Saints & Sinners, Ep. 3
A Serial Supernatural Fantasy
Aiden had barely slept, but he was still awake before Orion.
The room was frigid, the fire long gone cold. He crouched at the hearth—dry kindling first, then a few small logs—and coaxed the coals back to life with Ember, the flame catching, slow and steady, until the light reached across the room and thinned the darkness. He moved quietly through the space, every step muffled and measured so as not to stir the man asleep in his bed.
Aiden’s cottage was simple but well kept—wood-planked walls darkened by smoke, seams chinked with mud and straw against the cold. Aiden’s tools hung neatly from pegs beside the hearth: a short-handled axe, a spade, and the weathered satchel he used on his field runs. A handful of books, their spines cracked and age-warped, leaned together on the mantel. There was a single window where frost crept along the glass. The table bore marks of years of use—knife cuts, burn rings, stains that no amount of scrubbing had erased. Someone had patched the roof above with overlapping shingles of bark, and the scent of damp earth drifted faintly from where the thatch met the beam.
Behind the far wall, the muffled sound of Bran shifting in his stall came through the boards. A wooden door led to the attached shelter—a space half-stable, half-storage, where the mule slept.
“Morning,” Aiden said quietly, pushing the door open.
Bran lifted his head from the feed bin, ears flicking toward the sound. The air was thick with the smell of hay and damp wood. Aiden ran a hand down the mule’s neck in greeting. Satisfied, he set out fresh water from the barrel and added a small handful of oats to the feed.
“Long day ahead,” he murmured.
The mule gave a low snort in reply.
Aiden smiled faintly, then crossed back inside. He filled the kettle and hung it over the flame. The smell of smoke and iron bloomed through the room, mingled with the faint sweetness of herbs as he dropped in a few crushed leaves.
While the water heated, he packed. The motions came without thought—folding blankets, sorting bandages, counting rations. Each movement had purpose. When he moved through these small, familiar tasks, his mind stayed quiet.
The tea had darkened by the time he’d finished checking the packs. He poured a cup, took a swallow, and grimaced at the bitterness. He grabbed a few eggs from the basket on the table, collected from pheasant, quail, and turkey nests on his runs. He cracked them into the iron pan on the fire, adding a few slices of dried sausage after. The scent filled the cottage quickly—smoke, salt, and something faintly sweet.
That was what woke Orion. He stirred beneath the blanket, eyes blinking open to the light. For a moment he didn’t remember where he was—only the cold and the sound of someone moving nearby. He turned and saw Aiden by the fire, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from washing, and memory settled back into place.
“Morning,” Orion said, his voice rough from sleep.
Aiden looked over his shoulder. “You’re up.”
“I smelled food.”
“That was the idea.” Aiden motioned to the table. “Sit. You’ll need it before we start moving.”
Orion reached to wipe the sleep from his eyes, wincing when the bandages stretched across his back. “I thought you wanted to leave early.”
“It’s later than I wanted, but it’s still early,” Aiden said. “You needed rest more than I needed a head start.”
Orion rose slowly and sat even slower, careful of his back. The pain was still there, sharp around the edges, but less than before. He glanced at the packs near the door. “You’ve been busy.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Aiden said. “Might as well make it count.”
He plated the food and set it in front of Orion. The portions were modest—large enough to fill him up, but small enough to travel light.
They ate without much talk, the quiet between them companionable. The windows showed only darkness—the slow westward crawl of the Shadow dulling the edge of what should have been dawn.
Aiden finished first and opened the adjoining door a few inches. The muffled sound of hooves and shifting straw carried through as he checked on Bran—leather creaked; a faint jingle marked the tightening of a strap.
“Bran’s ready,” Aiden said, stepping back inside.
Orion had already finished eating but was struggling to get dressed.
Without hesitation, Aiden moved toward the bed to help Orion pull the shirt over his head, carefully rolling the hem down over his back so that he didn’t pull or loosen the bandages. “If we keep to the creek bed, we’ll reach the caverns before the patrols start their sweep.”
