Morning pretended to happen. The false sun pushed a warmer strip through the bone-lattice, and the room tried to look like a new day.
Abel came in with dust on his boots and a short, clean report. "Linnea's route is simple," he said, dropping onto the table a quick sketch: a hallway, a corner, a stair. "Two doors inside the palace. First opens with a touch on a carved ring. Second is another ring—same trick. No puzzles, no songs. If we get to the stairs, we're in. After that it's just… the basement."
"'Just the basement,'" Noah repeated. "I love our optimism." He grinned and then let it fall. "But honestly, that's good. Easy sounds great."
Before they could even pretend to relax, a soft, polite knock tapped the door. Three little raps. The bone charm above the latch clicked like teeth.
Abel and Noah traded a look, swept the sketch under a spare cloth, and opened up.
A Kindled stood there—a girl maybe eleven, bone-dust painted neat down her cheeks. A scent-lantern hung from her wrist, its pale honey flame sloshing inside like it was breathing.
"The Saint requests your presence," she sang, bright and blank. "A big hunt. Flesh Forest. Come."
"Of course," Noah said, smiling like a good guest. Inside, his stomach tipped.
They grabbed what didn't look suspicious. Abel's spear was part of his silhouette. Noah slid the Deck under his ribs and a knife into his boot and kept his face set to "harmless and helpful."
They joined the group under a ribbed gate, a quick headcount of adults with glaives and kids with clean sickles. Scent-lanterns swung from wrists like strange fruit. And at the front stood the Saint—veil smooth, posture calm, haloed by smoke and attention.
"Walk with me," he said when they reached him. Not a request.
They fell into step. Abel half a pace back, the way he always did when he was ready to break a world for Noah. Noah kept his expression easy, his stride regular, his brain yelling in quiet, steady beeps: play dumb, play nice, don't tip it.
"Busy yesterday?" the Saint asked, voice warm like tea that burned your tongue. "I didn't see you at our usual time."
"Ah," Noah said lightly. "I must've lost track. I'm allergic to schedules."
"You've missed quite a few of our meetings lately," the Saint said, friendly as a nail in an apple.
"Have I?" Noah blinked, all innocent. "Sorry. Time moves weird here. I keep thinking it's the same day."
A pause, thin as a knife. "Do you dream?" the Saint asked.
"Usually about food," Noah said. "Sometimes about naps."
"Nothing… from your old world?"
"Oh, that." Noah laughed a little. "I mean, sure. Buses. Coffee. People shouting into their phones like the rest of us don't exist. My mom filling a room with her voice. Normal stuff."
"Your mother," the Saint said, too mild. "What did she do?"
"Talked," Noah said. "A lot." He shrugged. "She painted, sometimes. Liked people watching her more."
The Saint hummed as if adding a checkmark on a list. "And your father?"
"Worked. A lot." Noah met the veil with a bright, empty smile. "Like everyone else's."
They left the last clean ribs behind and the Forest opened like a wound. The ground changed first—bone plates thinning to something softer and slick, then to meat. Not dirt. Not moss. Flesh. It squished underfoot; it pulsed when your weight settled, a slow, ugly throb that climbed your calves. Trees rose in tight clumps, and each trunk was wrong—bark peeled back to show wet muscle underneath, patches of gray fat bulging like blisters. Rot crawled up them in strips. The smell hit next—hot copper, sour milk, and something sweet like fruit left in a car for a week. Noah swallowed against it and didn't look down too much; looking down made the ground feel like it looked back.
Scent-lanterns gave up trying to be pretty here. Their smoke crawled low, thick, clinging to the roots like spider webs. You could hear the place breathe—long, sticky exhale; faint suck of wet somewhere; a slow beat underneath, like a drum someone buried and forgot.
"Where's Cassian?" Noah asked as casually as he could while not stepping in a pore. "Your shadow. He usually steals everyone's attention."
"He is unwell," the Saint said. "Fever. He rests at the palace."
Noah's heart hit his ribs hard enough to hurt. Fever meant palace meant alone with him. If Cassian was with the Saint, then every piece they'd shaken loose could be sanded down again. The thought made his hands go cold. He didn't let it reach his face.
"Ah," he said, aiming for bored. "He'll be dramatic about it."
"He will recover," the Saint said. "He always does."
Noah nodded like that was a normal sentence and not a threat. He put his eyes back on the path, on the way the flesh ground shivered when the party moved in a line, on the way the Kindled stepped over slick spots without looking. Abel bumped his shoulder lightly, there-and-gone—I'm here.
"Tell me about your coffee," the Saint said, almost playful.
