered. "It's giving skin-care routine, but make it medieval torture."
Abel tried to shift toward Noah, subtly testing the hold of the children flanking him. But the moment he moved—
Shhhk.
Four sickles slid up against his skin. One at the throat, another across his abdomen, two more brushing the pulse points on his inner thighs. Noah's breath caught. Abel didn't flinch, but his eyes snapped with sudden fury.
"Okay," Noah whispered. "New plan. No sudden movements. No looking intimidating. Try to think soft thoughts."
Abel exhaled slowly, and the blades eased away, but only just. Then they were forced to kneel.
Noah wobbled as they pushed him down beside the fire, heat pressing hard against his skin. The scent was overwhelming now—burned blood, incense, and something sickly sweet, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun.
Linnéa stood behind the flame, robes shimmering in the heat. The Kindle Ones began to chant in low tones, their voices weaving together like smoke.
One of them approached with a brand held in tongs, the tip already glowing orange.
"Oh no," Noah muttered. "Nope. We're not doing that. That's not going anywhere near my skin."
The child kept walking.
Noah's voice rose an octave. "Wait, wait, we can talk about this. Look, he's got way more surface area—" he jabbed a thumb toward Abel. "Brand him instead. He's all muscles and tragic backstory. You'd get better results, I promise."
Abel turned to him, blank-faced. "Are you trying to bargain with my body?"
"I'm trying to survive, gorgeous. Let me have this."
Linnéa didn't laugh. But her lips twitched, ever so slightly.
"Do not be afraid," she said calmly. "Purity is a gift."
Noah, sweating profusely, smiled back with far too many teeth. "I've never liked gifts I couldn't return."
The brand inched closer.
And then—a voice.
A deep, resonant baritone that rolled through the courtyard like thunder wrapped in honey.
"Enough."
Everything stopped.
The fire flared in response. The chanting died.
The Kindle Ones froze in place, heads turning as one toward the source.
Noah looked up, heart hammering.
And there he was.
The Saint. Probably.
The Flame Saint stepped forward from the shadows, flanked by nothing and needing no escort. His form shimmered with radiance that felt wrong—like fire stitched through cracked marble. He wore a long robe the color of scorched ivory, burned black along the hem, and his face was hidden beneath a loose linen veil, frayed at the edges, soaked with time and ash. It clung to his features as he moved, revealing hints of what lay beneath: melted skin, fused bone, glowing cracks that pulsed like embers beneath a dying hearth.
The presence he carried was immense. It didn't just fill the space—it bent it. Even the fire bowed toward him slightly, the flames dimming as if in reverence.
The Kindle Ones dropped to one knee in perfect unison, their blades vanishing from Noah and Abel's bodies like a spell broken.
Linnéa lowered her head. "Saint."
He raised a hand—not in command, but in something almost like greeting. His voice, when it came again, was low and calm.
"This one," he said, stepping slowly toward the fire, "is not to be harmed. He walks a path I know well."
His covered face turned toward Noah, and though the linen masked his eyes, Noah felt them anyway—piercing through him like smoke through lung.
"You are a fallen star," the Saint murmured. "Not yet whole. But familiar. I remember your kind."
Noah blinked. "Well, that's ominous. And flattering. Unless you mean that literally, in which case… awkward."
The Saint's head tilted slightly. "He and his companion are guests. They are to be given rest. Food. Space to breathe. No flames shall touch them."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then Noah pointed to Abel. "Just to clarify—you mean my companion. He follows me. Technically. Spiritually. You know, emotionally."
Abel exhaled sharply, clearly regretting all life choices.
The Kindle Ones stepped back without a word, dissolving into the ring of firelight like they'd never been a threat. Noah rolled his shoulders, visibly relieved, while Abel rose slowly, his eyes never leaving the Saint.
Linnéa straightened and bowed her head again. "As you command, Saint. I will prepare quarters for them."
The Saint lingered a moment longer, and then turned away, robes trailing sparks behind him.
"Be kind to them," he said, almost absently. "They will change the fire."