The shimmer slowly faded.

  Blightreach exhaled, calm settling as a hush after laughter. The birds—creatures—whatever they were, vanished into the trees as though they had never existed at all, leaving only a memory behind.

  For a time, no one spoke.

  The hooves moved softer now, as if even the horses felt the weight of what had passed. Morning had turned to noon, the light shifting from gold to pale silver as the trees began to grow sparse again.

  The world returned to normal.

  But Caelus didn’t.

  He rode in silence, the rhythm of the journey blending into his thoughts. The memory of light still lingered behind his eyes with colorful sparks. His fingers twitched where they’d once felt silk and air.

  Eventually, the forest thinned completely, giving way to a low stretch of hills and farmland. Fences in disrepair. Overgrown fields. A broken wagon half-sunk into the earth. The world looked abandoned, quiet in a different way now.

  A bell tower.

  Crumbling stone cottages.

  Smoke curling from a single chimney.

  Runewick.

  Their destination rose ahead, nestled between the arms of two hills. Small, unassuming. Just another village on a map.

  But after the forest—It looked almost fragile.

  Solferen slowed his horse beside Caelus, speaking quietly for once.

  “Remember templar, you follow my command, not your judgement.” No smirk. No tease.

  Caelus only glared, pressing his lips tighter.

  They dismounted at the edge of Runewick, leaving the horses by the gate. Bastard made a valiant attempt to take a chunk out of Cael’s leg during the process.

  “Charming,” Caelus muttered, eyeing the beast.

  It would be easier to scout on foot.

  The village was tiny—quieter than the mercenary camp, even. Barely a few dozen houses, and undoubtedly the rumors had already spread. Everyone seemed to know everything. After a few questions and some pointed glances, they were directed to the outskirts. To the old farmhouse.

  Apparently, a group of suspicious strangers had taken it for themselves.

  What surprised Caelus most was how unfazed the villagers were.

  Sol didn’t draw fear. Nor did the towering glaive-wielding machine beside him, who didn’t even bother hiding his weapon.

  Not that it could be hidden. The thing was taller than most men.

  The farm was close—barely a few minutes’ walk. And they didn’t need to look for the cultists either.

  They were already waiting.

  Sixteen figures stood in front of the crumbling house, robes tattered and faces weary. They didn’t raise weapons. They didn’t move. Just… stood. Silent.

  Caelus stepped forward, sword drawn without hesitation.

  No one else did.

  Sol’s arm shot out in front of him, halting him in place. A wall of calm steel.

  “What are you doing?” Caelus hissed, eyes narrowing. “We need to strike first—gain the upper hand.”

  “We don’t need to strike at all.” Sol’s voice was flat. “Look at the state of them, commander. These aren’t cultists.”

  He turned his head slightly, gaze riveted on the people. “Brother, watch him for me.”

  Killeon gave a silent nod.

  Caelus ground his teeth.

  What is he doing?

  The Mercenary King stepped forth, approaching the group. Slowly. Carefully.

  They finally noticed him. Recognised him. One of the women broke from the line.

  She all but ran to him.

  Cael tensed, ready to intercept, but a firm hand landed on his shoulder, soft but firm.

  But she didn’t attack.

  She fell to her knees, grasping at the Beast’s leg.

  “You,” she breathed, despair thick in her voice. “You’re the Mercenary King, aren’t you? Please—please help us. We’ll pay. With whatever we have.”

  Her cape slipped from her head, revealing a face carved with desperation.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Others began stepping forward, tentatively removing their hoods. Not with hostility—with hope.

  A middle-aged man held out a coin pouch. “It’s not much. But it’s all we’ve got.”

  “I don’t take coin from starving men,” Sol said gently. “Information will do.”

  The audacity of this man—

  Caelus stepped forward, seething.

  “Excuse me? Shall I remind you why you were hired, beast?”

  The group turned—

  And saw him.

  Saw the templar.

  Their hope curdled to dread in seconds. They stepped back, fear flashing in their eyes.

  Not at Sol. At him.

  The knight. The holy man. The emissary of the Church.

  The look in their eyes burned worse than any insult. It was not hate. It was memory. They had seen men like him before—right before the torches were lit.

  Caelus stopped dead.

  They were afraid of him.

  Not the cold-blooded heathen in front of them. No. They looked at Sol with trust, seeking reassurance.

  Not Killeon.

  Not the mercenaries armed to the teeth.

  Him.

  Solferen did not respond. Just turned, meeting their eyes again.

  “He will not harm you. You have my word.”

  He bent, offering his hand to the kneeling woman. Helped her up with care.

  “All we need is your story.”

  He knows how to speak to people, Caelus thought bitterly. Manipulator’s manipulator, that one.

  Fine. Let him speak. Let him coddle. When the time comes, I will deliver justice. That’s why the Pope sent me.

  And yet… even as he told himself that, a splinter buried itself deeper in his chest.

  Solferen spoke to them. Not at them. Like he saw them. Like he remembered being them.

  “Sir, we are not cultists, I beg of you.” The woman squeezed Sol’s hands, pleading. “We ran from our village, thats all! We tried to ask church for help, to tell them—”

  An angry voice rose from the crowd. “They proclaimed us heretics on the spot, would you believe that! Just for speaking the truth!”

