Matt moved through the narrow streets of East Borough as if he were carrying a sack of potatoes rather than a conscious woman. Lira bounced against his shoulder with every step, her black hair falling over her face while the golden sun amulet around her neck knocked lightly against his collarbone. She didn't scream—she wasn't that foolish—but every so often a muffled grunt escaped her when her head struck his back.
The night was thick.
Above them, the moon hung enormous and crimson, like an open wound in the sky. It wasn't the silvery white from storybooks; it was a deep red, almost bloody—the same color the moon had always been in Backlund for as long as Matt could remember. Its light seeped through the Tussock fog as though someone had spilled red ink over the world.
The cobblestone streets shone with a damp reddish sheen. Puddles reflected the sky like mirrors of blood. Gas lamps, weak and yellow, struggled against that crimson glow—and lost. Everything looked stained with rust and rot. Shadows stretched too far, twisted, as if the houses themselves leaned forward to lick the red light.
The smell was the usual one: open sewer, cheap coal smoke, stale bread, and the sweat of people who hadn't bathed in days. Somewhere down a distant alley came the sounds of drunken fighting—the clink of broken bottles and hysterical laughter. Closer by, a black cat crossed the street and paused to stare at them beneath the crimson moon. Its eyes glowed like two red embers before it slipped away between the trash bins.
Lira moved her head enough to speak without swallowing her hair.
"Are you planning to carry me like this until dawn?" she asked, her voice muffled but still steady. "I feel like a war trophy."
Matt let out a quiet laugh without slowing down.
"You're lighter than a trophy. And more useful."
He turned a corner, passing beneath a brick arch where the crimson light painted the walls as if they had been splattered with fresh blood.
"Tell me, Lira… when is the next full moon?"
She took a moment to answer. The bounce made her grunt again.
"A full moon? Why do you want to know that? The Black Market you mentioned meets on the new moon, not the full one. Or are you planning something else already?"
Matt tilted his head slightly, just enough for her to see the corner of his crooked smile beneath the red light.
"Curiosity. Answer."
Lira sighed, resigned but still sensible.
"In eleven days. The moon will be full on the 26th. It looks even redder those nights… like the Eternal Sun itself is bleeding. Satisfied?"
"Very," Matt murmured.
He kept walking, his pace steady, as if her weight didn't exist.
"One more thing. Besides you… did they send anyone else? A partner, a superior, anyone who knows you're here?"
Lira was silent a moment longer. The crimson light illuminated her face from above, making her eyes look like two small exhausted suns.
"No one," she admitted at last. "They sent me alone. 'Expendable,' remember? If I don't come back… they'll send someone else in a month. That's all. The Church of the Sun doesn't waste valuable people in East Borough."
Matt nodded to himself.
The fog parted slightly as they crossed a wider street, and the red moonlight fell directly upon them, tinting the brown robe visible beneath his jacket and Lira's black hair with an almost liquid sheen.
"Good," he said simply. "Then no one will come looking for you soon. That makes things easier."
Lira turned her head as much as she could to glance at him.
"Easier for what exactly, Matt?"
He didn't answer immediately.
They passed a closed tavern where a drunk slept in the doorway, bathed in crimson light like a fresh corpse. The wind carried the smell of the nearby river and rotting fish.
"Easier for us to talk without interruptions," he finally said quietly. "And for me to decide whether I let you go…"
Lira let out a short, dry laugh without real fear.
"How romantic. First you carry me like a sack, now you threaten to turn me into fertilizer. Your Mother raised you with class."
Matt smiled again, slightly amused by the situation under the enormous red moon watching them from above.
The fog closed around them again. The streets narrowed once more. In the distance, between broken rooftops, the outline of the Old Bridge could be seen—dark and silent—waiting for the next new moon.
Matt kept walking, Lira still over his shoulder, beneath the crimson light that painted everything the color of blood and corruption.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
But inside Matt's mind, something twisted like a crooked root.
Idiot. Stupid. Absolute imbecile.
He had asked about the full moon.
Not the new moon.
The Black Market met during the new moon—the Ascetic's spirit had said it clearly—and he, like some novice who had just stolen his first potion, had blurted out: When is the next full moon?
Why the hell would I want to know that? To see if Lira's light looks prettier under a full moon? To write cheap poetry?
Matt clenched his jaw as he kept walking. The woman bounced gently against his shoulder, but he barely noticed. The scar along his side pulsed once, as if the Mother were laughing at him silently.
Now she thinks I know exactly what I'm doing. If I ask about the new moon now I'll look desperate. Or worse—like an amateur.
So I'll pretend.
I'll pretend everything is under control.
That the full moon also serves some purpose.
That I'm a Wingless Angel planning three moves ahead.
He smiled to himself under the crimson light—a crooked, bitter smile Lira couldn't see.
Progress, Matt. Two weeks ago you were selling bread. Now you're kidnapping a Suppliant of Light and pretending to be a strategic genius.
