The night ended quickly. Thoughts trailing behind him like a predator. He didn’t dare stop moving.

  Armor discarded at the tent. A purloined bucket for a quick wash.

  He would not step foot into the magic-powered bathhouse.

  His church-colored clothes, now dry, laid out for morning. And that damnable embroidered shirt…

  Sun scorch it! He couldn’t face the Pope in borrowed rags.

  A fresh report, written in detail, tucked between the folds like a secret confession.

  His head hit the pillow.

  And was back at the cathedral.

  Light streamed through the stained glass windows, but the colors bled like open wounds. Saints stared with hollow eyes. The altar pulsed, breathing.

  “You were meant to be holy.”

  He was kneeling. Bare. Wet. Cold. Hands coated in blood.

  Not his.

  Chains coiled around his throat. Tugged.

  “What have you touched?”

  He turned, but there was no voice left to answer. His tongue was gone. He felt it—phantom, aching.

  Solferen stood above him, laughter echoing through the building with something inhuman. His hands crimson to the elbow. In one, he held Caelus’ torn tabard like a trophy.

  “You looked better clean, dog.”

  The mercenaries stood behind him, watching. Silent. Unblinking. Even Nolan. Even the children.

  From the altar, a figure turned.

  Not the Pope.

  His father. Expressionless.

  “Do not pretend this life was stolen from you. You were born to serve.”

  The floor cracked beneath him.

  And fell away.

  Caelus woke up before sunrise. Drenched in sweat, heart hammering against his ribs. His fingers clutched the medallion like a lifeline, metal digging into his palm.

  The edges felt sharper now.

  The camp was getting to him.

  Whatever. At least he’s up early.

  He took his time.

  To the stream—cold water to wash the nightmare off his skin.

  To the kitchen—where breakfast was warm, spiced, and served with a cheerful greeting from the frail woman he still hadn’t spoken more than three words to.

  He ate in silence. Alone.

  Back to the tent. Change of clothes. Armor cleaned to mirror shine. Everything in its place. Flawless.

  And then he saw it.

  A comb. A hand mirror.

  Resting innocently on the side of the table, as though they had always belonged there.

  He stared at them for a long moment.

  Then he took them.

  He was going to get mocked either way. Might as well look presentable while they did it.

  The camp was oddly quiet when Caelus steps outside. Just the rustle of wind through the trees and the distant crackle of a dying fire. None the less, plenty of people still sitting around, finishing their drinks from the night. The inky blue of the sky just started to pale out before the dawn.

  His gaze swept the camp, scanning for the familiar silhouette of the too-tall elf with the unsettling stare.

  Nothing.

  “You are up early!” Nolan stood up from the fur carpet of communal ten.

  “And you look much better!” He smiled, almost proud.

  Cael grimaced, severely doubting the sincerity of his comment. He had a mirror now. He had seen himself. “Ugh.”

  The fleshshifter lifted his hands innocently, “Don’t look at me like that. I mean it”

  “Why are you even up at this hour?” Cael shifted his weight, eyebrow arched.

  “Oh! Ive been keeping watch tonight. Patched some tents in the process!” He gestured at the pile of colorful fabric on the carpets. “The question is why are YOU up?”

  “We have mission to complete.” Caelus shrugged dismissively.

  “Well…” Nolan paused, awkward. His expression apologetic. “…you might have to wait with that.”

  “What do you mean?” Caelus furrowed his brows.

  Nolan just gestured vaguely into the forest, making the knight turn.

  The beast.

  Or rather, the not-horse, moving slowly between the trees at the camp’s edge. And on its back—completely sprawled out like a corpse—was Sol.

  Caelus’ entire body tensed. “What the in the False Light—?”

  The creature walked with lazy, unhurried steps, weaving through the forest as if it had all the time in the universe. Sol’s arms dangled at his sides, his long hair spilling over its flank, one leg draped over the creature’s broad back. He was absolutely unmoving.

  A tiny pang of panic settled in Cael’s chest.

  “Why is no one doing anything?!” His voice cut through the camp as he gestured furiously toward the scene.

  A few heads turned. No one looked concerned.

  A mercenary threw a stick into the fire. “What’s your problem again?”

  Unenthusiastic.

  Caelus pointed wildly. “The monster is dragging your King into the woods!”

  Someone barely glanced up from their sharpening stone. “Yeah, so?”

