Midday stretched its lazy limbs high in the sky, laving the life below its domain in sticky heat.

  The party rode in silence.

  Not the good kind—the camaraderie kind, the battle-bound kind. This was the suffocating kind. One that filled the air with a pressure Caelus couldn’t name.

  He kept his gaze forward, jaw moving, quick and tense, lips pinched inward. Reins gripped so hard his knuckles ached.

  Sol rode ahead, calm as ever, posture loose. He looked... normal. Serene. Focused on the road, on the path through the thinning woods.

  Cael didn’t understand it.

  He didn’t look at him.

  Not once.

  No teasing glances. No smug comments. Not even a smirk in passing.

  And that—was worse than everything.

  Cael had spent the entire night trembling under the weight of what happened, or, rather, didn’t. Every breath he took had been soaked in memory of that voice. That closeness. That presence.

  He had braced for another storm. Another hunt. Another cruel little game.

  Instead, he got distance.

  And the silence burned more than any words would’ve.

  Sol’s just testing him again, Cael thought.

  This is the next game. He’s ignoring him on purpose. Waiting for him to crack.

  Yes. That’s all.

  It didn’t matter that Sol had barely spoken to anyone. That he was being just as quiet with Nolan, and Varg and even Anders.

  Cael could feel it.

  The difference.

  Something had shifted.

  He was cold.

  Withdrawn.

  Disciplined in a way that felt wrong.

  He should’ve felt relieved.

  But all he felt was... discarded.

  Was it because he pleaded?

  The thought stabbed him out of nowhere.

  Did he make it too easy? Did the demon lose interest because he folded too soon?

  That made no sense. And yet, it fit too well. It nestled into his ribs like something true.

  He told himself he didn’t care.

  He straightened in the saddle, lifted his chin, and kept his eyes fixed ahead.

  It was better this way.

  Holy. Dignified. Silent.

  But his stomach twisted every time Sol chuckled softly at something Nolan said.

  Some bitter part of him missed the barbs. The pressure. The look that could pin him like prey.

  It was stupid. Weak.

  He was used to scorn. To expectation through obedience. To being watched like a weapon—not a person.

  Sol’s cruelty fit that shape.

  Sol’s kindness didn’t.

  That was the part that made his skin crawl.

  Not the danger.

  But the possibility that anything other than that was real.

  And when Varg rode up beside him with a raised brow and muttered, “The vibes are off.” Caelus nearly fell off his horse.

  “I’m fine,” he snapped.

  The elf raised both brows now. “Didn’t ask.”

  Ahead, Sol kept riding.

  Didn’t turn. Didn’t look. Didn’t say a word.

  Killeon’s horse nudged closer to Sol’s. The brothers rode in near-silent rhythm for a few minutes, long enough for the woods to thicken.

  Then, Killeon muttered something.

  Low. Private. Only for Sol’s ears.

  Whatever it was—his expression shifted.

  Not the smirk.

  Something sharper. More animal.

  He bared his teeth like a hissing cat, canines glinting, ears pinned, and smacked the back of Killeon’s head without even looking at him properly.

  Killeon laughed. Not a snicker—an actual laugh. Short, bright, with that distinct younger-sibling smugness that said ‘I know all your buttons, and I’ll press them again.’

  The tension broke for a moment. Nolan chuckled. Anders perked up.

  Even Varg looked vaguely amused.

  The atmosphere lightened.

  Except for Caelus. Who remained utterly, perfectly ignored.

  He gritted his teeth and rode on in silence.

  The road wound through golden brush and rising hill. A slow incline that made his legs ache beneath the saddle.

  It had been over an hour now. Maybe longer. His stomach made a sound. A low, quiet growl—but enough to make his spine snap straight with embarrassment.

  Gods.

  He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t even looked at breakfast. He’d woken late, avoided the main tents, choked on guilt and shame and—

  Damn it.

  He prayed no one heard.

  But of course—fate hated him.

  A shadow moved closer. Sol’s not-horse sidled beside his own. Not fast. Not loud. Just a presence that crept in from the corner of his eye.

  He didn’t look.

  Didn’t breathe.

  Then, without a word, Solferen reached into his saddlebag, pulled something out, and offered it.

  A small parcel. Wrapped neatly in cloth. Tied with a bit of dark red string.

  Cael blinked. Confused.

  He took it. Impulsively. His hand moved on its own.

  Inside—a soft, folded bun. Still warm. Filled with something sweet.

  Not travel rations. Not jerky or bread crusts. This was... a pastry. Something spiced. Comforting.

  Something he shouldn’t have.

  It meant nothing. Just a gesture. A snack. Sol being Sol, whatever he was.

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  But he shouldn’t have accepted it so quickly.

  He shouldn’t have felt that flicker of—

  He shut the thought down before it shaped into anything clear.

  It was easier that way.

