The command rippled as lightning through the camp. Sol was already moving.

  Caelus followed without being asked to, stunned.

  “Didn’t you say nothing comes into the clearing?” He managed, half-jogging to keep up.

  Sol didn’t look at him. His eyes were locked ahead, posture tight.

  Voice flat. “I also said shit got fucky when the Church got involved with the Towers.”

  A breath.

  “Now you’re here—and ferals are crawling in from the direction of Torr Tenebris.”

  He turned his head just enough to glance back. “Don’t find that suspicious?”

  Caelus’ steps faltered. Just a little.

  The camp shifted around them akin to a machine, alive with terrifying coordination.

  No panic. No screams. No chaos, not even confusion.

  Everyone moved with precision. Roles drilled into the bones. Movement by muscle memory.

  Rangers scrambled onto trees and boulders, bows drawn. Non-combatants slipped into the cave without hesitation.

  This was a camp built in war.

  And war had just come knocking.

  Sol reached the blacksmith’s chest.

  It took both hands to unseal it. When he threw open the lid, Caelus stepped closer—drawn to the strange reverence of it.

  The Mercenary King pulled out weapons unlike anything Cael had ever seen.

  Four—maybe five—discs. Polished silver. Hollow in the center. Shimmering like obsidian and moonlight.

  Not weapons. Not at first glance.

  They looked like jewelry. Or relics. Or something sacred.

  But Caelus knew better.

  He had read of these. Once. Long ago. In a text buried by the Order.

  Chakrams.

  An ancient, dying art. Long lost. A nightmare to master. Too deadly to ignore.

  And Sol wielded five.

  Where did he learn to use those?

  Demonic knowledge?

  Not even ten minutes passed after Solferen stepped into the upper camp again when something attracted his attention.

  Motion. From the trees across the clearing.

  Four shapes.

  Nolan visibly tensed, his ever-present smile gone. Completely wiped from his face. Instead, his movements felt more animalistic than human.

  Caelus felt bile rise in his throat. He saw why.

  These were no beasts. No humans either.

  Fleshshifters.

  Feral. Twisted. Grotesque. Their forms caught halfway through unnatural transformation. Their bodies warped. Eyes too big and round, glossed over with madness. Limbs too long.

  One looked like a bear but taller than a horse—its mouth split too wide, filled with teeth that clicked wetly. Another crouched low, feline and insect-like, its legs bent at wrong angles, face shrouded in fur. The third dripped mucus and saliva, canine in shape but with lolling eyes like silver dinner plates.

  And the fourth—

  The fourth still had a human face.

  Almost.

  Mid-shift. Its jaw hung open wrong. Face elongated in the worst way imaginable. It’s hands were paws and fingers both.

  Sol’s hand lifted, his voice cut through the clearing. “NO ONE COMES CLOSE!”

  He stepped forward. And Nolan matched him stride for stride.

  The usually laughing beast was silent. His gold eye dim. His hammer hung loose at his side.

  And his arms…

  Trembled. Just faintly.

  They stepped in front of the beasts, blocking them off from the camp.

  Then the chakrams flew. They screamed through the air like banshees—whistling, slicing, spinning in orbits that shouldn’t have been possible. Slamming into the beasts with such speed it actually made them wobble.

  One struck the bear-shaped beast in the neck, sending a spray of red into the air—then turned mid-flight, curving in a full circle back to Sol’s waiting hand.

  Another cut through the feline one’s legs—before slamming into the dirt and rebounding as though it had a will of its own.

  And Caelus saw it.

  Not the smirk. Not the swagger.

  Not the campfire jester with his sleeves rolled and his collar undone to his waist.

  He saw Solferen fight.

  Truly fight.

  Not to win.

  Not to impress.

  But to kill.

  And it was awful.

  Not messy. Not brutal.

  Effortless.

  His movements flowed—too smooth, too fast, too certain.

  Not poetry. Not even war. Something colder. Older.

  Like the violence came first, and Sol was just shaped around it.

  Caelus felt it in his chest again.

  Dread.

  Not of what Sol could do to him.

