The templar had barely realized they’d dragged him halfway through camp until the flap of his tent was tossed open and he was unceremoniously deposited inside.

  “Let go of me—!” He barked, jerking his arms out of their grip.

  “Relax, knight. You’re grounded,” Varg muttered, flopping down onto a pile of blankets like shame was for other people.

  Anders stayed standing near the tent entrance, arms folded, quietly watching Cael pace like a caged animal.

  “You two think this is funny?” He spat, whirling toward them. “Humiliating me in front of the entire camp?”

  Varg raised a brow. “No. You did that yourself, actually. Our part was just a bonus.”

  Anders groaned. “Not helping.”

  Cael’s hands balled into fists. “You! Stop pretending you’re my friend.”

  His voice cracked—too sharp, too raw. He pointed a finger straight at Varg. “You led us to that THING. Into a trap. Half my unit died because of you, their bodies still… somewhere!”

  Varg’s smile faded just slightly. But he didn’t look guilty. If anything—he looked tired.

  “Ain’t no way you wouldn’t do the same,” he said evenly. “A full squad of templars runnin’ after me, armed t’the teeth? Don’t play victim. You were the sword. I was just faster.”

  Caelus seethed, takin a single step into his direction, almost unintentionally.

  The Wild Elf stood up slowly, stretching his back. A wolf rising from rest.

  “Good talk, Holy Boy.” Without a glance back, he slipped through the flap and vanished into the camp.

  Anders remained.

  Silence settled like ash. Cael refused to look at him.

  “Look… I know you hate me,” the boy said quietly. “Because I’m a mage. Because I exist. Whatever.”

  Cael didn’t correct him.

  “But you’re wrong about Sol.”

  His voice was steady. Soft, but sure.

  “He’s not what you think he is.”

  Ha! As if.

  A long pause. As though the mage considered if it was worth sharing at all.

  At last, he spoke.

  “I was eight when I ran from the tower. Orphan kid, no last name, no magic control, no future. Only fear. You templars found me in some alleyways I called home and beat me to a pulp for the fun of it. Laughed the whole way.”

  Cael’s head snapped toward him, but Anders wasn’t looking for pity. He was looking through the past.

  “No one was gonna miss an orphan mage, right?” A dry laugh. “Last thing I saw—the heads started rolling. I don’t know what happened. All I know is… I woke up in this camp. Sol carried me.”

  Anders finally met Cael’s eyes, his fingers worrying at the edge of his tattered scarf.

  “He was bleeding. Exhausted. Said I was too small to leave behind.”

  Silence again. Just for a breath.

  “I’ve been here a long time. Seen a lot of people arrive at their lowest. Refugees, mages, monsters, people who thought they had no worth left.”

  He gestured outside, toward the camp.

  “They all have stories. Most of them would tell you, if you asked.”

  But Cael wouldn’t ask.

  Anders sighed, turning toward the tent flap.

  “I know you won’t believe me now. That’s fine.”

  He paused, glancing him up and down.

  “But maybe don’t keep acting like you know everything about people who just tried to survive.”

  He left.

  And Caelus sat in silence. Alone.

  Boiling.

  The tent flap rustled again at sunset.

  Nolan ducked in, holding two bowls and a bottle. “Hey, you still mad or can I come in?”

  Caelus didn’t answer but didn’t throw him out either. Just glared.

  The fleshshifter grinned. “Perfect. Let’s eat. Then we beat the shit out of each other.”

  Cael narrowed his eyes. “You want to spar?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure you can call it that when I’m gonna win.” The man grinned, challenge in his eyes.

  “You’re out of your mind.” Caelus shook his head, unimpressed.

  “I’m a Fleshshifter,” Nolan stated, absurdly proud. “We specialize in unhinged decisions.”

  He jerked his chin toward the entrance. “Come on. You need some air.”

  Cael followed.

  The air was thick with heat and rhythm. The sound of drums echoed through the clearing—steady, pulsing, a heartbeat of war and celebration all the same.

  It was not a battlefield, but it felt like one. Not a fight, but something more primal. More alive.