  Solferen, retaining condemnable silence, looked ahead again. Expression unreadable. Jaw set. Brows faintly drawn like he was annoyed with himself for even trying.

  He didn’t reach for him. Not anymore.

  Not because he didn’t want to.

  But because he’d finally understood.

  Caelus wasn’t just arrogant, he was wounded.

  With wounds that had been named faith.

  And Sol had too much blood on his hands already to be the next one to cut him.

  So he gave him distance. And kindness, when he could.

  And if Caelus never reached back—

  Then fine.

  Cael stared at the food as though it had just questioned his entire existence. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t argue. Didn’t return it.

  He just... held it.

  And rode on.

  Everything was quiet again. But not in the same way.

  The air was wrong.

  From the moment they passed beneath the weathered wooden arch of the village gate, something shifted. A pressure, invisible but clinging, like the breath before a scream. It made bones itch and instincts tighten.

  The streets were silent—but not the kind of quiet that brought peace. This was the quiet of a body with no heartbeat. Doors barred. Windows shuttered. Not a single stray dog wandered the dust-packed roads.

  Even the wind whispered differently.

  Sol’s fingers twitched at his sides. He felt it—something worse than Blightreach. Something unnatural.

  It reeked of fear.

  The group moved cautiously, boots pressing into dry earth, coaxing dust to swirl underfoot. The only signs of life led them to the tavern.

  And the contrast struck hard.

  Inside, the place was packed—but not alive. More of a last shelter than anything else. Forced laughter. Tense conversation. The guards, slouched in corners, loud and loose-limbed—the only ones truly indulging in their drinks—looked anything but reliable.

  They fanned out. Information trickled in, as thin and wary as the people giving it.

  Eventually, they regrouped in a corner.

  Solferen leaned forward, voice low and sharp. “Everything feels wrong here. I can smell it almost—”

  Nolan huffed a smirk. “That’s just the scent of drunkards and poor choices, my friend.”

  A few chuckles. But the unease didn’t fade.

  Sol’s fingers drummed the table, eyes scanning the tavern. “The people are scared. They say no one goes out after dusk. And those who do… vanish. Just like our refugees said.”

  Caelus frowned, arms crossed. “Vanish?”

  Sol nodded. “Sometimes without a trace. Sometimes, rarely, there’s blood splattered on the walls. A single, bare bone left in the middle of the street.”

  A pause. Weighted and grim.

  “They say the darkness takes them.”

  “Even worse” Nolan spoke. “People aren’t just disappearing. Some of them are still deeper in the village, but they aren’t… right.”

  “And they can’t leave because someone here does nothing to protect the roads. The bandits are way too well-equipped.” Varg added.” Someone’s backing them.”

  Anders exhaled through his nose, gesturing at the drunken heap that was the village guard. “Yeah, no wonder. Look at these sorry fucks! Spending their last pennies on booze. Bet they don’t even step outside when shit happens.”

  That, unfortunately, got them heard.

  A group of guards snapped their heads in their direction, but it was their commander, a burly, red-faced man reeking of ale, who slammed his drink down and stood up, snarling.

  “Oi. Pointy-ear whore—” A voice bellowed behind Sol’s back.

  Every sigh at the table was synchronized.

  “Ah. Here we go,” Killeon muttered, lowering his forehead into his palm.

  The commander stomped toward them, hand already shifting to his belt.

  Then he grabbed Sol by the shoulder.

  And that was a mistake.

  Caelus noticed it first. The rare, terrible moment when Sol didn’t smile. At all. Even his ever-curling corners of the mouth dropped. Gaze void of warmth.

  “Oh, no,” Anders whispered, easing behind Nolan like a rat ducking a broom. “He hates being touched by outsiders...”

  Caelus blinked.

  Did he?

  He thought back to every time he’d seized Sol in fury, and the bastard just smirked.

  But now… Sol wasn’t smirking.

  “Hands. OFF.” Sol growled, quiet and venomous, not even turning to face the perpetrator. “I’m not in the mood today.”

  “And I’m not asking, wench!” The commander sneered, grip tightening. “You should know where to open your mouth.”

  The inuendo was not missed.

  Sol placed his cup on the table, expression calm, brows lifted slightly. And launched. Straight from his seat. The table barely rattled.

  Cael sat back, shocked, arms still crossed. Killeon drank his wine with all the concern of a nobleman watching a street brawl for entertainment.

  Anders was taking bets. “One gold says Sol takes him down in under a minute.”

  “Half that time. That one’s slow and drunk.” Nolan dropped a coin on the table.

  A few more exchanged glances.

  The brawl was brief.

  It ended with Sol slamming the captain into the tavern floorboards with a sickening crack, blood spraying his chest as he yanked a dagger from the man’s ribs and casually dropped it onto his unconscious body.

  The demon flopped back down, ignoring the few drops of fresh gore that splattered into his drink. He barely seemed fazed, already reaching for his cup again. His eyes sparkled too bright for a blink.

