The camp was unusually quiet, for once. Most of its inhabitants were still asleep, safe for a few who hadn’t gone to bed at all.

  Caelus welcomed the change.

  Kitchen was already alive with motion. Feeding this village was no small task, after all. Smell of fresh bread drifted through the cavern, escaping through the narrow crevice above like a blessing.

  A frail older woman handed him his portion with both hands, her face creased with a thousand fine lines and a warm squint of a smile.

  “Have a good morning, sweetie.”

  His chest tightened unexpectedly. A flicker of memory—an old Head Housemaid’s hands, prayer-worn and warm, placing a cloth-wrapped lunch in his hands before he was taken to the monastery. The only one who’d treated him like a human.

  He hated how it stayed with him.

  “You as well,” he muttered, hastily taking the plate and fleeing before he could start feeling things.

  Potato pancakes. Eggs. Mushrooms sautéed in some sort of meaty sauce. Cheese-stuffed flatbread still warm to the touch. A proper meal.

  He sighed. He was really going to miss the food when this was over.

  Breakfast was finished in silence and haste. He placed his plate on the growing pile of dirty dishes, then made his way up toward the surface.

  Let’s see the so-called Mercenary King in action.

  The early morning greeted him with crisp air and thin coils of mist dancing around his boots. The sun had only just begun its slow climb above the trees.

  A quick look around. Two hunters going through their arrows. Trader counting the coin spread around him on the table, scribbling something on a piece of paper.

  Two shadows emerged from the forest.

  One was Sol—of course it was Sol—dressed in clothes far too casual for what was allegedly a mission to confront dangerous cultists. Sleeves rolled up, collar loose exposing more scar-marred skin than necessary, like he was going to a romantic lakeside picnic instead of possibly mortal combat. He moved with all the poise of a cat who knew damn well it had knocked over the vase.

  And he was talking. No—ranting.

  Animated like a bard with too much stage time and zero audience feedback, his hands carved through the air with wild gestures, voice rising and falling as a madman preaching to the clouds.

  “—so I’m already bleeding out, right? Flat on my back, ribs cracked, some kind of cursed crossbow bolt stuck in me. Imagine, Killeon, this idiot cultist is standing over me chanting something that sounded like ‘macaroni in the moonlight,’ I swear on my grave—my second grave, not the first one—”

  Beside him walked the glaive-wielder. Killeon, if Caelus heard correctly, who looked like he regretted every life choice that led him to this exact moment. Listening with the patience of a graveyard statue. Eyes half-lidded, arms crossed, brows slightly raised, mouth set in the expression of someone who’s heard this story before and still hasn’t emotionally recovered.

  Solferen didn’t seem to care. He was committed.

  “—so naturally, I grab the bolt still stuck in my chest, snap it off, stab him in the thigh, and headbutt him in the teeth while screaming ‘YOU’LL NEVER TOUCH MY HERBS’.”

  “Mm.” Killeon’s tone was neutral. Encouraging, even.

  “And then!” Sol gestured wildly, nearly clotheslining a passing scout. “Then I died. For three minutes. That’s not even the bad part. The bad part is I woke up naked in a river five miles downstream because some genius decided I looked dead enough!”

  Killeon hummed thoughtfully.

  “I lost all my rings.” Sol spread his hands open, ringless.

  Another hum. Same pitch.

  “And Gerald was ruined.”

  “Gerald?”

  “The basil.”

  “...Of course.”

  “But then,” Sol continued, lifting a finger, voice lowering like he was sharing a state secret, “I find the rest of them. Covered in blood. And someone—someone—had the audacity to say that Lorkin’s shirt was red.”

  He whipped around, visibly scandalized. “It was fuchsia.”

  That—apparently—was the line. Killeon flinched.

  Sol froze, eyes narrowing with the gleam of victory. “Oh? That bothers you?”

  Killeon sighed through his nose, grimace of exaggerated condemnation on his face. “It wasn’t fuchsia. It was wine.”

  “EXCUSE ME—”

  Meanwhile, Caelus—already standing there like a rational adult, waiting with what little remained of his sanity—could only gape.

  This. This is what he was told to follow into battle.