  The arena blazed with life. Nolan led him to a small hill beside it—one of the tables, prime seats and thankfully empty. Most of the crowd packed against the opposite fence, all eyes on the center.

  There, in the firelight, Solferen moved.

  A force of nature dressed in dusk and muscle. Bare feet barely kissed the earth as he spun, rolled, twisted. He moved like water and struck like a storm. A pivot became a dodge. A backflip landed without effort.

  Gravity didn’t seem to know what to do with him.

  Killeon danced opposite him—silent, solid, precise. A statue come to life, glaive sweeping through the air as a reaper’s scythe.

  They circled like two wolves in a dance they had long since perfected. The way they moved, the way they watched each other—it was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with softness and everything to do with knowing. Knowing each other's strengths, each other's habits, each other's every tell.

  Killeon wasn’t holding back—Sol clearly had demanded as much. The way the goliath moved with the weapon was pure, practiced brutality, his strikes fast and heavy, each swing meant to land. But Sol?

  Sol was laughing.

  The elf barely stayed in one place long enough to be struck. He flowed. His movements a river in motion, unpredictable.

  Nothing clean. Nothing templar.

  Nothing safe.

  Killeon growled, eyes burning with focus as he lunged.

  The blade came down fast—Sol ducked, twisting his body in an almost inhuman bend, he dropped into a back arch so deep his head nearly touched the ground, muscles taut.

  The chant erupted, feet stomping, hands slamming against thighs, the energy climbing to an intoxicating high.

  The glaive sliced the air inches from his face. And before Killeon could recover, Sol’s palm met the flat of the blade, slapping it aside like it was nothing but a toy.

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  The watching crowd roared. Cheers, laughter, some clapping, others shaking their heads in disbelief.

  Killeon’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but the closest thing he ever gave to one. He lived for this. Fighting Solferen was his favorite kind of fun.

  Another swing. Sol ducked, spun low, swept a leg out—Killeon leapt over it, bringing the glaive down. Sol twisted mid-motion, barely avoiding it, using the momentum to flip backwards into a stance so graceful it looked like a performance.

  Somewhere in the watching crowd, the knight sat, arms crossed, scowling at nothing in particular.

  He had seen fights before. Hundreds. He’d studied form and perfected it for hours until his limbs screamed. He had seen men kill, seen bandits move with vicious efficiency, seen trained soldiers strike with precision.

  This was different.

  Sol fought like liquid, like music. There was no rigid discipline in his movements, no clean-cut techniques of classical training—everything was instinct, body, movement, rhythm. Chaos turned into poetry.

  And it disturbed Caelus.

  Because it was alluring. Because it shouldn’t be.

  The fight pressed on. Sol danced, mocked, laughed as he ducked under a sweeping strike. The way his hair moved with him, the way sweat gleamed on his skin, the sheer effortlessness of it all—it wasn’t just skill.

  It was freedom.

  The glaive sliced down. Sol spun, grabbing Killeon’s wrist, twisting it in a way that forced him to drop the weapon. In the same motion, Sol kicked the glaive into the air, caught it—

  And pressed the blade to Killeon’s throat.

  The crowd exploded into feral cheers.

  Killeon exhaled, rolling his shoulders, unfazed as he stared down at his own blade. Then, after a pause, he huffed.

  “Fine,” He grunted, shrugging. “Your win.”

  Sol, still breathless, still glowing with exhilaration, grinned.

  “Obviously.”

  The glaive was tossed back. The fight was over.

  But Caelus still felt it. The lingering echo of movement, of something that defied the order he had known his whole life.

  He watched Solferen laugh, tossing his sweat-drenched hair back, eyes bright, body thrumming with victory.

  And he realized, with something like dread, that this wasn’t the last time he would feel that unwelcome pull in his chest.

  It was impressive, sure. It was beautiful, even—though he’d never admit that aloud. But it wasn’t real fighting.

  Not real combat.

  This was a show. A game. Entertainment. A nice one, he’ll give them that.

  Fighting should be controlled. Precise. Templars fought in perfect form, drilled into their muscles since childhood.

