The knight flinched. Warmth splashed across his face.

  Time slowed.

  The temple was ruined.

  Caelus had seen ruin before. He had fought in it, walked through it, buried his comrades beneath it. But this ruin was different—this was not the destruction of war, nor the slow decay of time.

  This was a sacrilege, the kind that made his chest tight and his hands shake.

  Once, this place was a holy sanctuary—white marble pillars stretching toward the heavens, golden light pouring through broken stained glass, the echoes of prayers still lingering in the air.

  Now, it was defiled.

  By him.

  Solferen stood at the center of it all, barefoot on the temple’s sacred floor, blood dripping lazily down his throat in thick, sticky rivulets.

  The gaping wound across his neck was already closing, slowly, but not before more of that unnatural dark blood spilled across the pristine stone.

  It pooled at his feet, staining the altar’s edge where he leaned against it—where he mocked the gods themselves before slicing his own throat open with his own hands.

  Cael’s mind refused to comprehend what he just witnessed.

  He staggered back a step, breath caught in his chest. The blood was too warm. Too close. As though it belonged to him instead.

  Solferen watched him with those impossibly dark, unreadable eyes, tilting his head just slightly, as if amused by the knight’s horror.

  A breathless laugh escaped his lips. He dropped the knife, arms loose at his sides, like a man relieved.

  For the first time in his life, Caelus did not know how to pray.

  “What—” His voice was a hoarse, barely audible whisper over the deafening thrum of his own pulse. “What are you?”

  Sol grinned.

  And the templar had never seen anything more terrifying.

  “Hm?” Sol hummed, stepping forward with a lazy grace, the movement all wrong.

  He stopped in front of Cael, looking at him like one would look at something piteous. “What’s the matter, knight? Cat got your tongue?”

  His fingers reached out—almost touched Cael’s jaw.

  The knight jerked back. His heart lurching into his throat so hard he barely contained a retch.

  Sol laughed again. Quiet. Dark. Pleased.

  “Hah. That’s a new look on you.”

  Caelus hand gripped tight around the hilt, hard enough that leather creaked in protest.

  Sol saw it. And smiled wider.

  “What’s wrong, holy man?” His voice was low and sweet—a sin offered in a prayerhouse. “Didn’t like the show?”

  Cael's breath ragged, his stomach twisting. His body was still warm from where Sol’s blood soaked through his tunic, through the gaps in his armor, too hot against his skin.

  His pulse thundered against the cage of his ribs, and he was suddenly, horribly aware that it was not just revulsion making his head swim.

  He wanted to kill him.

  He needed to.

  But his body… wouldn't move.

  “You—” Caelus choked, fury rising, shame scorching him alive.

  “You’re an abomination.”

  Sol’s expression didn’t change. If anything, he leaned in closer, breath warm, smile still curved in that infuriating, terrifying way.

  “That’s all?”

  Something inside Caelus snapped.

  He lunged.

  His hand slammed to Solferen’s throat—the very place he had just carved open—and shoved him hard against the cracked altar. Marble met bone with a brutal thud, but Sol didn’t resist. He just let it happen.

  And laughed.

  Delighted.

  “Ah,” he breathed, eyes half-lidded, “there you are.”

  Caelus pressed harder. His breath frantic. His mind screamed to finish it, to kill this thing while he still could.

  But Sol just looked at him with an expression Caelus did not understand.

  “What will your god do, knight…” Sol whispered, “when you fail to kill me?”

  White-hot rage blanked his vision.

  The sword was in his hand. He didn’t remember drawing it.

  “Let’s find out,” Caelus snarled.

  And with one clean motion, he slashed.

  The blade bit deep.

  Blood exploding in a sharp spray.

  Sol staggered back—neck torn, mouth dripping red. His head bobbed awkwardly to the side.

  For a moment, Caelus thought he had done it—thought he had struck down this thing, this unholy mockery of life itself.

  But unfortunately—

  His head snapped back into the place with an awful click. The Beast laughed again. Joyful. Something that should not be heard in a place like this.

  In a situation like this.

  His voice was wrecked, bubbling through the blood in his throat, but still—he laughed as his fingers clutched at the gaping wound. But not to stop it—no, just to feel it.

  He liked it.

  Cael’s knees nearly gave. He gripped the pillar beside him, chest heaving, bile rising.

  The abomination straightened, just slightly, lazily.

  “And still,” he rasped, voice torn to shreds, “no answer.”

  The templar stared, horror sinking in, his breath coming fast and shallow. His mouth opened. No sound came. His grip slackened.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Sol—this thing—this unnatural creature—

  It was still standing.

  It was still smiling.

  And Caelus suddenly realized—

  He has never been more afraid in his life.

