Night stretched across the camp like a raven’s wing, muting the voices of its laymen, dimming the lights of fires and candles, sheltering heathens from the eyes of the God above under its dark pinion.

  The forest, however, did not sleep. It was alive. Its breath rumbled akin to a beat of a distant, ancient drum. Branches swaying seemingly without a wind, dancing to their own heartbeat, pulsing, meandering.

  The noises started as soon as the moon’s crescent crossed the horizon.

  A resemblance of a song, its words unspoken. A faint trail of whispers, scattered through the tree trunks by the breeze, warped and stretched. Sound of steps with no master, too close for comfort. Distant wails of a woman interweaved with a laughter of a child. Yet not a single soul in the camp stirred. Not a single peek was cast toward the trees.

  None of this seemed to bother them.

  Not even for a second.

  Caelus sat in alert, his back against the tent, tight as a snare, waiting to spring while his comrades—the fools—rested inside, oblivious to the darkness surrounding them. His jaw ached from biting the inside of his lip. Shoulders locked so tight it felt like his armor had fused to his bones.

  His hand drifted to the medallion at his neck—silver and gold, the Crown of Aurenos. He traced its edge absently, the familiar weight grounding him in ways he no longer questioned.

  He watched as some of the mercenaries came and went, silent as shadows disappearing into the thickets, God knows what for.

  He watched someone, something, moving between the trees far away in the distance, undisturbed by the presence of people nearby.

  Caelus inhaled slowly, the sword felt heavier in his grasp as a figure emerged from the dark. A vision flashed. One of his men crumpling, bones split, mouth open in a silent scream. He blinked it away. Not now. Not again.

  Varg.

  The elf was the part of the night itself—fluid, soundless, at ease. Just like how he was mere hours before. Just like he has been when he led them straight into a death trap.

  He turned his head ever so slightly as he passed. A single look. A slow, deliberate shift of his gaze—brow arched, almost impressed.

  Not quite amusement. Not quite disdain. Something between the two, as if to say— ‘Oh. You survived.’

  A chill skittered down Caelus’ spine. His throat dried. Not from fear—never fear. But something just beside it.

  Then, just as easily, the elf was gone, slipping back into the dark.

  And with that Cael was once again left seething in silence, alone with his thoughts while the black stretched endlessly before him.

  Hours passed in silence.

  Night bled into the earth, sinking into the roots, retreating into the shadows where it belonged. The stars, once sharp and silver, dulled, fading one by one. Wind carried away last whispers of the forest, swallowed by the hush of something older than morning.

  The first breath of dawn bloomed across the clear sky, once ink-black, softened into bruised violets and deep blues, edges kissed with fire, bringing new hope.

  The camp, once a realm of flickering shadows, was no longer hidden.

  It began waking up, slowly and reluctantly. Shapes emerged from the dark. Tents, dispersed belongings, figures stirring from restless sleep, watchmen exhaling in anticipation of long needed rest.

  Bigger than he initially thought.

  A lone birdsong stirred the silence, dissolving the weight of the night’s oblivion that sat on knight’s shoulders. Weariness clung to him like a heavy shroud, his head sinking under the weight of sleepless hours.

  A breath of cold mist coiled around him, sharp and biting, chasing away the last remnants of drowsiness. He watched the stillness stir inside the camp like a waking serpent, its scales licked by the first warmth.

  From the forest depths the hunters emerged, carrying the spoils of the night’s hunt, far too many for a camp of this size.

  Poachers?

  Then, people began to lift their tents folds, stepping outside, stretching rigid muscles. Some welcomed the hunters, engaging in small talk in lowered voices, not to disturb those who are still trying to chase the remains of their dreams.

  It almost seemed normal at the first glance, but Caelus wouldn’t be tricked. Events of the previous day loomed over him like storm-laden clouds.

  What a mess.

  “Slept well?” A low velvety voice, murmured just above his shoulder, nearly making him jump. His armor clanked lightly at the sudden movement.

  Caelus has been so deep wallowing in self-pity he hadn’t even noticed his approaching steps.

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  The Mercenary King himself was casting his presence over him.

  He knew better. He had watched the templar through the night himself, concealed by the shadows. Saw him shudder at every snip of a twig, tense at every beast’s hoot, poised to strike at nothing.

  Understandable. This forest could break even the hardest of men—if it desired so.

  The knight shot to his feet as if yanked by an unseen force, instincts snapping to attention. Cael’s brain—normally a keen strategic instrument—seized up at his proximity.

  In the unforgiving light of morning, with no distance left to blur the truth, he finally saw what he was really up against.

  The man was towering above him, despite Caelus being far from short himself.

  His gut twisted. His breath stalled in his chest for half a beat before he forced it out, slow. Measured. Like he could exhale the pressure building behind his eyes.

  Truth be told, the Mercenary King was effortlessly handsome, almost dangerously so. Not in a way that invited trust, but in a way that felt like a warning.

  Rich ashen bronze skin decorated with scars. One across the corner of his lips—someone had the audacity to aim at his face. Another, a jagged scar on his left temple, as though the skin had once been peeled away entirely, cutting through his otherwise flawless arrogance. A thin, perfectly straight cut rested in the center of his forehead. Precise. Purposeful.

  Some sort of ritual, perhaps.

