Caelus jerked back with a strangled gasp, grasping his neck, stumbling into something solid behind him.

  A hand steadied him.

  The elf barely reacted.

  By the time Cael turned around again—

  The Thing was gone.

  Only a trail of fine red dust remained, ash across Sol’s chest. Still unmoving.

  Still dead.

  Still wrong.

  “First time seeing it, templar?” Dalimor asked, voice quiet. No mockery. No pity. Just… tired.

  Caelus stared at the dust. At Sol.

  His voice barely escaped his lips. “What in the Rot was that.”

  Dal stepped past him, unbothered.

  “That, boy,” he murmured with no theatrics, no flair, only exhausted certainty, “is the closest you’ll ever get to a god.”

  Dal didn’t say it like a sermon. He said it like a diagnosis.

  His pulse was still thunder in his skull. His body felt wrong in its skin.

  “No…” Caelus backed up. Shook his head once, twice. His voice shook with disbelief so deep it felt like marrow peeling from bone. “That—that’s not a god. That’s diabolical.”

  Dal only hummed. “Suit yourself.”

  And with that, he vanished into the tent, his movements disturbing the dust now swirling in lazy curls in the air.

  Unshaken.

  Knowing.

  And that made it worse.

  Cael stood there. Trembling.

  Mind racing. Hands cold.

  That was not a vision.

  That was not a hallucination.

  That was something else.

  Something old.

  Something sacred.

  Something that should not exist.

  No. Couldn’t be. Shouldn’t be. There is no scripture for this, no doctrine that explains what he just saw. Only raw fear.

  He stepped back, as if distance would make it less real. As if denial could rewrite the creed.

  “No. No. That can’t be what I saw. That can’t be real.”

  But it was.

  He could still feel its eyes.

  Like his soul had been scraped raw.

  “What?”

  Varg, passing by, saw the red dust still on Sol’s chest, saw the haunted look in Caelus’ eyes.

  He didn’t stop. Just smirked sideways and muttered. “You gonna pray about it too?”

  No blade had touched him, but something deeper had.

  The blood drained from Caelus’ face.

  The Church.

  The Pope.

  The Mission.

  He hasn’t reported in days. Maybe longer. A week? More?

  What day even is it?

  What has he been doing?

  Oh Light.

  He forgot.

  They’ll think he deserted. They’ll think he abandoned the mission.

  He abandoned the mission.

  He forgot his vows. His duty. His purpose.

  And now he’s knee-deep in the Demon’s camp.

  He had seen something.

  Something unholy.

  And still—

  Still, no one else seemed afraid.

  Still, they missed him.

  Caelus didn’t go back to his tent.

  He didn’t know where he was walking.

  The camp blurred past him—fires flickering, voices murmuring in the distance, laughter soft and far away like it belonged to another world.

  He found himself by the lake.

  Still. Moonlit.

  He sat on a rock and stared into the water until his eyes blurred.

  The reflection staring back wasn’t his own.

  The red fog still clung to the edge of his vision. The thing on Sol’s chest. Those hollow eyes.

  He blinked.

  The lake was empty.

  But sleep? Sleep wouldn’t come.

  Not that night.

  He lay in his cot, armor stripped, tunic damp with sweat, medallion clenched so hard it cut into his skin again.

  The tent felt too small.

  The shadows too loud.

  And that… thing—the one that looked like Sol but starved of soul—kept flashing behind his eyes. Its hair, its crouch, its silence.

  He didn’t dream. But he still woke up in a cold sweat.

  The next morning, he tried to keep still.

  Tried.

  But Sol was still unconscious.

  The red dust was still on that cot.

  And the camp was still treating it like this was fine.

  Caelus snapped.

  He stormed up to the nearest mercenary—a man tending stew.

  He had no idea the world was ending.

  “I need an escort out of this forest,” Cael demanded.

  The man, lazily stirring his pot, didn’t even look up. “No thanks.”

  Caelus’ voice sharpened. “That wasn’t a request.”

  “Yeah? Neither was my answer.” He nodded solemnly.

  His jaw locked. He turned to another mercenary—this one sharpening a blade nearby.

  “You. Take me to the city.”

  “Nope.” The man glanced up, unimpressed.

  “Why not?” The templar hissed, wild.

  “Not my job.” The merc replied matter-of-factly.

  “I HAVE TO REPORT BACK.” Caelus almost recoiled from how desperate his voice sounded.

  The second merc raised a brow. “Then do your job.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “THAT IS WHAT I’M TRYING TO DO.” Cael all but yelled.

  A third voice chimed in—this one far too amused. “Nah, see, you got it twisted. Sol took the contract.”

  The man smirked. “You’re his responsibility now.”

