The ‘elf’ once again appeared out of nowhere, silent, seamless. The men were too busy blathering with the red-haired vixen to notice until it was too late. He placed a gentle hand on her back—not low enough to be improper, but with the ease of someone who didn’t need permission.

  She turned to face him instantly, eyes lighting up.

  The templars did not share her joy. They backed away without thinking, shoulders stiff, eyes downcast.

  “Sol!” She beamed, voice ringing like distant chimes. She made little cutesy half-twists with her body, playful and coy.

  So that’s his name.

  “You’re off to town, right? Mind grabbing a few things for me?” Her smile was easy, utterly relaxed in his presence.

  Sol inclined his head in polite acknowledgment. “Tell Dal about it. He’s making a list.”

  “Thanks, hun! Will do.” She left with a spring in her step wiggling her fingers at the men with a cheeky smile tossed over her shoulder.

  Awkward silence hung over them. Again.

  Sol was the first to break it. He didn’t dignify Caelus with so much as a blink before letting his gaze scan lazily over the rest of men.

  “You guys alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  There it was again. That annoying grin.

  The knights exchanged uncertain glances before one of them hesitantly muttered, “We thank you, Mercenary King. For the hospitality.”

  “Ah! How refreshing!” He clapped his hands, all exaggerated delight. “The pleasure is mine, church boys.”

  And then, slowly turning to Caelus—

  “It seems even your men have more manners than you, Commander.”

  Caelus wished his glare could burn holes. Sol didn’t care.

  “Now then, as much as I love the title, feel free to call me Sol.” A parody of a curtsy, too elegant to be anything but deliberate mockery. Everything about this man—his words, his gestures—felt like a joke at Caelus’ expense.

  He said nothing, but the heat creeping up his neck was enough to betray him.

  Needless to say, none of the men would dare to speak to him directly, much less address the creature by name.

  Elf’s smirk didn’t waver. “We move out it ten.”

  Without another word, he disappeared into the camp’s depths.

  Caelus exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He needed to stay calm.

  The knights behind him were already shifting, tension loosening at the prospect of finally leaving this place. A few exchanged hushed words, others straightened their armor with practiced hands, as if reinforcing their sense of duty after the past day’s humiliations.

  The red-haired woman had reappeared, weaving through the mercenaries before stopping near them, all smiles and easy charm.

  “Try not to die, boys.” Her voice lilted in mock blessing, lips curving playfully.

  One of the knights, a boy with milky skin and too many beauty spots, muttered an awkward “May the Light of Aurenos guide you,” before promptly turning red.

  Caelus sighed.

  Of course.

  His eyes darted to the poor fool.

  Ah, a younger one.

  Wide-eyed, stiff-backed, suddenly very interested in adjusting his gauntlets.

  “Focus,” Caelus muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. He had no time for this. None of them did.

  Calm and collected.

  Stay calm and collected.

  The faith demands it.

  Moments later a crunch of boots on dirt signaled Sol’s return. He strode back toward them with effortless ease, a piece of neatly folded paper in one hand.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Varg followed beside him, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

  Right…

  Because the gods weren’t finished tormenting Caelus yet.

  Anders trailed just behind—expression unreadable, hands tucking his shoulder-length blond hair behind his ear like he had no stake in any of this.

  Sol motioned ahead, seemingly uninterested in whether they followed or not. “Let’s go.”

  The sun had crested the horizon, its golden light weaving through the leaves as they stepped into the forest’s embrace.

  The walk was practically uneventful—if one were to disregard the Wild Elf’s ceaseless theatrics.

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  This one was basking in what he had done. Emerald eyes aflame at every opportunity. At this point Cael was not sure who’s worse, Sol or him. The mage, however, remained as detached as ever. Even he wasn’t spared from Varg’s relentless needling, though he took it with the same quiet indifference he seemed to handle everything else.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Templar,” Varg’s tone was light, mocking as he whirled around to walk backwards few steps, looking him in the eye. “Don’t tell me you’re still sulking over last night.”

  Caelus didn’t answer.

  Which, of course, only made it worse.

  Ranger’s grin widened.

  “Come on, don’t tell me you’re upset with me. I thought we had fun.” He punched Cael’s shoulder playfully.

  This was the man who led them into that deadly trap—and yet here he was, swaggering like none of it mattered.

  Something inside Caelus snapped.

  “People have died!” His voice came out sharper than intended, seething with fury.

  The words hung in the air like bloodstained linen.

  For a second—just a second—Varg’s grin flickered. And in that briefest moment, something passed through his eyes. Recognition, maybe even guilt. Then he laughed.

  “Oh?” He cocked his head, his raven black wavy hair falling to the side. “Skill issue.”

  Something punched low in Caelus’ gut, like a jolt, not from pain, but fury too fast to swallow. His vision prickled around the edges.

  He clenched his fists, muscles trembling with unspent anger.

  Soldiers died all the time. It was their duty before the Light.

  But it was the flaunt that had him losing his composure.

  “Maybe…” The Wild Elf continued, utterly unbothered, his arms gesturing vaguely, “You shouldn’t have followed me into the forest in all that shiny armor and self-righteousness. You lot practically announced yourselves.”

  Caelus saw red. It took everything in him not to slam his fist into that smug, infuriating face.

  Varg just turned to the mage instead. “Anders, can you believe this? No gratitude at all.”