  His hand is still clenched tight around his sword, but it was trembling violently, the tip dipped toward the floor, no longer raised for another strike.

  A crack in his composure, small but delicious.

  Sol tilted his head, blinking slowly as if registering the sensation of his own body barely holding together. His hand lifted from his throat, fingers sticky and slick with blood, glistening in the temple's dim light. He looked down at it, at the deep crimson staining his skin, then back up at the knight—

  And smiled. Warm. Fond.

  “Look at you.” He rasped. His voice was ruined. His smile wasn’t.

  “Shaking like a sinner in the house of God.”

  The knight didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  Didn’t strike.

  And Sol saw it all.

  He saw the break.

  The hesitation.

  The storm in his chest.

  He exhaled through his nose.

  “No killing blow?” He murmured, stepping forward. “Shame. Here I was, hoping for peace at last.”

  Caelus should’ve stepped back. Should’ve retreated.

  He didn’t.

  His mistake.

  A slow, wicked grin spread across Sol’s face.

  Oh, this was interesting.

  “Scared?” He husked. “You should be.”

  And then, just to make sure the templar never knew peace again—

  Sol reached down. Took Cael’s hand.

  Blood was still slick and glistening like rubies.

  He brought it between them, raised it to his lips, curling his fingers tight around his wrist. Feeling the wild thunder of his pulse.

  And licked.

  Slow.

  Keeping his eyes locked on the man, never breaking that awful, awful eye contact—

  Cael stopped breathing.

  Completely.

  His body locked up, every muscle drawn tight, eyes wide, chest heaving in silent horror. Every nerve in his body screamed.

  Sol watched his expression closely, searching for the break—

  There.

  That slight widening of the eyes, that momentary loss of breath, that flicker of something that is not just fear.

  Sol dragged his tongue along the bloodied, gauntleted knuckles, lips parting slightly, humming low in his slit throat.

  “Mmm,” he sighed, “I do love the taste of devotion.”

  Cael ripped his hand away like he’d touched a pyre.

  Staggered back. Fell.

  His armor hit the floor with a wet, horrible sound, the blood beneath him still warm.

  And Sol?

  He just stood there.

  Watching him.

  Grinning.

  Thrilled expression of someone who has seen everything they needed to see.

  Because now he knew.

  This knight—this holy man, this devout, furious, faithful creature—

  Was already falling.

  Without a word, Solferen turned and walked away. Leaving trailing deep red like a ribbon behind him.

  Leaving the knight in the ruins.

  In silence.

  Caelus didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

  His whole body were rooted to the stone. Petrified like a statue at the foot of a desecrated god.

  His eyes locked on the blood.

  The altar.

  His own shaking hands.

  It didn’t feel like his body anymore.

  The silence crushed down on him.

  No birdsong. No wind. Not even breath.

  Only that awful, high ringing in his ears—the sound of something breaking.

  Maybe it was him.

  His knees locked.

  His lungs refused to move.

  He couldn't feel his hands anymore.

  He was still gripping the sword.

  Caelus stumbled, vision tunneling.

  Out of the desecrated temple.

  Out of the ruin.

  Out into the dying light.

  The light was wrong. Too gold. Too warm for the things he had seen.

  It felt like blasphemy.

  He walked like a man half-sunken in tar.

  Every step unsteady. Every breath a warning.

  The blood on his skin hadn’t cooled yet. It clung to his chest, dark and sticky in the seams of his armor. It clung beneath his nails. In his hair.

  Every step sounded too loud. Like a funeral drum. Like he was walking himself into his own grave.

  His lungs pulled a breath—but it didn’t feel right.

  Too shallow. Too dry.

  His mouth tasted of metal.

  Of blood.

  Of him.

  The scent of it trailed behind him like incense in a burial procession.

  He passed the corpse of the beast—whatever it had once been.

  It was only meat now. Melted, ripped apart.

  Its blood pooled in a smear of blackened moss and scorched roots.

  He didn’t look twice.

  He followed the trail.

  Footprints in the moss. Bare. Bloody. Uneven.

  Sol was ahead.

  Still moving.

  Still alive.

  How?

  One moment Cael was staring at gore dripping from his knuckles.

  The next, he was among the trees, half-hidden in the shadow of campfires, breath still short, chest still tight.

  He didn’t remember walking.

  Didn’t remember anything.

  His hand twitched, then curled tighter around the sword again.

  He hadn’t let go.

  He stood there.

  Watching.

  Frozen.

  A man waiting for judgment. Like if he moved, the world might shatter for real this time.

  Sol emerged from the trees ahead of him.

  And for a moment, Caelus stopped existing altogether.

  Because he looked dead. A corpse walking.

  Slumped forward, arms heavy, neck bent at a grotesque angle, as if he couldn’t quite remember where it belonged.