  Caelus stiffened, gaze fixed, unblinking. “What?”

  “Wait till he wakes up or something.” The merc shrugged.

  Cael stared at them.

  Then turned to glance toward the tent. Toward Solferen.

  Still unconscious. Still unmoving.

  He turned back.

  “You want me to wait… for the dead man to wake up?”

  “Oh, he ain’t dead.” They beamed.

  Caelus gestured at Sol’s limp form. “Are you sure about that?”

  A long pause.

  “…Pretty sure.”

  Cael had never wanted to scream more in his life.

  Time became slippery.

  He didn’t know how many days had passed since the Mercenary King collapsed.

  He tried to be rational.

  He tried to pray.

  He tried to sleep.

  Failed at all of it.

  More than once, he stood outside Dalimor’s tent, staring at the unmoving form on the cot. That red mark was still there on his chest like dried ink. A warning. A seal.

  “He's dead,” Cael whispers one night, to no one but himself. “And I killed him.”

  Except no one else seems to think that.

  Instead, they joked.

  Killeon slapped his back on the way to the training field.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be up aaany day now. I know him. Can’t keep that bastard down.”

  Caelus stared at him, horrified.

  “What shade whispers behind your eyes?” He muttered.

  They laughed.

  To them, it's when.

  To him, it's if.

  He tried to sneak onto a departing trader’s cart.

  Got caught halfway in the crates, legs dangling.

  “Out.” The trader’s gaze drifted past him like he was furniture. Ugly furniture.

  “You're not even good cargo.”

  Shooed like a stray cat.

  He tried to bargain with Rish.

  “Take me to the capital. I’ll make it worth your time.”

  She snorted. “I like having my spine intact, thanks. You know what Sol would do to me?”

  Bella? “Absolutely not.”

  Varg? “Do I look suicidal to you?”

  No allies.

  Only walls.

  By now, the jokes were a daily thing.

  Someone called him “Sol-slayer” in passing.

  He was cornered by three mercs arguing about whether Sol will wake up hungry or hungry.

  He tried to walk away—he really did.

  But someone said, "Hey, Templar, if he is dead, do you get to wear the crown now or what?"

  Cael exploded.

  “HE DID THAT HIMSELF!” he yelled, voice cracking with fury. “I just helped him since he was so damn eager to die!”

  Silence.

  Pin-drop silence.

  And then—

  A voice from behind. The one he thought he would never hear again.

  Smooth. Softly mocking.

  Too warm. Too intimate.

  Whole again.

  “So it was kindness, then?” Low, silken chuckle. So different to that gurgling laugh that still ringed in his ears at night.

  “Funny... It felt like you enjoyed the violence, Moraine.”

  Blood drained from knight’s face.

  His whole body locked up like he'd just been pierced through the spine.

  For a split second, the voice wasn’t coming from Sol—it was coming from the thing on his chest.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  That voice was dead.

  That man was dead.

  He died.

  He turned—slowly, like he was seeing a ghost.

  There he is.

  The Mercenary King.

  The abomination.

  Alive.

  Standing outside Dal’s tent, bathed in low light as if he’d never bled a day in his life.

  Hair damp, skin too pale, eyes too bright.

  The scar on his throat glistened like silk ribbon, slicing straight across in a precise line.

  A mark. A sentence. A signature.

  Cael’s stomach dropped.

  This is it.

  He’s going to kill me.

  He's going to make a scene, drag me out into the clearing, pay me back inch by inch for what I did—

  The others are going to watch. Laugh. Let him do it.

  He’s going to slit my throat and no one will stop him—

  Cael stared.

  Flashbacks slammed into him as waves.

  The blood. The temple. The laughter.

  The warmth of it on his hands.

  Sol took one step forward.

  Cael staggered a step back, heart hammering—almost fell.

  But Sol caught him.

  Just two fingers, curled casually into the collar of his tunic, like a lover pulling someone close.

  It wasn’t a threat. That made it so much worse.

  He touched him like something beloved. Like something his.

  Caelus flinched, not from the grip, but from how soft it was.

  It should have been from fear.

  “Careful,” Sol purred. “Wouldn’t want you running off and catching a conscience.”

  Caelus blinked.

  What.

  What?

  The elf leaned in a little further, head tilted, green viper eyes gleaming with something far worse than malice—interest.

  Flirting?!

  This is not happening.

  Caelus didn’t answer.

  His eyes were locked on that scar.

  That perfect, surgical reminder of what he did.

  “Enjoying your love marks, maestro?” The Beast smiled with pure delight.

  Knight’s eyes widened, mouth agape.

  He shoved him away, stumbling back, heat rising like a fever from his chest to his ears.

  And bolted.

  Because honestly?