  But of what Sol had done before.

  Of how many times he'd moved just like this.

  And the worst of it all?

  There wasn’t a flicker of joy in it. Not even anger. Only precision.

  As if the blood had always been part of the rhythm.

  Nolan stepped in front of Sol. The beast jumped, his hammer collided with its jaw like a runaway carriage. Bone cracked with a crunch so loud it echoed.

  He didn’t react. He only moved. Cold. Mechanical.

  Like something inside him was cracking too.

  Sol never stopped moving.

  Fluid. Precision in motion.

  Not a speck of blood dared to touch him.

  He spun—discs flying, catching, slicing again.

  Never missing their target.

  Divine. Or demonic. Caelus couldn’t tell, just held his breath.

  But the beasts did not fall back. They barely reacted to pain. If anything, it made their frenzy worse.

  Then the coyote-shaped one leapt.

  A fireball obliterated it mid-air, punching clean through its chest and lighting the grass aflame.

  “YEAH, BITCH!” Ysilla’s shriek of laughter rang from across the clearing echoed by Rish.

  “FUCK YEAH, THAT’S MY GIRL—”

  Another fell, after one of the chakrams slammed into its side. Sol stepped back from it, movements perfectly measured—and before it can rise again, flurry of arrows finished the job for him, piercing its throat.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  It spasmed. Collapsed.

  Cael could swear he heard the wind groan in its wake.

  Nolan smashed the other one through the skull, a firework of blood exploded in his face. He didn’t try to wipe it away. What was the point? It was already inside him. Already his. But the weight of the kill hit him—his grip tightened around the hammer, just a little too much.

  He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t roar, didn’t smile either.

  Last one sneaked too close, unseen from the side of Nolan’s ruined eye.

  It got hit clean through the eye just seconds before it sank its jaws into the shifter.

  Varg’s job. Bow steady. Face cold.

  All four. Gone. Stilled.

  Dead in under a minute.

  But no one cheered. No one moved.

  The blood in the clearing steamed against the cooling grass.

  Anders stepped out, almost as if it was a learned procedure.

  He raised his hands and whispered to the lake. Water obeyed. It slithered across the dirt, washing blood from boots, skin, blades—then lifted, spiraling like a serpent before shooting deep into the forest, away from the camp.

  Purged.

  They wouldn’t risk the infection.

  No one would touch the bodies. The forest will deal with them.

  Caelus hadn’t drawn his blade, but his heart thundered like he had.

  He saw Thornvale before the water reached him. Saw him as he was in that moment.

  Hair matted with gore. Eyes ringed in shadow, gaze darting around. Blood soaked into every line of his face—grief etched in red.

  And beside him—Sol, untouched. Still radiant. Still shimmering with lake mist and divine precision.

  It didn’t feel fair.

  The battle was over. But the air hung heavy. The world hadn’t exhaled yet.

  And Nolan… hadn’t moved.

  He stood by the edge of the clearing, hammer still in hand, bloodless now but trembling faintly in his grip. His eyes—once so bright, so obnoxiously gold and warm—looked hollow.

  He hadn’t smiled.

  Not since the beasts entered the campgrounds.

  Caelus noticed.

  And Sol did too.

  He approached without a word. Quiet. No grin, no sarcasm, just steady steps. When he reached Nolan, he placed a hand at the back of his neck—a solid, anchoring grip, thumb pressing into the tense muscle there like he could hold him together.

  “Hey,” Sol murmured, low and real. “You were brilliant.”

  Nolan didn’t answer. His jaw flexed.

  Sol’s voice dropped even softer. “Held the line like a damn mountain. You kept them all out. Kept the camp safe.”

  Caelus blinked.

  Sol didn’t usually say things like that. Or so he thought.

  A breath, two of silence. The shifter’s face soured.

  Finally, Nolan cracked.

  He pressed a palm to his mouth. His shoulders trembled, and when he spoke, it came out like a confession. “I saw my face in one of them.”

  Sol didn’t move.

  Nolan swallowed. “I looked like that. I could be that.”