  His hair—cascade of deep smoky black, the strands falling in controlled disarray. But just above his temple, where that old wound curved over his skull—a single lock of white. An eerie contrast against his dark complexion. Ears elongated akin to those of the elves, adorned by multiple rings and piercings, each one glinting faintly in the light.

  Ornaments. Trophies. Traditions of a people no longer spoken of.

  But it was his eyes that unsettled most.

  Viper-like, piercing, irises burning in a vivid shade of molten green, ringed in scarlet like spilled gore. Beneath them, unnatural shadows spread, dark and blood-tinged, as if something unholy had sunk its claws into his skin, refusing to let go.

  And…

  Slitted pupils?

  Not elf. Something parading as one.

  The Beast studied the Templar, his stare unhurried yet intent. He smiled the way a man might smile at a loyal hound—or a particularly interesting storm cloud.

  Caelus stood his ground. A man of discipline and conviction. He had regal yet rugged presence. A knight who has never allowed himself to be anything but a knight.

  Fair skin, touched by sun and wind, faint traces of exhaustion clinging to his features. A strong jaw dusted with the roughness of an unshaven stubble, neither careless nor perfectly kept—a man too occupied with duty to bother with vanity. Hair a tousled mess of hazelnut brown, loose waves curling at the edges despite every attempt at control.

  The ‘elf’s’ gaze trailed back to Cael’s face, locking onto his pale, ice-touched eyes. A predator watching a man who had walked willingly into its lair.

  The silence stretched. Awkward. Suffocating. And that snake just stood there, waiting. Enjoying this.

  Caelus could feel his gaze like a physical thing, feel the smirk curling on his lips. He didn’t flinch. Not quite. But the edge of his boot scraped backward, a single instinctive shift. His pride caught it too late.

  He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to unclench his fists.

  And still—he said nothing.

  The Beast chuckled under his breath. “That bad, huh?”

  Caelus’ eye twitched, his lips pressed tight. He will not give that reature the pleasure.

  “Right… I guess having a friendly chat with me is too low for someone like you.”

  Not mocking. Not venomous. Just a simple truth. And that was what made it hit harder. “Even after all we’ve done for you and your squad.”

  His words, the gentle reproof in his tone, slapped him with a force he wasn't prepared for. Caelus was more accustomed to being reviled or obeyed, yet the Beast treated him with a combination of sarcasm and unearned familiarity that threw him off-balance.

  Emotion pressed against Caelus’ teeth, unspoken.

  What could he even say? Nothing about that statement was false. He was still alive because of these people. But also, they were in this sorry state because of one of them. Because of Varg.

  That smug bastard.

  Finally, he forced out the only thing that still felt solid beneath him. “I’ll answer only to the Church.”

  The words stuck on his tongue, dry as parchment. His lips felt cracked. They tasted of bitterness and pride.

  Rot in the Void.

  A chuckle. “Of course you would.”

  No argument. Simply… acceptance. Like the elf already knew how this story would end.

  Then, effortlessly, he shifted back into something more practical.

  “Get ready, then. We are leaving in an hour. And tell your men to eat. You’ll need the strength…” A meaningful pause. “…assuming, of course, that’s not against your faith too.”

  And just like that, the King was gone, off to speak with the mercenaries.

  Caelus’ neck flushed hot. Embarrassment or rage—he couldn’t tell. Maybe both. He swallowed hard, the motion tight and gritty.

  He scrutinized the Beast for a bit longer, giving his squad just a little more time to rest.

  Practical, in case something will attack them again, the men should be well rested. Though he, somehow, had no doubt they did rest just as fine in the jaws on the predator as in any other place. Reckless halfwits.

  Caelus used that time to observe the camp.

  It was fully awake now, far busier than yesterday’s evening. More people moved about—at least thirty by his count, including those he had already familiarized himself with.

  Perhaps their leader ordered them to stay away from the templars overnight, just to be safe. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to be seen.

  Cael’s eyes followed as the glaive-wielding one strode toward the ‘elf’ with an ease that bordered on excessive familiarity.

  He had to look down to meet the King’s gaze.

  Side by side, they could have passed for brothers.

  One stood taller, broader, his frame built for raw strength, while the other, though leaner, carried something far heavier. A presence that dwarfed even the larger man, something far more unsettling than muscle or height.

  Caelus’ chain of thoughts was interrupted by movement.

  In the tent behind him his knights stirred, dragging themselves out, some rubbing their faces, others stretching aching limbs. They took in the camp with quiet interest, exchanging hushed observations with one another. One of them gazed at their commander, offering an apologetic look—a wordless acknowledgment of the night he had spent keeping watch while they slept.

  The red-haired woman from the previous night passed by, moving with the same easy confidence as before. Her mercenary leathers were gone, replaced by a simple dress, practical yet oddly out of place in a camp of killers. In her hands—bread and drinking water.

  Surprisingly, the bread was hot.

  Caelus’ gaze narrowed.

  Where would a bunch of heathens, vagabonds living deep in the forest, get fresh-baked bread? Something wasn’t adding up.

  And yet, his squad didn’t hesitate.

  The templars took the food with gratitude, exchanging pleasantries, hands reaching before thoughts could catch up.

  Caelus said nothing, exposing his feeling with a disappointed sigh, watching as they thanked the woman who had likely spilled more blood than any of them. Watching as they thanked the same people who had humiliated them. Again.

  They were losing themselves already.

  He will give them the benefit of the doubt, for now. Maybe this forest was toying with the minds of the weaker.

  This didn’t go unnoticed.