  A half-dressed oversized elf arguing passionately about herbs and reincarnation and shirt colors, while his exhausted second-in-command looked five minutes away from walking into the woods and never returning.

  Caelus felt a vein in his temple throb.

  This wasn’t a man. This was a divine test wrapped in insanity and sin.

  Sol, finally noticing his knight-shaped audience, beamed like a sunrise. “Oh, Moraine! Ready to go?”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Cael was sure his judgement was written all over his face. “Are you?”

  “Ready as I can be!” He gestured at himself, looking proud of himself, almost. “Come on then, we are taking horses. I assume you can ride?”

  Caelus just stared. It didn’t seem worth responding.

  “We can always share a horse if you can’t, yknow.” The Viper practically purred, quirking one eyebrow provocatively. “I’m an excellent rider.”

  Ah yes. There it is.

  The knight closed his eyes. The morning was ruined.

  At the edge of the clearing, horses were already being saddled. Mist clung to the grass, dew catching the rising sun like scattered shards of glass. A few mercenaries moved about, checking gear and bickering over supplies.

  Caelus scanned the scene automatically, assessing.

  Three horses, one of them a striking white creature that looked as if it had galloped straight out of a bard’s overromanticized ballad. Every strand of its mane glowed gold in the morning light, almost ethereal. Its tack was spotless. Regal. Polished. Even the eyes shimmered a familiar icy blue.

  It looked suspiciously similar to the boy standing next to it. The horse, thankfully, lacked the red tattered scarf and catastrophic magical power.

  Small mercies.

  Anders cooed at the animal softly, braiding a red ribbon into its mane. The horse—clearly used to this nonsense—stood patiently, one hoof casually cocked, like a lady-in-waiting enduring a fitting.

  Caelus blinked. “...Is that your horse?”

  Anders grinned, eyes sparkling. “His name’s Moonshine. Sol got him for me.”

  Of course he did.

  Next came something that looked like a horse if you squinted—and had never seen one before.

  It was tall. Hulking. Built as a nightmare with hooves. Its muscles rippled, eyes gleaming with the kind of feral madness that belonged in exorcism scrolls, the kind that stared into your soul and found you lacking.

  The creature bared its teeth and snorted lightning.

  Caelus took an instinctive step back.

  “What in the name of light is that?”

  “That?” Sol answered casually, pointing a finger as he turned. “That’s Bastard.”

  Cael scowled. “That’s its name?”

  “Oh no,” Anders said brightly. “That’s just what we all call him. His actual name is unpronounceable unless you scream it while falling down a cliff.”

  “Is that one even safe to ride?” The knight asked, concerned.

  Sol glanced over. “Nope. He only listens to Kili.”

  Sure enough, Killeon stood beside the beast, calmly feeding it a handful of oats, entirely unfazed as the horse snapped its jaws beside his head like a guillotine on legs.

  Cael didn’t ask further.

  He looked around instead. “And yours?”

  “Oh.” Sol waved vaguely toward the woods. “Mine’s lost in the forest again. Too many people around here, he hates the noise. I’ll ride this one.”

  He slapped a perfectly average brown gelding on the flank. It barely blinked. Sol grinned like he'd just solved a national crisis.

  The knight frowned. “That’s not yours.”

  “It is now.” Solferen brushed it off.

  Anders, already mounted, was whispering into Moonshine’s ear as if they were plotting a political coup. The horse nickered in solemn agreement and trotted forward in a prance so coordinated it may as well have been choreographed.

  Caelus stared harder.

  “He’s not doing that on purpose,” Sol said, mounting. “He’s just like that.”

  “What is he like?” Cael cursed himself for asking.

  Sol snorted.

  “A horsegirl.”

  Caelus turned his face to the sky. There was no help up there either.

  Killeon, meanwhile, swung onto Bastard’s back in a single smooth movement. The beast screamed and reared immediately like it had personally sworn vengeance on gravity itself. The man didn’t blink. He adjusted his grip on the reins, muttered something—and Bastard calmed down instantly, like a lever had been thrown.

  “How did you—” Caelus muttered under his breath, almost to himself, grimacing.

  “He said ‘please,’” Sol drawled reverently. “That horse only responds to the power of emotionally repressed men.”

  Anders laughed from his saddle. “You two better catch up! We’re leaving!”