  Death would've been easier.

  Cael ran.

  He didn’t look back.

  He didn’t have to.

  He could still feel it—the eyes on his back.

  Burning. Knowing. Amused.

  The scar.

  That damned scar. He could still see it, bright and clean. A blade’s kiss, cutting across Sol’s throat. Proof of everything he couldn’t explain.

  He’d killed that man. Watched the blood spill. Watched him fall.

  And now—?

  Now he was smirking at him like it was some kind of private joke.

  The camp erupted behind him.

  Cheers. Shouts. Footsteps pounding against the dirt.

  “HE’S AWAKE!”

  “He’s alive?!”

  “TOLD YOU!”

  “OY, I WIN THE BET—PAY UP!”

  Rish shoved through the crowd like a thunderstorm in boots, cackling.

  “MY FAVORITE WARCRIMINAL RETURNS!”

  Ysilla’s voice cut sharper than steel.

  “IF YOU COLLAPSE ON ME AGAIN, I SWEAR—!”

  But Cael didn’t hear the rest.

  He was still running.

  His feet didn’t know where they were going.

  He just needed away.

  Away from the laughter.

  From the blood.

  From him.

  His legs carried him past the edge of the camp, past the firelight, into the trees—and then—

  CRACK.

  His shoulder slammed into bark. The pain made him gasp.

  He stumbled, caught himself, collapsed to his knees with a sharp breath and a hand pressed against his chest.

  His gut twisted as if someone had reached in and squeezed.

  The world spun like a drunken carousel.

  Not because of the running.

  Not because of the crash.

  Because—because—

  He wasn’t dead.

  Sol wasn’t dead.

  He should’ve been.

  Cael had watched it. Felt the sword in his hand. Felt the blood hit his face. Felt the horror, the guilt, the fear.

  He should be relieved.

  He should be grateful.

  He should be—

  Terrified.

  That was it.

  Just fear.

  Just shock.

  Nothing else.

  So why was he breathing easier?

  He leaned forward, forehead against his fists, pressed into dirt and moss and damp leaves—

  “You’re a demon. That’s all. Just a demon.”

  He whispered it again. Just to hear the words out loud. Just to make them real. But they tasted like a lie.

  The silence didn’t answer.

  No divine voice.

  No righteous thunder.

  Only the distant sound of laughter echoing from camp.

  Sol’s laughter.

  It didn’t sound cruel.

  It sounded like home.

  Cael shut his eyes tighter.

  He was just—

  Relieved.

  That he’s still alive. That he can go back to church now. That he does not have to explain to the Pope that he killed the one he hired.

  That’s all.

  His hands were still shaking.

  Faintly. Quietly. But shaking all the same.

  The bark of the tree dug into his shoulder, grounding him. Maybe. He wasn’t sure anymore.

  There was dirt under his nails.

  None of it felt real.

  He should be angry. He should march back there and demand answers, a reckoning, anything. He should call him an abomination. A deceiver. A cursed revenant sent by something other than God.

  But instead, Caelus just sat there, back against the tree, breath catching in his throat like a broken hymn.

  His sword lay beside him in the grass, untouched.

  For once.

  The wind moved through the trees, cool and low. In the distance, the camp was still alive—cheering, laughing, celebrating. Because their King had risen from the dead.

  And here Cael sat, knees drawn up, fingers digging into soil.

  His chest ached—dull, relentless. Grief lodged under his ribs, pulsing with every breath.

  And the worst part was... he didn’t know why.

  “What the Rot is wrong with me?”

  The question slipped out like a prayer. But no one answered.

  Only the forest—breathing softly, rhythmically, with lungs too large to be human.

  Wind tangled through his hair. The flicker of distant torchlight danced across the trees.

  He curled tighter, arms wrapped around his knees and pressed his face into the cloth of his tunic.

  This is exhaustion.

  This is guilt.

  This is sin catching up.

  He repeated that to himself. Again. And again.

  Until the words lost their meaning.

  One breath. Shaky. Shuddering.

  A hymn sung alone in an empty cathedral.

  And the silence that followed felt too much like mercy.

  He didn’t remember how long he stayed there, curled beneath the trees. Minutes. Hours. The night stretched on as an old wound.

  But eventually… he stood.

  Legs stiff. Mouth dry. The weight in his chest still pressing, but quieter now. Contained.

  He wiped the dirt from his knees and walked back toward the lights.

  Toward the camp. Toward reality, if one could call it that.

  This place was purgatory.

  But it was his purgatory now. His test.

  And if he could just endure a little longer—just a little more madness, a little more blood—then maybe he could finally return to the one place that made sense.

  Back to the Pope. Back to the Church.

  Back to a world that didn’t ask him to feel.