  The boy sighed. “Leave him alone.”

  “Why should I?” The elf nudged him with an elbow. “You’re soft, that’s why. Daddy’s boy and all that.”

  Caelus barely heard them. His pulse thundered in his ears.

  The faith demands patience. But how much patience must one have for the godless?

  Sol, surprisingly silent through the whole bullying—although his enjoyment was written all over his face—seemed to decide that his subordinate’s face wasn’t worth the risk.

  “Varg,” he dragged the name out lazily. Not sharp. Not harsh. But the weight of his voice is enough.

  The ranger, who had been grinning the whole time, flicked his ears back slightly, like a wolf sensing the shift of his tone. “What? I’m just talking t’our dear templar friend here—”

  “Mhm.” Sol gave him a meaningful side eye.

  “Let the boy breathe, Backstabber. He’s going to lose it before we get to the city.” He stretched, rolling his shoulders as if he’s shaking off long night rest.

  Caelus already opened his mouth to snap something back, but the viper’s gaze finally landed on him, knowing and utterly pleased with himself.

  “We would not want another feral creature roaming through the forest, would we?”

  A pause. “I doubt anyone will survive this one’s holy wrath.”

  Varg snickered. “Tch. Fine, fine.”

  He lifted his hands in surrender. “A little fun didn’t kill nobody, boss.”

  Sol hummed, finally looking away. “Watch out then, you might be the first.”

  Varg shat up. Finally. But Caelus was still seething.

  The Viper toyed with him—and worse, he let his people do the same. There was no discipline here, no order, no respect. Only lawless mockery and unchecked arrogance.

  They knew nothing of manners. Nothing of reverence. Unruly, uncultured brutes—every single one of them.

  And yet, here they stood, untouched. No consequence, no justice. The only reason the Church should be seeking them was for execution.

  The forest pressed in around them, moving as they moved, breathing with them, walking with them. The canopy above was so dense that only fractured slivers of sunlight pierced through, scattering across the moss-covered ground.

  What lay ahead was dimly lit, just enough to see a few steps forward. But behind them? Darkness swallowed the path, inch by inch.

  One of the knights stiffened mid step, glancing over his shoulder. His fingers twitched near his blade.

  “Something is following us…” His voice was low, barely above the whisper, but it carried, making others turn their heads.

  None of the heathens turned.

  They smiled though. Cheerful. Like they just spotted an old friend.

  “Yeah, that happens. He likes to escort us sometime,” Sol said casually.

  Caelus felt the hair on his arms rise. His heartbeat skipped, then doubled. The forest was watching. He knew it now.

  He froze, shooting Sol a sharp look. “Elaborate.”

  The elf glanced back at them, tilting his head as if he’s considering whether to humor them or not. And then, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world—

  “Did you look at him?”

  The knight blanched. “Am I in danger if I looked at him?!”

  Anders, walking ahead, giggled. “But did you see him?”

  Silence.

  The knight swallowed, shaking his head. “No.”

  The boy grinned. Too wide. “Then you should be fine.”

  A pause.

  “As long as you don’t look for him. Chunk does not like that.”

  No further explanation.

  Chunk? They named a freaking abomination.

  Caelus wasn’t sure if that was cruelty… or affection. He didn’t know which was worse.

  The air felt heavier henceforth. The trees seemed taller. Closer. The poor knight didn’t look back again. Not when the trees seem to shift when he wasn’t looking. Not when the silence grew too thick, too expectant. Not when the air itself felt like it’s watching.

  They keep walking.

  Step after step, the forest dragged its claws through time, stretching every second, refusing to let them go easily. Shadows slithered through the canopy, twisting between the gnarled branches, whispering through the leaves.

  After what probably was hours, the tree line broke, akin to stepping through an unseen veil— Blightreach decided to let them out of its iron grip at last. Out to the fields of golden wheat dancing in warmth of midday sun.

  After the woos, it felt like stepping into a dream someone else was having. A dream that would end the moment you blinked.

  The templar squad finally could breathe with full chest once again after what felt like days.

  Before them lay the village of Bellmere, its rooftops nestled against the land as scattered whispers of a simpler life.

  And beyond it, rising against the horizon, stood Cadagar—the heart of the Aureate Empire. A pale colossus of stone and splendor, gleaming like a monument carved from the heavens themselves.

  At last!

  Just a little more, and Caelus would be free once again.

  Just drop the heathen at the cathedral, report to the Church, and this torture will be over.

  That was the mission. Simple. Yet, something gnawed at him, a whisper of doubt he refused to name. His eyes turned to the one leading the way. The Pope’s interest in that Beast unsettled him.

  Why not just kill him like all the others?

  The Mercenary King came to a halt at the villages edge, lifting a hand to stop his men from following. Both of them groaned in protest, grumbling something about boredom, huffing like restless children.

  Caelus watched, perplexed.

  Their dynamic made no sense.

  In his world, there was order. Obedience without question. Structure. Hierarchy. Commands were given, and they were followed.

  This was neither.

  The so-called King bickered with his men as if they were equals, as if they were family. His subordinates had no fear challenging him, rolling their eyes, voicing complaints—yet they followed all the same.

  They obeyed not because they had to, but because they chose to.

  With one last gleam of a smile, Sol set off toward the gates, templar squad on his heels, waving his hand in an easy, almost playful farewell.