The cavern swallowed them in silence as they walked back toward their quarters. The Saint's false sun still hung overhead, casting its steady golden glow, but it no longer looked warm to Noah. It looked cruel—an eye, unblinking, watching every step.
Neither he nor Abel spoke at first. Their boots scraped against the packed stone floor, the sound echoing far too loudly in the hush. Even the Kindled children in the distance felt absent now, their usual laughter and chanting muted, swallowed by the weight pressing in on Noah's chest.
How much is gone? The thought clawed at him, looping endlessly. How much has he already taken?
He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. He wanted to peel his own skull open just to see what was missing. Instead, his words slipped out brittle, breaking on the edges:
"If he can just… reach in and pull things out of me whenever he wants, what's even left that's mine?"
Abel glanced over. His expression was carved in stone, the faintest line between his brows betraying unease.
"Not everything can be stolen," Abel said quietly. "You're still you."
Noah let out a harsh laugh. "Yeah? You sure about that? Because apparently, I've been strolling off to see the Saint every night like some kind of obedient puppy, and I don't remember a single damn second of it." His voice rose, cracked. "So tell me, Abel—what's left of 'me' if whole nights can be scrubbed away like chalk on a board?"
Abel didn't answer. His silence said enough.
Noah pressed a hand to his temple, trying to breathe, trying to hold himself together. The air in this place felt thinner than ever, like it too had been hollowed out.
"…Maybe there's something we're missing," he said at last, softer, half to himself. "A way to stop him from getting in. The priestess said nothing leaves this place—but she never said nothing could be shielded." His thoughts darted like frantic birds, desperate for escape. "The book. My book. The one I found in the ruins. Where I learned the whips, the cards. Maybe…" He swallowed. "Maybe it has something. Some kind of warding spell. Something to block him."
Abel's gaze lingered on him, shadowed with doubt but steady. Then he gave a single, sharp nod. "Then we'll look."
Their quarters were dim when they returned, the weak lantern casting crooked shadows against the stone. Noah hated this room now. The table, the beds, the walls—it all felt wrong. Like it was watching him. Like it remembered things he didn't.
He tore into it at once, pulling blankets aside, overturning cushions, shoving aside the meager belongings they had collected. Abel didn't stop him, only crouched down to check beneath the bed frame, his movements calm, controlled. Noah's, by contrast, were frantic, uneven.
"Where the hell is it?" Noah muttered, half-panicked, ripping through the small chest in the corner. "I didn't lose it, I wouldn't just—" He stopped, heart pounding. "Unless he—"
His fingers froze on the floorboard. Something felt loose beneath his hand. Slowly, he pried it up. Dust clung to his skin as he pulled out a bundle wrapped in old cloth. His breath caught.
The Book of Woven Fate.
Relief surged sharp and dizzying, but before he could even open it, something else crashed into him—
A memory.
He was here. This very room. The book clutched in his hands. Abel sitting across from him, leaning forward, voice low.
"If it works, it should shield us," Noah whispered to him in that memory. His own voice, nervous, desperate. "It has to."
Abel's reply, quiet, steady: "Then try."
Noah remembered leaving the book exactly where he'd just found it. He remembered pressing his palm against Abel's before beginning some incantation. He remembered the faint shimmer of threads circling his fingers—then black.
He gasped, dropping the book, stumbling back as the present snapped around him again. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"Abel—" He grabbed his arm. "We—We already did this." His voice shook. "We already tried a protection spell. I—left it here on purpose. We were going to shield our minds. And then—nothing. It's gone. That memory was gone."
Abel froze, his face tight. At first, his eyes were blank—then, slowly, faint cracks formed in his composure. His jaw clenched, and something flickered in his gaze. Recognition. Pain.
"I…" He exhaled sharply, almost staggered. "You're right. I can—almost remember it. Like a dream. We sat here. You tried. And then…" His eyes narrowed, anger creeping into his voice. "He took it. He took it from us."
Noah's stomach twisted. It wasn't just him. The Saint hadn't only carved out his memories—he'd rewritten Abel's too. Both of them had been scrubbed clean, reset like pawns on a board.
"How many times have we done this?" Noah whispered. His hands trembled. "How many times have we already tried? And every time, he just—wipes it, like it never happened?" His laugh was bitter, hollow. "Maybe we've been at this for weeks. Months. Maybe we've been his little lab rats this whole time."
Abel stepped forward, gripped his shoulders hard, grounding him. His voice was iron, but Noah could feel the tension trembling underneath.
"Then we try again. And this time, we don't fail."
Noah forced himself to breathe and picked up the book again, his hands shaking as he flipped through brittle, ink-stained pages. Each spell felt heavier now, words he couldn't fully grasp twisting across the parchment like fate itself wanted to mock him.
Finally, he found it. A section he hadn't dared to touch before. Higher-tier incantations. Spells woven not for offense or defense, but for protection against intrusion, manipulation.
The script burned against his vision. He knew at once: this one could work.
But the requirements…
His lips moved as he read, pale. "Massive mana input… continuous concentration… risk of backlash if broken mid-chant." He looked at Abel, throat tight. "I can barely manage this. If I screw up—"
"You won't." Abel's voice was steady, almost too steady, like he was forcing it to be.
Noah stared at the page. His gut twisted. He could feel the weight of it—the cost. But what choice did he have? Either he burned himself trying… or they kept dancing in the Saint's palm, their lives rewritten until nothing real remained.
He closed the book, clutching it against his chest. "Next time," he said quietly. "Next time they come to lead me to him, I'll have this spell active. If it works, I'll remember everything. Even if you don't—I will. And then I'll put it on you. I'll make sure you know too."
Abel's grip tightened on his shoulders. His eyes, usually so cold, burned with something raw. "Whatever happens—you won't face it alone. Remember that."
Noah wanted to laugh, to crack some joke, but all that came out was a shaky breath. He nodded.
Then he sat, cross-legged, the book open before him. His fingers trembled as he began to trace the sigils, murmuring the incantation under his breath.
Threads of pale light stirred around his hands, fragile, flickering, unstable. Like candle flames straining against a storm. His veins ached with the pull of mana, his lungs burning with each word.
Still, he forced himself on.
Because this was the only way left.
The light from Noah's hands flickered wildly, stretching into thin strands of fate that coiled in the air like spider silk. He felt them pressing against the edges of his mind—fragile, straining, but there.
Outside, the false sun dipped toward its endless horizon, and in the silence of the settlement, Noah swore he heard the faint sound of Kindled footsteps drawing near.