  A silence fell over the campfire circle forming around them.

  Caelus stepped closer. Not out of habit. Just… because it was Nolan.

  “You’re not like them,” he said quietly. He couldn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth.

  Neither did Nolan. He didn’t turn to look at him.

  “How do you know?” He whispered. “How do any of you know I won’t wake up one day and forget how to be me?”

  Cael took a breath. Stepped forward fully.

  “Because if that ever happens—” he said, voice low, steady, a little sharp with emotion, “—we’ll fight for you.”

  Nolan blinked.

  Caelus’ brows furrowed. “We’ll hold you down. We’ll remind you who you are. And if it ever comes to the worst…”

  “Then we’ll kill you, obviously.” Sol interrupted. His voice was not as serious as his statement.

  Nolan let out a weak, broken laugh. “That’s not funny.”

  Sol met his eyes, small sentimental smile on his lips. “No. It’s not. But you won’t make us do it. I trust you.”

  Cael glared at Sol judgmentally, then added. “I’ve seen men lose their minds. You haven’t. Not once. You’re still you.”

  He knew he had no right to say that. Not after being here for less than a month. But it didn’t seem to matter right now.

  Nolan’s lips parted. His breath hitched.

  His shoulders fell, finally, a slow release of tension.

  Then Sol chimed in—softly, still serious.

  “He’s right.” He squeezed Nolan’s neck once more. “You’re scared. That’s how I know you’re still fighting.”

  There was a moment.

  A full beat.

  Then from the side—Varg arrived, hauling two cold mugs and a pouch of something fried and crunchy. He shoved them into Nolan’s hands with zero ceremony.

  “You’re coming to sit down,” he stated. “And if you don’t, I’ll bridal-carry your sweaty ass.”

  “I’m fine,” Nolan muttered.

  “You’re not. Sit down before I lick your cheek like a dog.” The elf threatened.

  “I would pay to see that,” Rish hissed, expression somewhere between confusion and intrigue.

  “Disgusting. But seconded.” Ysilla added.

  Bella waved Nolan over like he was late to a birthday party. Killeon threw a pillow down. Anders added a drink to the pile with quiet precision. Even Rovena glanced up from her braid and tilted her head in what might’ve been concern.

  It was a family response.

  Tactile. Loud. Honest.

  And Nolan… let it happen.

  He sat.

  They handed him snacks. A drink. Bella shoved a soft fruit at his chest. Rish stole his beer but cuddled him like he was the last source of warmth in the world. Someone wrapped a blanket over his shoulders—he didn’t know who. But he let it happen.

  The fire cracked.

  Nolan rubbed his eyes. Then finally muttered, “I’m scared every day.”

  Everyone fell still.

  “Some mornings, I wake up and I can’t tell if I’m me or the thing that bit me. Like the line’s blurred. Like it’d be easier to give in and let it happen.”

  No one spoke.

  Then Caelus, again—quieter this time.

  “That’s why you’re stronger than any of us.”

  Nolan blinked at him.

  “…That was the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Don’t expect it to happen again,” Cael scowled immediately.

  Laughter.

  Sol, finally smirking again, raised his mug in toast. “To our feral bastard.”

  Rish cheered, “To the softest monster I know.”

  “To the only one brave enough to not run from himself,” Killeon echoed in a low voice.

  Nolan’s lip quivered.

  He took a swig of beer.

  Smiled. Just a little.

  “Thanks,” he said. “All of you. Really.”

  Caelus looked around.

  At the circle.

  At the hands passing snacks, the feet brushing ankles under blankets, the firelight dancing in too many different colored eyes.

  Rish let out a wheezing laugh. Anders stole a berry from Bella’s bowl and she elbowed him. Nolan was mimicking Gorrath’s accent with dramatic flair while Varg rolled his eyes.

  At the way they moved like a unit. A pack.

  Cael almost smiled. Almost. The temptation clawed at him—brief, terrible.

  To lean back. To laugh too.

  And that’s when it hit him.

  He hadn’t felt alone in hours.

  He was in it.