  Anders looked him up and down, squinting, before commenting, far too casually. “You have a knife sticking out of your shoulder.”

  Sol took a leisurely sip, licking the blood from his lips before shrugging.

  “Aye,” he murmured, “it happens sometimes.”

  Caelus stared at him, mouth slightly agape.

  This man was the Rot itself. Killing a guard in the middle of the day. In the middle of the tavern!

  And the worst part?

  The whole party just accepted it.

  Blazes, the whole tavern accepted it, someone even murmured in approval.

  Behind them, a few drunk guards stood up in a panic, weapons drawn.

  Sol didn’t even turn, chin resting in his palm, seemingly despondent. “Get them, boys. Interrogation it is.”

  No orders needed. Killeon, Varg, and Nolan moved at once.

  It was over in minutes. The guards folded like wet parchment, yanked to their feet, bound with belts and curtain cords. A few villagers even helped.

  Caelus hadn’t even stood.

  Anders yanked the blade from Sol’s back. Sol didn’t notice.

  Demon, indeed.

  The guards were dragged outside, far from the prying eyes. Screaming and kicking bloody murder.

  “Boy-spawn,” Solferen called sweetly to Anders, “I believe our guests are due for refreshments.” His hand landed on mage’s shoulder. An image of a supportive father.

  “A pleasure!” The boy’s eyes lit up with mischief.

  He outstretched his hand towards the nearest water basin. One flick—and it crashed over the guards, flash-freezing midair with a crisp, snapping hiss. Varg, unluckily standing too close, yelped as a stray spray tagged his leg.

  “Watch it, Wet Menace!” He snarled, shaking it off his boots.

  For the guards, the experience was sobering, to say the least.

  “MAGE!” They screamed, shaking more from fear than ice seeping through their uniform. “No! No! I don’t want to die!” Panicked another.

  “Shut up, you!” Varg booted one in the shin, taking his irritation from unjust frostbite out.

  “Now now, honorable sires. No need to panic.” The Mercenary King crouched beside them, the menacing grin finally finding the curve of his lips again. Performative.

  “We just want to talk to you, that’s all,” he sang.

  The fear was immediate.

  “We don’t know nothing!” One begged.

  The men stammered nonsense at first—pleas, curses, anything to distract from the ice still clinging to their boots.

  Sol didn’t even have to speak. He just watched. Patient. Still.

  Too still.

  Until one of them broke.

  “It wasn’t us!” The younger one gasped, limbs shaking. “We just—watched the roads. That’s all we did!”

  “You let the bandits through,” Caelus said, voice cold.

  “They paid!” The man snapped. “We were told to look the other way.”

  “And what did the ‘bandits’ do?” Varg crouched beside him now, his tone unnervingly kind.

  “They took people!” Another guard hissed. “From the roads, from the fields—We didn’t ask!”

  “Why?” Sol finally asked, tilting his head.

  “I don’t know! I swear I don’t know—they didn’t say! Just that they took people that have seen too much.” The man’s voice cracked. “Sometimes kids. Sometimes old folk. Didn’t matter.”

  The silence after that was long.

  “Where do they take them?” Caelus demanded, stepping forward now, fists clenched.

  The older guard, finally cracking under the pressure, answered. “There’s an old ruin. Not far. They call it the Bone Hollow. Swear they do some kind of magic there. I never saw it, I never went!”

  “Then we’ll go.” Sol said easily.

  “To rescue?” Cael inquired, brows tight.

  The elf’s gaze lingered on the guards as he spoke. “To interrogate.”

  He turned to his crew, eyes flicking over them like weapons being counted. “We want one of those bastards alive.”

  “And if they resist?” Nolan asked, too cheerfully.

  Sol smiled, and it wasn’t kind. “They can resist. We’ll bring them back in parts.”

  Caelus felt something shift inside his chest. Not fear. Not admiration.

  Something else. He might’ve called it respect if that didn’t make him gag.

  Sol stood. Slowly. The way a tide rises before it crashes.

  “The ruin’s that way, right?” He jabbed his thumb merrily.

  One of the bound guards—face bruised, nose still bleeding—nodded eagerly.

  “Yes, yes! North path! By the ridge, near the cypress tree. You can’t miss it—please, we told you everything!”

  “Excellent,” Solferen said, voice light. He turned on his heel and began walking, already waving the rest of the party forward. “Let’s not waste daylight.”

  He didn’t get far before a man behind him shrieked, desperate. “Wait! What about us?! Are you just gonna—leave us here?!”

  Sol stopped mid-step.

  The air shifted.

  Cael felt the temperature drop a degree.

  The elf turned slowly—slowly—until he stood framed by the light bleeding through the trees, shadows licking up his legs like smoke. His expression had changed. Unnerving.

  “Ah,” he breathed softly. “Forgive me. I forgot.”

  He smiled then. Just his lips. His eyes didn’t follow.

  The guard paled.