“Hidden and cold.”
“Better cold than caught.” Aiden took an extra cloak from a peg by the door and tossed it to him. “This should help.”
“Thank you.” Orion drew it around his shoulders. The weight of the wool pressed against his back, the fabric catching slightly on his bandages despite the layer between, but the warmth was worth the sting.
Aiden gave the room a quick final sweep for anything forgotten. “All set?”
“All set.” Orion followed him through the side door into the stable passage. The cold hit his face like a wall of ice—crisp, damp, carrying the faint scent of ash from the chimney above. Aiden stood beside Bran, the reins looped loosely in his hand.
Orion lingered at the threshold, taking one last look at the small room behind them—the bed, the cooling fire, the fragile sense of temporary safety—then pulled the door closed.
Aiden checked it once, palm flat against the wood, making sure the latch caught. No charms, no extra wards—nothing that would stand out if the Archons decided to look closely. Just a shut door on a small cottage near the Rift that belonged to no one of importance.
Bran stepped out first, hooves crunching on frost. Aiden followed, holding steadfastly onto the reins. They didn’t speak again for a while. The sound of the mule’s steps and the steady rhythm of their boots were enough.
“This way,” he said, nodding toward the trees. His tone was steady, practiced—someone used to both leading and leaving quietly.
They followed a shallow stream for several miles, boots and hooves breaking through ice that formed at the edges. The sound of running water covered their passage, and the cold kept them alert.
“You said your friend’s place is west,” Orion said after a while. “How far?”
“Two days if the weather holds. But there’s a shortcut under the hills—a cavern network the Archons don’t know. We can stay out of sight and out of the wind.”
“Warmer, too?”
“If you don’t mind the smell of stone and damp,” Aiden said. “I’ve used it before.”
“Then I don’t mind.”
They stayed in the creek until the valley narrowed, then climbed up the bank. Bran shook himself, sending droplets into the air. Aiden patted the mule’s flank before helping Orion mount. “Ride for a bit. Your back’s still tender.”
Orion swung a leg over and eased into the saddle. It wasn’t comfortable, but he was tired and welcomed the chance to rest his feet and not have to move his torso. Bran snorted, adjusted his stance, and started after Aiden without needing a tug.
By mid-afternoon the land changed—ridges rising in jagged layers, the soil turning to shale and dark clay. The wind carried the faint hum of the Rift behind them, like a warning that refused to fade.
Aiden paused near a cluster of old stones half-swallowed by moss. He brushed aside the growth to reveal a crevice barely wide enough for Bran to squeeze through. “Here,” he said. “We’ll follow this down another half-mile. It opens into a chamber with dry ground. We can rest there.”
Orion looked into the cleft. A faint draft carried the scent of minerals and cold water. “You’ve done this before?”
“Once or twice,” Aiden said. “Trust me—it’s safer than it looks.”
They led Bran single-file into the gap. The light dimmed immediately, the world narrowing to the sound of hooves scraping rock and the rhythm of their breathing. The path sloped down and widened gradually until the ceiling arched above them. Aiden summoned Ember to light a lantern, and the chamber bloomed in amber light—walls veined with quartz, a trickle of water glinting where it slid between stones.
“This will do,” he said, setting the lantern on a flat shelf of rock. “No patrol will find us down here.”
Bran snorted and began to nose at a patch of lichen. Aiden loosened his harness and spread a feed cloth with some oats on the ground. Orion helped where he could—steadying the mule as Aiden untied bundles.
“Not exactly scenic,” Orion said as he eased himself onto a smooth boulder.
“Scenic’s overrated when you’re being hunted,” Aiden replied. He crouched by a small ring of stones and coaxed Ember with a flick of his fingers. A low, steady flame licked up, painting the cavern walls in muted orange. “There’s a small cleft in the cavern above—a natural chimney for the smoke—so we’ll keep the fire low. Just enough to cook and take the edge off the cold, but not enough to send signals.”