"It was bad," Noah said. "Burnt. Expensive. Came in cups with your name spelled wrong."
"What was your name, then?"
"Noah," he said, deadpan. "Same as now." He added a grin. "Did I pass the test?"
"Many tests," the Saint said. "We will see which ones matter."
They moved deeper. The trees leaned in close like they were listening. Every now and then the group had to skirt a hump of something like cartilage growing out of the ground. A Kindled brushed a lantern past it and it twitched back, embarrassed to be seen.
The Saint walked like this was a garden.
"Why didn't you come to see me last night?" he asked again, friendly, casual, not casual at all.
"Oh," Noah said, as if remembering the concept of evening. "Right. I think I fell asleep trying to read a very boring book about… faith?" He widened his eyes, sheepish. "I made it three pages. Don't tell the author."
"No," the Saint said. "We wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings."
"Especially not mine," Noah said. "Very sensitive."
"You are many things," the Saint said, and Noah felt Abel's attention sharpen for a second like a blade on a stone.
They hit a patch where the ground turned to a patchwork of slick and not-slick, like someone had laid a bad road out of skin. The smell got worse. Something had died close by—recently—and the air couldn't decide if it wanted to be sick or pretend. Scouts motioned from ahead: open hands, slow down.
Noah let his eyes do a quick scan. The party moved quietly. Adults took edges, kids the middle, everyone in step. The Kindled hummed low—their not-quite-song that kept their breathing the same and their fear somewhere else. It wasn't pretty. It was steady. He hated how effective it was.
"Your world sounds noisy," the Saint said, still soft.
"It was," Noah said. "This one's… loud in a different way."
"You prefer it?" the Saint asked. It sounded like a trap and also like he wanted an honest answer.
"I prefer not dying," Noah said. "That's my favorite lifestyle choice."
"Mm," the Saint said, amused. "And yet you keep finding trouble."
"Trouble keeps finding me," Noah said. "I have one of those faces."
The Saint made a sound that might've been a laugh if laughs could be sharpened. "Honest, then: do you like it here?"
Noah kept his eyes on the trees. "I don't like places that don't let people leave."
"That is not an answer."
"It's the one I've got."
The Saint didn't push, but something about the air changed—just a degree of weight. He turned his head slightly toward Abel. "And you?"
"I go where he goes," Abel said simply.
The Saint's veil didn't move, but Noah could feel him smile. "Loyalty is a beautiful thing."
"Depends who owns it," Noah said lightly, and Abel coughed into his fist, which was absolutely a laugh and absolutely a warning.
A sound rolled through the growth ahead—wet and heavy, like a huge mouth chewing through roots. The scouts froze, then melted sideways into position. The group flowed like someone had poured them into a new shape—adults and kids sliding into their practiced spots along a line of bulging trunks.
Noah kept his hands loose and his face easy, even as his stomach did another slow flip. He did not look back toward the city. He did not picture Cassian in a quiet room, a cool cloth on his forehead and a lie in his ear. He did not imagine memories being peeled and folded like paper cranes and set in a row.
He made his brain small: don't tip it, don't flinch, don't show.
The Saint leaned just a fraction closer. "You really don't remember, do you?" he asked, tone almost kind. "Our talks?"
"Soup bowls," Noah said with a crooked smile. "My tragic love affair with naps."
"And nothing else."
"Should there be?" Noah asked, blinking like a student who hadn't done the reading and was proud of it.
Another sound ahead—branches—or what was trying to be branches—snapped and flapped wetly. Something pushed through the undergrowth, and the first thing that shoved out into view wasn't a head. It was a tusk—white and spiraled and wrong, like porcelain had learned to grow teeth. The thing behind it moved like a landslide.
"Positions," a scout breathed. The Kindled's hum sharpened into something with edges.
The Saint lifted a hand, and the Forest itself seemed to hold its breath. His veiled head tipped toward Noah one more time. "We'll speak again tonight," he said softly.
"Looking forward to forgetting it," Noah said, friendly as hell.
The Saint's attention dragged over his face like a knife testing the skin of fruit. Then he turned, all grace and heat, and the hunt got loud.
Noah smiled at nothing, at everything. "Great," he whispered, rolling his shoulders. "Field trip."
The flesh ground flexed under his boots. The trees leaned closer like gossiping aunties. The smell got into his mouth and didn't leave.
He kept his grip light, his mouth easy, and his memory tucked behind the anchor where the Saint couldn't reach. And when the monster crashed into their line and the kids sang their sharp little song, Noah didn't look at the veil or at the city in his head. He thought about the basement. He thought about a heart in a box. He thought about a boy in a cave and a fever and a chance.
Then he went to work.