  Just then, a quiet stablehand led a chestnut mare toward Caelus. She was calm. Gentle-eyed. Unbothered by chaos.

  He stared at her as if she was a gift from the gods. “This one. I want this one.”

  “Wise choice,” Sol called over his shoulder. “We need at least one of us to survive.”

  Cael felt the man's words hit him just then, and he found himself trying to keep composure. Sol had no filter. It was like he couldn't even comprehend not saying the first thought that comes into his mind.

  He grimaced again.

  God give him patience.

  Sol turned in the saddle with a grin, saluting mockingly. “Ready to ride into chaos, Your Holiness?”

  Caelus mounted in silence, offered a swift prayer under his breath, and made himself a single promise.

  He was not going to lose his mind before this quest was over.

  They rode fast through the woods, hooves pounding against the mossy ground. The trees began to thin, the canopy parting overhead. Light spilled through the leaves—soft, golden, warm.

  At some point the wind shifted. A hum moved through the air, almost melodic. Not music, not quite—but something natural in its harmony. Even the horses slowed, their ears twitching.

  It began with a flicker of color overhead—like stained glass caught in motion, flecks of light dancing on the edge of vision.

  Then shapes, flow.

  Caelus looked upwards and the world ceased to exist.

  Not birds, but something born from dreams of flight. Long-necked, long-tailed creatures, no larger than a hawk, with two sets of delicate wings and two sets of nimble feet, gliding effortlessly between trees and sky. Their feathers were translucent, iridescent—each beat catching the sunlight in glimmers of pearl, gold, and opal, trailing ribbons of amethyst and firelight.

  Not flying in fear or defense. No—they danced.

  Hundreds of them.

  They soared alongside the horses, spiraling through the air like threads of starlight stitched across the sky. The air shimmered with their movement, as though the wind itself had caught fire with beauty.

  They moved as liquid magic. No rhythm, no formation. Only chaos woven into art.

  Anders gasped aloud, pure wonder in his voice. “By the stars—!”

  The mage laughed like a child, his hand reaching up as one swooped low enough to brush his fingers, completely forgetting the reins. Moonshine pranced with excitement, his mane catching the same golden light, almost glowing in response.

  Caelus watched him laugh, free and weightless. He didn’t know if he envied the mage, or mourned whatever part of himself had once moved like that.

  One of the creatures darted down and landed, for the briefest moment, on Anders’ outstretched palm. Its body impossibly light, like silk wrapped around sunlight, and it took off again, feathers brushing his cheek in a kiss.

  Killeon—ever the quiet one—outstretched one hand to the side, right into the flow of the tiny creatures weaving their way between the horses. They flowed around him, a few brushing past his fingers, trailing soft wind and stardust.

  Caelus forgot how to breathe.

  One flew near him. Slower. Closer.

  It hovered at eye level, its wings slowing just enough to hold in suspend in front of him. Its body turned with an elegant twist, shimmering like a fish breaching the surface of a sunlit stream.

  For that heartbeat, they were the only two things in the world.

  His heart skipped. His hand rose as if drawn—not by will, but longing.

  And then it was gone—rising with the others into the trees, leaving behind nothing but glittering air and aching silence.

  His jaw relaxed for the first time in days.

  No prayers came. No shame. Just breath, soft and stunned, slipping past his lips.

  He didn’t notice that his lips had parted. That his hands had gone slack on the reins. That his posture, always stiff, had melted into something soft.

  And he didn’t know he was smiling in pure awe.

  He didn’t know Solferen was watching him.

  Didn’t feel the weight of that gaze when the Viper turned in his saddle and glanced back.

  Sol said nothing—only watched with a half-smile, as if this was a secret the forest shared only with those it chose. And by the time the last of the shimmering creatures vanished into the canopy, Caelus Moraine was not the same man who had entered this forest.

  Not anymore.

  The moment stole the air from his lungs, thought from his mind.

  This… wasn’t in the sermons. This wasn’t what he had been taught. This was divine. Not in fire and wrath—but in life. In harmony. In light.

  Magic was supposed to be evil. But this… this felt like a blessing.

  He closed his eyes.

  Just for a moment.

  And let the silence within him bloom.