They ate in near silence—dense bread, a few strips of smoked fish, the last of the dried plums. Bran chewed contentedly in the background. The air carried the soft crackle of fire and the quiet rhythm of two men who didn’t yet know what to say to each other.
After they finished, Aiden unrolled the single sleeping pack he’d carried. “You should take it,” he said.
“I’m not letting you freeze on rock,” Orion replied. “We’ll share.”
Aiden hesitated. “It’ll be tight.”
“It’ll be warm,” Orion countered.
There was a long silence before Aiden nodded once. “Fine. But if you snore—”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
They spread the bedroll near the small fire, close enough to catch its heat without risking sparks. Orion eased down first, careful of his bandaged back, then shifted to make room as Aiden settled beside him. The fabric was barely wide enough for both; their shoulders and thighs pressed together by necessity.
The silence that followed was different—thicker, not awkward but charged. The air smelled of smoke and mineral and something herbaceous and faintly alive.
Orion felt Aiden’s breathing slow beside him, steady and measured. After a while, he turned his head just enough to see the outline of his face in the dim light—strong, calm, a faint tension in his jaw that hadn’t relaxed since they left the cottage.
“Thank you,” Orion murmured.
“For what?”
“For not leaving me at the Rift.”
Aiden’s eyes flicked open, catching the glow of the fire. “Would’ve been easier,” he admitted quietly. “Doesn’t mean it would’ve been right.”
Orion’s breath hitched, small but audible. He shifted, and Aiden’s arm brushed his side—accidental, then not. The warmth that passed between them wasn’t just from the fire.
“Get some rest,” Aiden said finally, voice rougher than before.
Orion nodded. He closed his eyes, feeling the steady rhythm of Aiden’s breath against his shoulder, the subtle exchange of heat through the thin barrier of cloth. The world above might have been dark and cold, but here in the belly of the earth, something else stirred—quiet, fragile, alive.
Sleep came easier than he expected.
Aiden was still awake and sat near the flames, grinding a handful of dried leaves in his palm before dropping them into a small tin cup of water. The smell that rose was sharp and green.
“What is that?” Orion asked when he woke, his voice gravelly.
“Riftleaf,” Aiden said. “It grows near the edges where the soil’s half-ruined. Most people avoid it, think it’s tainted, but I’ve found it helps with fever. The Shadow changed it, but it didn’t kill it.”
“You really know your plants.”
“Have to,” Aiden said, almost smiling. “I study them to survive.” He stirred the brew with a twig. “I’ve been mapping what still grows near the Rift—trying to figure out why some plants adapt while others die off completely. If something can heal the land, it’ll come from the land itself.”
Orion watched him work, the movement steady and practiced. “You really think you can fix it?”
“I think everything that breaks has a way to mend,” Aiden said. “We just have to stop destroying what might help.”
The quiet returned, filled only by the sound of water simmering in the tin. The air was damp and cool, heavy with the smell of stone and smoke.
Orion’s eyes drifted toward the tunnel that led back to the surface. “You talk about fixing the world like it’s possible,” he said softly. “I used to believe that too. Back when I thought the people in charge wanted to.”
Aiden gave a quiet, bitter laugh. “The Council’s always wanted control.”
Orion nodded faintly. “Madeleine told me that right before she helped me escape. She said the Seraphs started the Rift, then blamed the Sinners to keep everyone obedient.”
Aiden’s jaw tightened. “She was right.”
“She saw the records herself,” Orion said. “I didn’t have time to ask for proof before I ran. And she was probably executed for helping me.” His voice thinned, and the fire popped like punctuation.
Aiden studied the coals, his voice low. “You don’t know for sure they did—maybe there’s a chance she’s still alive.”
The fire snapped again, scattering sparks across the stone floor.
After a moment, Aiden asked, “What about your family? Do they know you’re gone?”