  “So?! That thing is taking him somewhere! It could be leading him into a trap, or—” He cut himself off. Groaned.

  “For Aurenos’ sake we have a job to do, he can’t die in the forest now!”

  The second mercenary sighed, rubbing the bridge of their nose. “Calm down.”

  Caelus whipped around. “Calm down?! He’s literally unconscious on its back—”

  “Oh, that.” The man waved a hand dismissively. “That’s just their bonding time.”

  Caelus stared.

  “Bonding time.” He practically spat.

  “Yeah.”

  Cael took a deep, controlled breath. “So, what you’re telling me—what you expect me to just accept—is that the Mercenary King is currently being abducted by a fanged, monstrous creature that barely passes for a horse, and that’s—what? Normal?”

  A pause. The men looked at him, truly confused by his attitude. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Caelus was going to lose his mind.

  He turned back toward the trees, jaw clenched. The beast was still walking, its massive form disappearing further into the shadowed forest, tail slithering through the grass. Sol still hadn’t moved.

  Cael watched. Motionless.

  His hands flexed at his sides—once, twice—then curled into fists.

  He turned.

  “That’s it—I’m going after them.” He strode toward the trees, already unsheathing his sword.

  Someone had to be the voice of reason in this cursed camp, and apparently, it has to be him.

  He didn’t get far.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him mid-step.

  Nolan shook his head. “Bad idea.”

  Caelus scowled. “Why?”

  He laughed awkwardly, “Because the last guy who tried to follow them got kicked so hard, he woke up three days later with no memory of what happened.”

  Caelus stilled, blank. “…Pardon me?”

  Thornvale just shrugged. “Leave ‘em be. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

  They watched the not-horse disappear fully into the woods, Sol still draped over its back as a discarded corpse. The knight clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  Another day of waiting for this bastard to finish fooling around.

  Caelus has spent far too long pacing. Nolan even tried to talk him out of it before giving up and leaving to rest.

  The sun has shifted in the sky. The fire has burned low. The camp has moved on with their lives, waking up, starting chores.

  But Caelus? He was still standing there, fuming, glaring into the tree line, waiting for the inevitable return of the freakish duo.

  At last.

  The bushes rustled. The not-horse stepped into the sun, solemn as a god returning from pilgrimage.

  Caelus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose—again.

  “Finally.” He stalked forward, prepared to demand answers, prepared to give Solferen the lecture of his life.

  But then he saw him. Still draped over the beast’s back, sound asleep.

  And covered in flowers.

  Caelus stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Oh, they’re back.” Someone whistled. “Damn, he got decorated this time.”

  Caelus turned slowly to look at them. “Decorated?”

  “Yeah.” Another merc gestured vaguely. “It happens sometimes.”

  He felt his soul leave his body.

  Decorated by what?

  He turned back to the disaster in front of him.

  Velmari stood proudly, its entire form woven with vines, dangling with charms, bright petals scattered across where its mane should have been—if it was a normal horse.

  Someone—or something—has clearly taken their time adorning the murder-beast in full ceremonial splendor.

  And Sol? Sol had a single flower tucked behind his ear.

  A perfectly arranged, delicate bloom, nestled in his tangled ashen black hair like some kind of enchanted forest prince.

  Caelus actually had to close his eyes for a second. He rubbed his temples, taking a slow, controlled breath through his teeth.

  The beast stopped in the center of camp, standing there as a prized stallion.

  Sol didn’t move. Didn’t wake. Just continued to exist in this unholy, ridiculous state.

  Just as he dared to turn away—

  Something small hit the ground with a thud. Caelus caught it too late.

  Something small.

  Something glowing.

  A groggy, dazed-looking fairy stirred from where it’s been unceremoniously dumped onto the dirt, tiny wings twitching, equally as covered in flowers as not-horse was. It groaned.

  The camp burst into wheezing laughter.

  That was it. His sanity could not hold any longer.

  Caelus snapped, storming over to slap Sol across whatever he could reach.

  “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

  At the violence, Sol finally stirred.

  A slow inhale. A stretch. His head tilted lazily up from where he’s been half-buried in the not-horse’s neck. His eyes cracked open—still heavy with sleep. He glanced around, blinking slowly.

  “…We’re back?” His voice was hoarse. He hasn’t spoken in hours.

