The settlement always felt different at night.
It wasn't quieter — the Kindled Choir still moved through the walkways, their pale eyes catching light like blade edges, their patrols threading between the bone towers and shadowed arches. But the hum in the air shifted. The false sun still burned overhead in its frozen sky, yet its light felt tired, as if even the Saint's imitation of day couldn't fully banish the sense that night should have fallen hours ago.
Noah and Abel kept to the narrow lanes along the outer wall, passing under arching ribs and between tall columns carved with prayers in a language Noah couldn't read. The air here tasted faintly metallic, like breath in a closed room.
They didn't speak at first. It was one of those silences that felt necessary — not awkward, not hostile, but deliberate. Too many ears.
When they turned into a side passage, Abel finally murmured, "You're sure she's not a trap?"
Noah smirked faintly without looking at him. "The last time we talked, she was the one asking me to help her. If it's a trap, it's a patient one."
"Patient doesn't mean safe," Abel said. His eyes scanned the walkways ahead, lingering on a Choir guard standing motionless at the far end of the street. The child's posture was so still it was almost statuesque, but when they passed under its gaze, Noah could feel the silent weight of judgment tracking them.
He waited until they'd turned another corner before speaking again. "She's been here longer than anyone we've met. Decades, maybe centuries. If she's telling the truth, she's tried to leave. Failed. She knows what we're dealing with."
Noah adjusted his pace to match Abel's, letting his fingers drum lightly against the edge of his belt — a restless habit, but also a way to keep from looking too focused. "That's why we're here. If she knows how the Saint keeps everyone penned in, maybe she knows how to break it. Or… at least where to start cracking it."
"Or she knows something that gets us both killed." Abel's tone was flat, but it didn't hide the tension in his shoulders.
They passed through a market square where most of the stalls stood empty. A few late vendors sold offerings — ribbons dusted with ash, carved bone charms strung on sinew, dried roots bound with gold thread. The air smelled of faint incense and the sharper tang of burning fat from the temple braziers deeper inside the district.
One vendor, an old woman with deep cracks in her skin, lifted her head as they walked by. Her eyes flicked between them, lingering a heartbeat longer on Noah, and she murmured something under her breath before looking away.
Noah kept moving. "You think she'll have anything concrete? Weaknesses? Flaws in his little fake sun?"
"If she doesn't," Abel said, "then she's wasting the only chance she's had in years. That's why I want you to let me do most of the talking. If she's lying, I'll see it."
Noah shot him a sideways glance. "And if she's telling the truth?"
Abel's jaw tightened. "Then we find a way to use it."
They reached the temple plaza. The wide steps rose ahead of them like the base of a throne, pale stone shot through with veins of gold that caught and bent the false sunlight. Worshippers were already drifting toward the entrance — some alone, heads bowed, others in small groups, moving with the slow, deliberate gait of people on holy ground.
Noah felt the shift in the air before they even stepped onto the first stair. It was like walking into the eye of something — not a storm exactly, but a presence, vast and unseen.
As they climbed, Abel stayed a half step behind, scanning the crowd. "Remember," he said quietly, "don't commit to anything until we know how deep she's in. She's survived this long by playing along. That means she's a better liar than most."
Noah's smile was faint and humorless. "I'm not here to sign up for her fan club. I just want answers."
At the top of the steps, the temple doors loomed — bone and gold, inlaid with spirals that drew the eye inward. The guards flanking them didn't move, but Noah could feel their attention, subtle as the prickle of a blade's edge near skin.
Abel gave the smallest nod. "Let's hear what she has to say."
And together, they stepped inside, into the soft-lit hush of the sanctum — toward the woman who claimed she wanted to see the Saint's light extinguished.
Inside, the temple felt warmer than it should have.
Not from the false sun — no light reached here — but from the braziers burning low along the walls, each feeding curls of blue smoke into the air. The scent was heavy, bitter-sweet, clinging to the back of the throat.
The floor underfoot was black stone polished to a mirror sheen. When Noah glanced down, his own reflection stared back at him, haloed in the shimmer of smoke. Abel's was beside his — taller, broader, more solid — a quiet reminder of how small Noah really was next to him.
The sanctum was a hollowed cylinder, its walls carved with thousands of tiny figures — all kneeling, heads bowed, arms lifted toward the dome high above. In the center, beneath that dome, sat the priestess.
She was where they'd left her last time: cross-legged on a low dais, robes pooling around her like still water. But tonight her head was bare, and Noah could see the streaks of white through her dark hair, the hollowness under her cheekbones. Her eyes, though — those were still sharp.
"You came," she said, voice carrying easily despite its softness.
Noah stopped at the edge of the dais. "You asked for help. We're here to see if you meant it."
Her gaze flicked to Abel, then back to Noah. "I meant it. I also meant what I told you before — leaving is impossible. At least until the Saint's light is gone."
Abel stepped forward, hands loosely at his sides. "Then tell us how. You've been here long enough to know more than rumors."
A small smile touched the priestess's mouth, though it didn't reach her eyes. "You think I've kept this place from swallowing me because I have answers. No. I've kept it from swallowing me because I understand the Saint's hunger."
Noah frowned. "Hunger?"
She gestured to the smoke drifting through the sanctum. "He takes more than devotion. He takes memory. Thought. The shape of who you are."
Something in her tone made Noah's skin prickle. "You're saying he's… what, erasing people?"
The priestess tilted her head. "Not erasing. Editing. Smoothing the edges. Removing the splinters that make you want to leave."
Noah glanced at Abel — the conversation with Cassian from earlier still raw in his mind. The way Cassian had acted like the cave moment had never happened.
Abel's eyes narrowed. "If he's in their heads, why hasn't he touched ours?"
"Oh, he has," the priestess said simply. "Just not deeply enough yet. Perhaps you resist him. Perhaps he enjoys the challenge. Or perhaps…" Her gaze sharpened. "He's saving you for something."
Noah swallowed, a dozen thoughts sparking at once. "And the sun?"
Her voice dropped, almost conspiratorial. "The sun is his anchor. While it burns above us, his reach extends into every corner of this settlement. Destroy it, and you cut away his hold. But you will not find its weakness by force. You must make him reveal it himself."
Noah took a step closer. "And how exactly do we make him do that?"
"You'll need to give him something he wants," she said. "Something he cannot refuse."
The smoke shifted, curling thicker around them, blurring the edges of the room. Somewhere outside, the faint sound of chanting drifted in — the Kindled Choir, their voices weaving in eerie unison.
Abel's voice was quiet but firm. "If we're doing this, we'll need your help. You have access we don't."
The priestess regarded him for a long moment, then inclined her head once. "Then listen closely. The first thing you must do is stop thinking of yourselves as hidden. He already sees you."
Noah felt the weight of her words settle like cold stone in his stomach.