“My mother’s dead,” Orion said quietly. “The Council killed her right after I was born. They told me it was thieves from beyond the Rift that killed her and cut out my father’s tongue. I’ve just learned there were no thieves and they were responsible for both.”
Aiden’s brow furrowed. “Your father’s still alive? He must be worried sick that you’ve vanished.”
“He’s a blacksmith for the Sanctum,” Orion said. “I’m sure they kept him alive for his work, but couldn’t risk him revealing their secret. He’s still able to sign, but they must have threatened to take more than his tongue if he ever revealed the truth.” Orion’s gaze drifted to the flames. “I tried to make him proud. I thought once my majick manifested, that being a Saint would mean something and the Beatification Trials would prove I was worthy. But the moment my feathers darkened, everything changed. He never even got to see, and they looked at me like I was a defect.”
The cave went quiet except for the soft hiss of the fire.
Aiden’s brow furrowed, his voice gentler now. “That’s a lot to learn all at once,” he said. “They’ve stolen your whole story and handed it back rewritten.”
Orion stared into the flames. “Feels like it. Every truth I thought I knew burned away the moment Madeleine opened that cell door.”
Aiden nodded slowly. “That kind of lie leaves scars you can’t see.”
Something in Aiden’s tone unlocked the rest. Orion told him about the house that always smelled of iron and smoke, about the silence that filled it after his father’s punishment, about the hollow pride that came from being the Sanctum’s golden child until reality cracked. When he finished, the cave felt smaller—warmer, almost—like the air had leaned in to listen.
Aiden poured the cooled tea into a dented cup and passed it over. “Drink. It’ll help.”
Orion took it, the tin warm in his hands. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Aiden said, meeting his eyes. “But I want to.”
They sat shoulder to shoulder, the silence between them steady and full.
After a while, Aiden said, “When I found you, I thought you were dead. Then when you moved and I saw your wings. For a second, I thought I was seeing things.”
“You mean the black feathers?”
“I mean both,” Aiden said. “Light and dark together. Balance. If you really are the Mythborn, maybe that means the Rift can be healed.”
Orion stared into the coals. “And if I’m not?”
Aiden’s voice softened. “Then I get you out of here anyway. And I keep trying until we find another way.”
That pulled a small, weary smile from Orion. “You sound like you believe that.”
“I do,” Aiden said. “Belief’s the only thing they haven’t managed to take from us.”
The mule shifted near the wall, shaking its mane. The sound broke the heaviness between them.
After a while, Aiden spoke again—quieter, almost to the dark. “You weren’t wrong about me. I do want to fix things. My mother was a field botanist before the Rift. She was the one who taught me that there’s no sickness nature doesn’t try to cure if you know where to look. I’ve spent years trying to prove she was right.”
“Do you think you will?” Orion asked.
“I have to,” Aiden said. “If I stop believing that, there’s nothing left to hold onto.”
Orion looked over at him, faint warmth tugging at his voice. “You’re not what I expected from someone born on this side.”
Aiden huffed a quiet breath. “Good. Maybe that’s the point. People stop seeing what’s real when they’ve already decided who you are.”
The air grew colder as the fire sank lower. Aiden leaned forward, added a small log, and settled back beside him. They shared the blanket without comment.
Orion lay on his side, the edge of the blanket tucked under his chin. “You should sleep,” he murmured.
Aiden shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Then I will,” Orion said, and closed his eyes.
Aiden stayed awake, watching the slow rise and fall of Orion’s breathing. He looked younger like this—tired, yes, but unbroken. For the first time since the fall, Aiden let himself believe that maybe hope wasn’t a prophecy. Maybe it was a person.
He lay back against the bedroll, eyes heavy. “You’re safe,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Orion shifted in his sleep, instinctively curling toward the warmth beside him. Aiden hesitated, then turned and slid closer, careful of the bandages. He slipped an arm around Orion, drawing him in. The two of them breathed in rhythm, the fire burning low beside them—its last light dancing across the stone before fading to embers.