  This was… wild. Too unpredictable, too reckless, too wrong.

  And yet, despite his better judgment, despite everything he had been taught…

  He couldn't look away.

  He didn’t realize how much his thoughts were written on his face until it was too late.

  Because Solferen turned, mid-laugh.

  And looked straight at him.

  Pointed.

  “You. Next.”

  Damn it.

  Cael’s stomach dropped.

  Nolan leaned in, whispering with too much delight. “Oh, you’re so fucked.”

  The crowd roared.

  The knight blinked. Then scoffed. “No.”

  But it was too late. The mob of lunatics that made up their camp had already decided for him, scooped him out of his seat pushing him forward. Someone clapped him on the back, someone else whistled.

  “Afraid, Sunny?” Nolan taunted, safe and sound in his seat.

  Traitor.

  Caelus scoffed.

  Afraid? Of course not. This wasn’t a real fight. This was a performance, and he had no interest in—

  “Or,” Sol’s voice purred, coy, “are you just worried you’ll lose?”

  That did it.

  Fine. He was aching to beat him since the day they met.

  He stepped forward.

  Sol was already waiting—smiling. Still breathless from his last fight, hair damp, muscles twitching under skin. Loose. Lethal.

  Cael rolled his shoulders. “No weapons?”

  “Do you need one?” The Beast tilted his head.

  Caelus gritted his teeth.

  Whatever. He could handle this. He had sparred before. If Sol wanted a show, he’d get one.

  The drums started.

  The fight began.

  The knight lunged—fast, sharp, efficient. Straight for the shoulder.

  Pin him, end this nonsense quickly.

  Sol wasn’t there.

  Cael stumbled, grasping at air.

  Turned—

  Sol was behind him.

  Too close.

  Too close.

  His breath, hot and steady, ghosted across Cael’s neck.

  “You sure you’re ready for this, Inquisitor?” Sol murmured, voice laced with wicked amusement.

  Cael jerked back like he had been burned. Whipped around.

  The crowd howled.

  But he barely heard them over the roar of his own pulse. A sharp, unfamiliar twist in his gut. He wasn’t used to… this. This proximity, this mockery, this—this—

  Sol moved before he could recover.

  Again.

  And again.

  Each time Caelus struck, Solferen was already gone. A breath of movement, slipping under his grasp, rolling around his defense, stepping into his space only to steal it from him.

  And each time—he got closer.

  A brush of fingers against his wrist. Then—gone.

  A fleeting touch against his jaw as Sol ducked away.

  And Cael—Cael hated how fast he was.

  How easy it looked. How every dodge felt personal.

  Sol was everywhere. And always gone.

  And every time he vanished, he left heat in his place.

  This wasn’t just a fight.

  It was public execution.

  But worse than that—worse than losing—

  It was exhilarating.

  Sol was toying with him. Not just in movement, but in presence, invading his space with a deliberate ease that sent something trembling through the Cael’s carefully built walls.

  And Sol knew.

  He could see it in the wicked gleam in his eyes, the sharp quirk of his lips.

  Caelus lunged again—wild, desperate.

  Sol caught his wrist. Stopped him. Pulled him forward—spun him, making him stumble, breath ripped from his chest—

  An arm around his throat. A body against his back.

  “Yield,” came the whisper.

  It wasn’t mocking.

  It was soft.

  Too soft.

  And for the first time in his life, Caelus thought—maybe he should. The knight’s pride burned as a brand against his skin.

  He could not—would not—yield.

  Not to this.

  Not to him.

  He jerked against Sol’s hold, twisting his body with all the force he had, trying to break free—but Solferen moved with him, never loosening, never faltering.

  Like a shadow, like the night itself.

  “Still fighting?” The elf mused, voice full of amusement. “I admire the spirit, Moraine, but I can do this all day.”

  The knight growled through his teeth and drove his weight forward, breaking the hold for a split second—long enough to turn, to shove, to regain his footing.

  The Beast let him.

  Caelus didn’t realize it was a trap until it was too late.