  Caelus gestured aggressively to all of him. “What happened?!”

  Sol lifted his head with a sluggish blink. Looked straight at Caelus.

  “…I don’t know,” he said eventually, voice low, dreamy. “I think it was… nice?”

  And then—he simply slid off the creature’s back.

  Graceful. Effortless.

  A little too graceful, in fact—petals flew up with the motion like confetti from a festival. He landed without a sound, gave the beast a gentle pat on the hindquarters, and turned away, utterly unbothered.

  Caelus stood frozen, mouth parted in utter disbelief.

  He threw his hands in the air. “I—! I am DONE!”

  The camp howled with laughter. Someone actually clapped.

  “Did you SEE the fairy? Gods, I think it was drooling.”

  “He looked like a druid’s fever dream.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Holy Boy. It gets worse the longer you live here.”

  It can get worse?

  “The farmland!” Caelus hissed, stomping after Solferen. “We were supposed to handle the farmland!”

  Sol didn’t even look back. He just stretched like a cat in the sun, long limbs cracking audibly.

  “Nah,” he said, casual as a breeze. “Gotta check on the ‘cultists’ we brought in.”

  He dragged the word like a blade across stone, deliberate.

  “They’ve been in temporary tents. Time to give them a proper welcome.”

  “You couldn’t have done that yesterday?!” Caelus seethed.

  The elf glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “You’re right, I absolutely should have attended to them sooner, your Radiance. My apologies for being a terrible host.”

  And just like that, he kept walking.

  “Hey!” Cael snapped, marching after him. “Don’t you walk away from me! We have a schedule! The Pope—”

  “You look good today, by the way.”

  The words landed like a slap.

  Caelus blinked, startled. Sol wasn’t even mocking him. Simply… commenting.

  “I appreciate the effort,” the mercenary added, utterly sincere, before slipping behind a row of tents and vanishing like smoke.

  Caelus stood there, tangled in fury, confusion, and just the tiniest bit of…

  What the Rot was that?

  He stared after him.

  A petal drifted gently from his shoulder to the dirt.

  After a moment of suspension he exhaled through his nose, sharp and ragged.

  “I am going to kill him.”

  The camp, still wheezing in the background, seemed unconvinced.

  The day stretched unbearably long. Useless.

  Caelus followed him.

  Not obviously, of course. He was trained in stealth, after all.

  This was observation. Tactical. Necessary.

  And yet, somehow, every time Solferen turned a corner, his eyes flicked back—directly at him.

  A grin. A wink. A stupid two-fingered salute.

  Cael nearly bit through his cheek.

  Sol was being normal.

  Which was… unnatural.

  The so-called Mercenary King moved through camp like he owned it—because he did—but there was no chaos this time. No biting. No insults. Just help.

  He started at the refugee tents, giving the displaced group a calm, grounded explanation of what the day would look like.

  A few men and women clutched his hands. One bowed. One cried. Sol smiled softly, made a terrible joke, and waved it off as if it was nothing.

  “We’ve got blankets, and warm food by midday. If you’re missing anything, Killeon can help you get sorted.” He stated calmly. Then turned.

  “Brother!” He called across the clearing.

  So they were indeed brothers…

  The mountain of a man turned mid-conversation, blinking. “Ye?”

  “Assign tasks. Give people something to do. And for the love of the gods, do not let anyone join Gorrath in the kitchen—he’s already started throwing knives again.” Sol beamed at him, blindingly brilliant.

  Killeon just nodded, utterly unfazed.

  Caelus, from behind a tent post, squinted.

  Sol moved on.

  He stopped near Anders, who was crouched at a bucket with steam curling from it. Sol dropped to one knee beside him, gesturing to a group of refugees.

  “Bathwater boy, this is your time to shine. Make sure everyone gets a warm rinse. Be gentle with the old ones.” He nudged mages shoulder with fatherly affection.

  Absolutely unnecessary, considering they had a very functioning bathhouse abomination, but an introduction was an introduction. Not like those fools did anything like normal people anyway.

  Anders saluted dramatically with a ladle. “Yes, General!”

  Caelus stared harder. If he squinted any more, his vision would invert.

  This isn’t right. This man threw him into a river.

  He had insulted Cael in fourteen different ways this week alone.

  He cannot possibly be… good at this.

  But everywhere he looked, people lit up around Solferen. They smiled. They moved with purpose. They trusted him.