How low you've fallen… or how high, depending on how you look at it.
The fog suddenly parted at the end of the street.
Ahead of them stood a church.
A modest stone building covered in moss, with ivy climbing its walls like green veins. A small plaque read:
Church of the Harvest.
The door was slightly open, and the smell of damp soil and fresh herbs drifted into the night air.
Matt didn't go through the main entrance.
Instead he turned toward the side, where a narrow alley separated the church from a cobbler's workshop abandoned months ago. With Lira still hanging like a sack over his shoulder, he jumped the low fence effortlessly and circled the building until he reached the rear door behind the altar.
He pushed the old wood open with his shoulder.
It creaked softly.
Inside it was dim: simple altars decorated with golden wheat stalks and pots filled with plants that seemed far too alive for an industrial city. The scent of fertile earth surrounded him, and the scar on his side pulsed in response—almost in relief.
He didn't descend into the basement.
That place was no longer his.
He had left it behind when Elara departed.
This was enough: a hidden space behind the main altar, a narrow damp area concealed by thick intertwining vines that formed a living curtain. The floor was packed earth instead of cold stone. A faint emerald glow filtered down from luminous roots in the ceiling, illuminating the space just enough so he wouldn't stumble.
It smelled of fresh moss… and something deeper, as if the church itself were breathing beneath them.
Matt crouched and set Lira down there with slightly less roughness than before.
She rolled onto the packed earth, breathing heavily, then pushed herself up on one elbow. Crimson moonlight slipped through a narrow gap between the vines, painting her face with red stripes.
"Welcome to the temporary Garden," Matt murmured, still standing, brushing off his hands. "Not the best place, but no one will look for you here. Not even the priest asks questions when I show up."
Lira stared at him.
Her voice came out low, but steady.
"And now what? Are you going to tie me up? Interrogate me until dawn?"
Matt sat on the edge of a thick root protruding from the ground and crossed his arms. The ridiculous smile returned, though now it carried a hint of tiredness.
"Now… you rest. Tomorrow we talk about the Black Market. And about how a Suppliant of Light and a Blessed of the Mother might make themselves useful to each other without anyone ending up as fertilizer."
And I'll try not to ask any more idiotic questions in front of you.
Outside, the crimson moon continued to shine—huge and indifferent—over the empty streets of East Borough.
Inside the hiding place behind the altar, the conversation had only just begun.
Matt didn't move.
He remained seated on the thick root, arms crossed, his back against the living curtain of vines. The emerald glow from the ceiling bathed everything in a pale sickly green, mixing with the crimson streaks filtering through the gap above.
The scent of fresh moss and fertile earth was almost intoxicating.
He waited.
Lira lay back on the packed soil, using her cloak as an improvised pillow. Her eyes closed. Her breathing slowed, becoming deeper.
But Matt didn't trust it.
His gray eyes—cold, dirty, relentless—studied every detail of her with the precision of a predator that no longer needed excuses.
Her legs still marked by the corruption of his Poisonous Flames.
The curve of her hip beneath torn traveler's clothes.
Her chest rising and falling with each breath.
The exposed line of her neck, where the skin still carried a faint golden glow from the Path of the Sun.
Her black hair spread across the soil like dead roots.
Beautiful.
Even weakened.
Even half-poisoned.
For a moment, Matt's thoughts drifted.
How easy it would be to take the bone dagger now.
A small cut… almost gentle… right here at the throat.
Lust would strike her like lightning.
I'd watch her twist, glassy-eyed, lips parted, begging without knowing why.
The Sun's light would fade beneath something far more primitive.
And I…
A crooked smile appeared on his lips, nearly invisible.
Warmth climbed his chest like a poisonous flame that didn't burn—only corrupted.
Then he blinked.
No.
He shook his head once, as if brushing away a fly. The smile vanished. His gray eyes returned to their cold emptiness.
None of that matters enough to do right now.
Not useful.
Not necessary.
Just noise.
He leaned back against the wall of roots, stretching his legs across the soil. The emerald glow painted his face pale green.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly in rhythm with the quiet church around him.
Sleep began to come—heavy and black.
But just before he slipped fully into it, an uncomfortable sensation pricked the back of his mind.
I'm forgetting something.
Not the full moon.
Not that earlier mistake.
Something else.
Maybe the Beyonder characteristic of the Shadow Ascetic—those gray-black twisting shadows waiting inside his pocket.
Or the Lawyer potion formula he had memorized.
Or the way the scar had reacted when Lira tried to sing for the last time.
Something important.
Matt frowned in the darkness.
But the exhaustion was stronger.
Tomorrow, he thought as sleep finally took him.
Tomorrow I'll remember.
Outside, the crimson moon kept watch.
Inside the hiding place behind the altar, two breaths—one golden and weakened, the other gray and rotten—mingled in the same damp earth.