  Sol’s leg hooked behind his, twisting their momentum. With a gasp, the templar felt the world tilt—then fall.

  The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.

  And when he opened his eyes—

  Sol was on top of him.

  The cheers and whistles of the crowd faded into static. The fire vanished.

  There was only the weight. The heat. The shadow above him.

  Solferen leaned over him, braced on one arm, trapping him. The heat of his skin seeped through the barrier of fabric and armor between them, burning hot, oppressive, suffocating.

  His face was too close.

  Too close.

  The knight tried to jerk away, but there was nowhere to go. The elf’s body was iron against his own, his hold firm, absolute.

  “Yield,” Sol repeated, voice lower now. Not taunting, not amused.

  This time it was a command.

  Caelus gritted his teeth. His body trembled, from exertion, from struggle, from anger, and… from something else.

  Something worse.

  Sol felt it. And he did not move.

  Did not ease the pressure of his weight.

  Did not look away.

  Those predatory eyes, burning with something ancient and unreadable, were locked onto him—pupils drawn to thin slits. And deep within them—something glowed.

  The templar swallowed hard, pushing himself away, digging deeper into the ground.

  Sol didn’t even smirk.

  He watched with hunter’s uncanny stillness. Only his pupils pulsed at every tiny movement as those of a feline before the launch.

  Not touching. Just close enough to feel the smell of his skin. Berries and moss after rain.

  And Caelus—for the first time in his life—Could not breathe. At all.

  Sweat beaded at his temples.

  He was burning.

  He was drowning.

  This—this wasn’t right. It wasn’t a fight anymore.

  And that was the worst part.

  Sol wasn't gloating. He wasn't mocking. He wasn’t playing with his prey like a cat with a cornered mouse.

  No, he was waiting. Watching.

  A predator looming over something not yet devoured.

  Caelus knew he should shove him away. At the very least try to.

  He should force his trembling arms to push, to resist, to do anything but lay there and let the unbearable heat between them settle in his bones as an infection.

  But his body—his traitorous, blasphemous body—would not move.

  He was still fighting. But not Sol. No, the battle was within himself.

  “Yield.” A growl.

  The knight’s jaw clenched so hard it ached.

  His mind was screaming at him to fight. His pride was screaming louder.

  Sol’s head tilted just slightly, silver strand falling loose from where they had been slicked back. The movement made the knight’s gaze snag on the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips—

  He tore his eyes away.

  Too late.

  He saw.

  And oh, he liked it.

  The amusement returned—but it was different now. It wasn’t sharp, or cruel, or teasing.

  It was satisfied.

  As if he’d won.

  Caelus let out a sharp, shaken breath. His body thrummed, a wire pulled too tight. He had to do something. Anything.

  And so, before the tension could snap, before something dangerous could happen—

  He did the only thing left to do.

  He slammed his head forward.

  The impact stunned them both for a second—Sol jerking back in surprise, blood already trailing down his lips. Cael used the opening to shove him off.

  He scrambled to his feet, choking on his breath, burning, eyes wide and wild.

  Sol, sitting up, pressed his fingers against his nose. Then—

  He grinned. Like he was thrilled.

  “Oooh.” He sang, licking blood from his lip. “Feisty. I like that.”

  Cael turned on his heel and stormed off, ignoring the sound of whooping, laughing, and cheering from the camp. Ignoring the way his hands shook.

  He was too busy trying not to feel the warmth that still clung to his skin.

  His legs trembled. His spine locked so hard it ached. Anything to keep the scream inside.

  The Mercenary King just sat there in the dirt, watching the templar’s retreating form with all the patience of a wolf on the hunt.

  “Oh, this is gonna be fun!” He murmured, just loud enough for Killeon to hear.

  His brother, still standing with his glaive resting over his shoulders, rolled his eyes and sighed. “You're a menace.”

  Sol grinned, lopsided. “You love me for that.”

  Killeon thought about it. Considered it. Debated.

  Then shrugged. “Eh.”

  The camp roared with laughter.

  The knight? He was going to start carrying a second sword just to stab that abomination twice.