  And it made Caelus feel sick.

  He stormed out from behind the tent like divine judgment incarnate.

  “You’re wasting my time tending to cultists!” He barked.

  That got attention.

  Silence fell as a guillotine.

  Sol didn’t turn. He just tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement, still facing a woman he’d been speaking with. He handed her a woven pouch, murmured something Cael couldn’t hear, then finally turned to face the storm heading his way.

  “You’ll have to narrow that down,” he said lightly, smug as a demon. “I tend to a lot of cultists.”

  Caelus didn’t slow.

  “You walk around pretending you’re something you’re not. Playing protector, acting like you care.” His lip curled. “You act like some kind of king. But you’re not! You’re just a bandit with a bigger mouth than crown.”

  “And yet people follow me.” Sol lifted an elegant eyebrow, smile undisturbed. “Funny, isn’t it?”

  “You think I’m blind?” The Templar spat. “You enjoy this. This power trip. You're not doing this out of kindness—you’re doing it for the performance.”

  He took a step closer.

  “What you are,” he forced through his teeth, “is a liar. A fraud. And a parasite who plays god over people too desperate to know better.”

  And Sol—stopped smiling.

  Not entirely. But it changed. Froze.

  His mouth still curved, but too still. His eyes glinted wrong, suddenly too sharp.

  His voice, when it came, was low and quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.

  “What do you know about being a ruler, Caelus?”

  The knight did not like the way his name came from Viper’s lips. He barely addressed him by name before, but now it was said too softly. Like a dare. Like a warning.

  The camp stilled. Even the trees seemed to hold their breath.

  But Caelus didn’t back down.

  “Outlaws, cowards, heretics. That’s not ruling. That’s commanding animals.” The air between them sizzled.

  Sol stepped forward.

  “And you think licking the Pope’s boots makes you a leader?” He hissed.

  “Tell me, Commander—how many follow you because they trust you?

  And how many because they’re afraid of what the Church will do if they don’t?”

  The templar sneered.

  Another step. Closer.

  “Ever bled to bring food to your people’s table?”

  A pebble rolled away from his boot.

  “Ever slept on stone so someone else could have a warm bed in winter?”

  He was too close now and still coming.

  “Ever ruined your pretty little hands to build—craft—sew—just so someone had a roof over their head?”

  Sol was hunched down now, level with Cael’s face. Breath steady. Gaze unblinking. A man made of quiet fury and too much memory.

  “Cooked, at least?”

  The words hit like fists. Cael’s lip twitched but he didn’t speak.

  Sol’s voice dropped further, nearly a whisper—low, venomous.

  “No. You don’t have to.” He rolled the words on his tongue.

  “Because servants of God live warm, full, safe. You dine from the offerings of people like them.” He gestured vaguely to the camp behind him, to the refugees still watching, wide-eyed.

  “And you do it with your chin high and your conscience clean.”

  Sol stood taller.

  “You are just a lapdog, Moraine.”

  His smile returned. Wider now. Cruel.

  “Eating from the Pope’s hand. Don’t forget your place.”

  He jabbed a single finger into Cael’s chest, hard enough to make the knight stumble back half a step.

  Pain had levels. This one was deeper.

  “At least I serve something greater than myself,” Caelus spat.

  The air crackled.

  Solferen’s expression changed to one of a pity.

  “You serve a man in silk robes who’d let you die if it made him look pious,” he murmured, tilting his head back, belittling.

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  He turned and walked away.

  Back toward the crowd of grateful people who still needed him.

  Back to the camp he built from blood and fury and whatever scraps the world hadn’t stolen.

  The world moved around Caelus. He didn’t.

  His heartbeat thunderous, fists clenched so tight they trembled.

  Varg appeared behind him.

  “Heyyy, buddy. Let’s walk,” he cooed, uncharacteristic smile stretching his lips.

  Anders grabbed his other arm. Feign lightheartedness covering his distress masterfully. “You’re about five seconds from doing something you’ll regret.”

  “The only thing I regret is not saying more!” Caelus hissed as they dragged him backwards, his gaze till burning holes through Mercenary King’s back.

  They passed a pair of mercenaries lounging with half-empty mugs. One whistled low.

  “At least he looks nice.”

  Laughter followed him all the way back into the inner sanctuary. Caelus was going to implode.