  Blood. Blood everywhere. His clothes were slick with it, the gash across his throat struggling to close.

  Bone. Muscle. Glimpses of things no man should see and survive. He looked like something that had crawled out of a grave and decided it wasn’t done yet.

  And yet—

  Solferen walked.

  Slowly. Unevenly. But walked.

  Caelus felt the world tilt sideways.

  He did that.

  He did that.

  A wave of cold swept down his back, and he couldn’t tell if it was shame or fear.

  His stomach twisted.

  The bile rose in his throat again.

  What will he tell the Church?

  What will he tell the Pope?

  Will they even believe him?

  His palms were still sticky.

  Sol’s blood hadn’t dried yet.

  The weight of it sat on his hands like a verdict.

  Then—

  “FOR FUCK’S SAKE, SOL!”

  The voice tore through the camp as a thundercrack.

  Caelus flinched.

  Even the mercenaries—soldiers hardened by death and cruelty—backed away like children caught stealing.

  A lithe figure stormed through the tents.

  White-haired. Crimson-robed. Regal like a noble, dangerous like a blade.

  The Pale Elf.

  Cael recognized him dimly—had seen him around the camp. The aloof ghost who always lingered at the edge of firelight.

  Not now.

  Now he was wrath.

  Sol, despite being two steps from actual death, had the audacity to roll his eyes.

  “Don’t start, Dal…” he rasped, voice cracked and half-shredded.

  The Pale Elf reached him in two strides.

  And Solferen crumpled.

  Just like that.

  His legs gave out.

  His body folded like a marionette with cut strings.

  Dal caught him—barely—and hissed like he was too angry to even curse properly.

  He didn’t shout.

  Didn’t panic.

  He just grabbed Sol by the arm and began dragging him toward the tents.

  A sound escaped Cael’s throat.

  Not a gasp.

  Not a word.

  Something like panic.

  Demons don’t collapse.

  So what had he just killed?

  Had he killed him?

  The sword trembled in his hand.

  If the camp finds out—

  If they realize he did this—

  They’ll execute him.

  Not with ceremony. Not with chains.

  They’ll tear him limb from limb and throw what’s left to the forest.

  Run.

  His body screamed it.

  Move. Move. Move.

  But he couldn’t.

  The roots of the trees curled around his boots like shackles.

  Suddenly—

  The elf looked up.

  Eyes sharp and blinding turquoise.

  They met Cael’s.

  A direct hit.

  Caelus’ heart stopped.

  Caught. Red handed.

  He was going to die.

  Now.

  Here.

  Elf’s stare was long. Measuring. Weighing his life.

  It wasn’t fury in his eyes. It was worse. Disappointment.

  Like he’d almost broken something ancient and delicate.

  But then he sighed, mouth twisted in mild displeasure.

  “Don’t do it again.”

  Not a death sentence.

  Not a command.

  Just a scolding.

  As if he’d caught him sneaking food before supper.

  Dal turned away.

  Dragging Sol’s unconscious body through the grass like it was normal.

  Routine.

  Like this happened before.

  Caelus didn’t move.

  Didn’t blink.

  He stood in the dark.

  Body still shaking violently.

  Armor stained with blood not his own. The weight of Sol’s laughter still echoing in his ears.

  And no one came.

  No one looked at him.

  No one screamed.

  No one asked what he’d done.

  He stayed there long after they vanished into the tents.

  Alone.

  His knees aching. His shoulders stiff. His thoughts—

  Unraveling.

  The world didn’t feel real anymore.

  The Mercenary King had died.

  He saw it.

  Saw the throat split open.

  Saw the life drain from his eyes.

  Saw him collapse.

  He killed him.

  And no one mourned.

  No one reacted.

  They just… carried on.

  Like it meant nothing.

  Like he meant nothing.

  Caelus took one step back. Then another. His back hit a tree.

  He clutched at the bark, breath uneven.

  Maybe he didn’t kill him.

  Maybe he imagined the whole thing.

  Maybe the temple wasn’t real. Maybe he wasn’t real.

  The air was too loud. The sounds warped and echoed.

  His heartbeat too sharp.

  He looked down at his palms—

  Still stained. Still trembling.

  And for a moment, a brief and terrible moment, he wondered if he was still in the woods.

  Still in the temple. Still kneeling at that broken altar with blood on his hands and no god left to answer.

  Maybe none of this was real.

  Maybe he never left.

  Maybe he died there too.

  Not all at once. Just a little. A breath at a time.

  He was still walking—but the man who believed in light had stayed behind. Kneeling in blood.

  The thought landed with a killing blow.

  And when he finally moved—when he turned and stumbled into the dark, away from the firelight, the tents, the people laughing in the distance—

  It wasn’t faith guiding him anymore.

  It was dread.