  Not tolerated. Not watched. Not even questioned. Allowed. Included.

  Part of it.

  And somehow… that was the most terrifying thing of all.

  It settled wrong in his chest.

  Too warm. Too free.

  The weight returned. He remembered Lucen’s voice. Remembered the mission.

  No.

  He was here for a purpose. For the Church.

  He crushed the warmth in his chest like a bug.

  He is not one of them. Never will be.

  But the evening wore on.

  The camp breathed in the night, embers pulsing with the sluggish heartbeat of something vast and unseen. The smell of iron and damp earth clung to the air, the murmurs of men too accustomed to blood carried through thin canvas walls. Blankets shifted. Someone sang. A pot clattered faintly in the distance.

  The alert eased.

  Caelus sat apart, staring at the embers, their glow dimming into red veins of heat.

  No one noticed when he stood.

  No one asked where he went.

  The clearing exhaled. The sky deepened.

  And Caelus walked—silent and stiff, a man heading toward punishment he didn’t yet understand.

  Toward the only place that ever felt honest.

  The lake had called him, though he had not known it until he arrived.

  It lay before him, vast and silvered beneath the moon, its stillness untouched by the filth of the world. For a moment, he simply stood there, drinking in the quiet. Hidden between the trees.

  He told himself it was the silence.

  Told himself it was the cool air.

  Told himself it was nothing.

  Until the surface stirred.

  A figure rose from beneath the surface. Not just a man, but something sculpted, something wrought by divine hands and left to wander the earth.

  Water trailed down dark skin like silver ink, each droplet a jewel, perfectly placed by some unseen master craftsman. It traced the ridges of muscle, the long lines of limbs made for both war and grace, until it disappeared beneath the surface once more.

  The Mercenary King.

  And behind him—

  The stars reflected on the lake, infinite and glittering, making Solferen look like he rose from them. Born of that light. A god clawing his way from the firmament. His white strand of hair clung to his back like comet trail.

  He exhaled. Moved.

  The lake didn't ripple. The world stood still with reverence when the elf straightened.

  The knight could not move either. Something slammed in his chest, too fast.

  Too much.

  He didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to.

  His throat felt dry, his lungs strangely tight. Something lurched inside him, unfamiliar and unwanted.

  Awe.

  The elf was utterly, terribly beautiful.

  A flicker of color caught Caels’ eye. Streak of pale red in between the shoulder blades.

  The scar.

  His gaze snapped to it. Clear. Unmistakable.

  Right there. Across Sol’s back—where the sword had gone in.

  The one from the vision.

  The one he felt.

  His stomach twisted.

  Visions flashed again—pain. A statue. A blade. The water. The light.

  His knees buckled just slightly—he caught himself with a sharp breath, hand clutching at his armor, half-expecting blood. Half-certain he’d find it.

  There was none.

  Just panic.

  Sol turned.

  And their eyes met.

  Something in his gaze shimmered. A sun caught in eclipse. Bright and molten and ancient. Dark amusement flickering in his eyes like the first sparks of wildfire about to consume everything in its path.

  The elf did not flinch, did not reach for modesty. Instead, he stood, unabashed and unapologetic, letting himself be seen, the corner of his lips almost—almost—curling. Not a smirk. Not a grin. Something... quieter. Something infuriating.

  He knew. He knew Caelus was watching.

  He liked it.

  Cael’s whole body ignited.

  Swivet. White-hot. Vicious. Eating him from the inside.

  Run.

  His feet obeyed before his mind did, turning sharply, retreating, heat clawing up his neck, burning into his ears, his cheeks.

  Fool. Fool. Idiot. Sinner.

  His breath was uneven, his pulse betraying him by hammering against his ribs like an overzealous blacksmith’s mallet.

  He didn’t stop until the trees swallowed him. Didn’t stop until the lake was a rumor behind him and the sky was hidden by leaves.

  Caelus collapsed to his knees behind the tents, clawing at his collar, breathing in deep lungfuls of air as the overwhelming sensations abated.

  The image burned behind his eyes.

  The scar. The water. The silence.

  Solferen.