  “Oh, the Church does that all the time.” Sol, that bastard, laughed, and Caelus had to grind his teeth to keep from a growl bubbling in his throat.

  “What were you running from?” The elf asked, voice even again.

  “The village is cursed I say!” Another answered, and a murmur of agreement followed. “Unnatural things happen there. People vanish. Guards drag away everyone who dares to speak to loudly or wishes to leave!”

  “We barely escaped with our lives,” the woman whispered, “Everywhere we go people thinks of us as come damned cult spreading heresy!” She shook her head, still holding onto Sol’s hands.

  “Magic, then.” Anders muttered, crossing his hands on his chest. “A curse perhaps?”

  “Mhm.” Killeon nodded slowly, scratching at his wild dark curls.

  “I see. Thats all I wish to know.” Sol nodded, gently taking his hands away from the woman. He paused, thinking deeply for a moment.

  The people still watched him with hope, as if he could solve their problems.

  “You are free to go then,” he said softly.

  The light dimmed in their eyes.

  “But sir… we’ve nowhere to go…” said the man.

  Caelus felt his blood boil.

  “Are you touched by the shadow?!” He snapped, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

  Sol glanced over his shoulder. A wicked grin, sharp as a blade.

  “You’re right!” He murmured, shaking his head, thoughtfulness in his eyes. “What was I thinking.”

  Finally. Finally! He’s come to his senses.

  But the stars had already chosen.

  “Brother, Anders—escort them to the camp. It’s the safest place for them now.”

  Caelus stared. “What?”

  “Oh! We’ll need more tents!” Anders chirped, already moving to lead the group. The refugees lit up with gratitude, murmuring blessings under their breath.

  Caelus saw red.

  He grabbed Solferen by the wrist, yanking him hard enough to turn him around and practically yelled in his face—

  “WHAT IN THE FALSE LIGHT’S NAME ARE YOU DOING?!”

  He didn’t hold back, ready to unleash the fury building in his chest.

  But he barely got a breath in.

  Sol moved faster.

  In one swift motion, the Mercenary King twisted Caelus' grip, pulling the knight in close, their faces inches apart—his fangs bared in a grin that was anything but friendly.

  “Unhand me.”

  The words were low. A growl.

  Not a request. A warning.

  The knight didn’t back down. His heart thudded against his ribs, but his rage didn’t falter.

  “Why? Afraid I’ll do to you what should’ve been done long ago?” Caelus spat. “Drag you to the pyre where you belong?”

  Sol’s smile sharpened. “And here I thought you had a soul buried somewhere under that tin can you call armor.”

  “I do,” Caelus sneered. “It’s that all I see is a mad cur off its leash.”

  Solferen leaned in with a glint in his eye that could only spell doom for some poor soul, breath curling with venomous amusement.

  “Then look closely, templar. See what happens when you threaten the wrong beast.”

  Sol was suddenly everywhere.

  Closer than he had any right to be.

  A hand on Caelus’ chest—not a shove, just there—and yet the templar froze as if held in place by iron.

  Jaw tight, Sol’s sharp teeth clacked together just inches from Caelus’ cheek.

  A sound too animal to be human.

  Exactly like Bastard.

  Cael’s body jolted. Not back—but still. Paralyzed. His mind screamed to move, fight, command—but his limbs stayed locked, heartbeat hammering in his throat.

  Sol’s grin widened, thin and sharp enough to cut, canines flashing. His voice snapped like a whip.

  “YOU are here to WATCH me. So shut the fuck up and WATCH!”

  The words struck as palm to the cheek—sudden and stinging.

  Caelus flinched. A real, involuntary recoil. Not from the words, but from the truth in them.

  For a moment, he couldn’t move. Not because he didn’t want to—because something ancient in him knew he shouldn’t.

  But the anger won.

  Caelus shoved him back with a snarl and stormed off toward the horses, fists clenched so tight his knuckles burned. “I will have you on your knees before this is over.”

  Sol felt that damn twitch of amusement—that smug little bastard—and gods help him, he wanted to throttle him for it. Or maybe kiss him.

  Neither. Neither was an acceptable option.

  The elf clicked his tongue, already turning away. “In your wet dreams, sweetheart.”

  Sol let him go. But he wasn’t finished. He turned just enough to shout, loud enough for the crowd of not-cultists to hear.

  “Me and my boy here are gonna go snitch on us to the Pops!” He called with cheerful spite, waving to the villagers like they were old friends.

  Caelus nearly tripped over his own feet from sheer fury.

  Rot in the Void!

  Rot two times over!

  Anders buried his face in his hands, wheezing.

  Killeon muttered under his breath, “Gods help us.”

  The villagers looked on in stunned silence, before a teen awkwardly waved back at Sol.

  Then one of them laughed. Another murmured, “They’re insane.”

  But it wasn’t fear in their voice. It was wonder.

  Cael felt something cold settle behind his ribs.

  Sol beamed like a man who had just set an entire cathedral on fire and called it performance art.

  The knight mounted his horse with more force than necessary, practically shaking with restrained wrath. “Try not to choke on your own ego before we get there, blasphemer.”

  Solferen gave a mock salute. “Try not to fall off your high horse, little lamb.”

  He was going to kill this man. If not now—then eventually. And the Creator will understand.