“This isn’t good. It means the cult found us before we found them,” Kian muttered, squinting at the parchment.

  You shouldn’t be here.

  When had that sentence ever meant something good?

  And the Aspects still hadn’t shown up.

  Emotion said they would. Promised, even.

  But so far? Nothing.

  And now this.

  Across the room, Zeyk blew into a steaming mug. “You think they’re being dramatic? Maybe it's a prank.”

  Kian tossed the parchment on the table and stared into his coffee like it owed him answers. “No. It’s cult-vibes. You can feel it. Smells like candle smoke.”

  Zeyk leaned over to sniff the parchment.

  “…What are you doing?”

  “Checking if it actually smells like candle smoke.”

  Kian didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he took a sip of the coffee and winced. “Still bitter.”

  “That’s because you put salt in it.”

  “I thought it was sugar!”

  Zeyk gave him a look. “You’re a god-being, and you can’t tell the difference between salt and sugar?”

  “I’m a celestial, not a god. There is a difference.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  Zeyk tapped the note again. “So what now?”

  Kian groaned and slouched deeper into his chair. “We ignore it. Go about our day. Take a nap. Maybe five.”

  “Kian…”

  “What?”

  “You’re just gonna sit here after a literal death cult left us a love letter?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a love letter.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I mean, I’m not against checking it out. I’m just also very pro-survival.”

  Zeyk rolled his eyes, stood up, and started pacing. “We should do something. We need to get ahead of them.”

  “We don’t even know where to get ahead to,” Kian muttered.

  Then—

  Knock knock.

  Both of them froze.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Kian nearly dropped his mug.

  Zeyk whispered, “Did you order room service?”

  “No. Did you?”

  They stared at the door.

  Another knock.

  “Go open it.” Kian hissed.

  “Why me?!”

  “You’re the reckless one!”

  Kian handed Zeyk the dagger—hilt first.

  Zeyk blinked. “This is decorative.”

  “It’s sharp-ish.”

  “It's made of gold.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Zeyk crept to the door. Took a breath. Threw it open—

  —No one.

  Just a folded note lying on the floor.

  Zeyk picked it up and read it aloud. “ Just outside the southern gate. Midnight.”

  He looked at Kian.

  Kian looked at his coffee.

  “…So much for napping.”

  ******************

  The Southern Gate was quiet. Too quiet.

  The kind of quiet that made you want to run home screaming.

  “This is how people die in stories, by the way,” Kian whispered as they crept along the dirt and gravel path.

  “You're not going to die, Kian.” Zeyk rolled his eyes.

  “I might. And if I do, I blame you.”

  “That’s exactly what people say before they die,” Kian muttered. “Right before the axe falls or the monster jumps out of a bush.”

  Zeyk smirked. “Relax. Worst case, it’s a trap and we die horribly. Best case, we make a new friend.”

  “Oh great. Cultists make terrific friends.”

  The path crunched beneath their boots—the only sound for miles. Even the crickets seemed to be holding their breath.

  “Do you think they’re watching us right now?” Kian asked, glancing nervously at the trees.

  “Probably. Just pretend you’re not worth sacrificing.”

  “I am not worth sacrificing.”

  “You keep saying that,” Zeyk whispered. “But with that spark thing in your arm, I’m pretty sure the cult disagrees.”

  They kept walking for a little while.

  “Stop!” Zeyk suddenly held his arm out, halting them in their tracks.

  Great. Just great.

  In front of them was a small clearing, where several cloaked figures gathered around a pyre of unnatural, flickering purple flames.

  “Guess we found the cult,” Kian muttered.

  The figures were definitely up to something disturbing.

  “What do we do?” Zeyk pulled him behind a bush.

  “I have no clue.”

  The flames in the center of the clearing shifted—tall and wavering, casting monstrous shadows across the hooded figures. One of them raised their arms high, while the others began chanting in a strange, guttural language Kian couldn’t quite understand.

  Kian winced. “That’s... not normal.”

  “Pretty sure that fire is talking to them,” Zeyk whispered.

  “Lovely.”

  Then, suddenly—

  “YOU THERE!”

  A sharp voice rang out.

  Kian’s heart leapt out of his body. Zeyk grabbed his collar and yanked him back.

  “Run?”

  “Run.”

  They turned—only to find more figures emerging from the shadows behind them.

  But these weren’t cultists. Their steel armour glinted in the moonlight.

  City soldiers.

  All around them, cultists were screaming as soldiers charged with weapons drawn.

  “Down! Hands behind your back, cultists!” one soldier barked, his sword pointed directly at them.

  They obeyed without protest.

  The cultists either surrendered or were swiftly dispatched by the soldiers. Those who tried to flee were taken down by archers hidden in the trees.

  Kian groaned as he hit the dirt. “I told you this was how people die in stories.”

  “We’re not dead yet,” Zeyk replied, his voice flat.

  “Not yet,” Kian muttered. “But give it a minute.”