The cathedral doors creaked open.

  Again.

  Solferen strolled in as though he’d been invited to a banquet, not summoned by the most powerful man in the Aureate Empire. Dust still clung to his boots. His cloak dragged behind him like shadowed smoke, catching on the marble with every confident step. His expression?

  Smug. Infuriatingly so. The kind of smile that made Caelus want to scream.

  The Pope hadn’t moved from his throne.

  Caelus hadn’t moved from his knees.

  And the tension in the room hadn’t moved at all.

  It had only thickened.

  Sol flashed a grin.

  “You two took your time,” he said breezily. “I was starting to think you were bonding in there.”

  Lucen’s gaze flicked toward him. Cold. Sharp.

  “A reunion between a father and his most faithful son deserves privacy.”

  Sol cackled. “Charming. Tis’ a shame I missed it. Would’ve brought flowers.”

  Caelus clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt.

  His fingers curled against his knee.

  His thoughts still echoed with ‘you were held hostage by vagabonds?’.

  He could still feel the Pope’s breath at his ear, burning with mortification.

  The Pope ignored them both for a beat. Then—finally—he steepled his fingers.

  “Tell me about the farmlands.”

  Sol’s tone shifted. Just a little. Casual, but not careless.

  “Scorched. Empty. Runic anchors along the soil line—my men recognized the Tower’s signature.”

  Lucen’s brow arched. “The Mage Tower?”

  Sol nodded once. “Veil Breaker’s markings. Faint, but old. And the fog—”

  A smirk curled the edge of his mouth, almost fond.

  “—was a nice touch. Subtle necromantic residue. Neat little curse zone.”

  Caelus stayed silent. Kneeling. Staring forward.

  Empty.

  Hollowed out.

  Lucen leaned back. Thoughtful.

  “These are not common occurrences,” he said softly. The words came slow, grave. “Not unless someone is… tampering.”

  The light from the stained glass shifted as he spoke, crimson spilling across the floor as fresh blood. A warning. A wound.

  Sol didn’t blink.

  But he listened, his eyes squinting with predatory content. Expecting an opening to pounce.

  “The Crown funds many things,” The Pope continued, voice dipping lower—a dagger beneath velvet. “But not every endeavor is made public. Not every hand plays for the same side.”

  The air thickened.

  Sol’s posture shifted—not enough for most to notice. But Caelus saw it.

  “You’re saying this wasn’t bandits, then?” He murmured. Fake intrigue laced through his voice.

  “I’m saying,” Lucen replied, smooth as honey, “that someone powerful may be meddling. Someone with reach. And a hunger for more.”

  There it was.

  The accusation delivered without a name. Without proof.

  But just enough to condemn someone. Maybe everyone.

  Caelus closed his eyes.

  This was no longer suspicion.

  Treason.

  Veiled. Polite. Deadly.

  Sol tilted his head, gaze half-lidded, dangerous.

  “How generous of you,” he crooned. “Entrusting me with this.”

  Lucen, perched atop his polished dais of ivory and gold, leaned back as though tasting bitter wine.

  Silence was his answer.

  Then—with a flick of his wrist—he tossed something.

  A heavy sack of coin hit the marble with a resonant thunk.

  Dust bloomed around it in the sunlight, and for a moment, it looked like incense at a funeral.

  The sound echoed with a command. The message was clear.

  Sol didn’t flinch. Didn’t stoop.

  Instead, he kicked it into the air with the tip of his boot—an effortless motion—and caught it in the crook of his elbow with the flair of someone juggling heads, not currency. Like he’d done it a thousand times before.

  Theatrical. Effortless. Insulting.

  His smile was subtle. Cruel.

  As if to say, ‘If you wanted me on my knees, Your Holiness—you're going to have to try harder.’

  Lucen’s eye twitched, but he didn’t betray any more of his feelings.

  “You are to investigate,” he said. His voice flat. Heavy. “As you see fit.”

  Caelus felt it.

  That phrasing. That freedom.

  He recognized it. He knew it well.

  A leash long enough to hang yourself with.

  But Sol only smiled. One might’ve thought he was offered a throne instead of rope. He turned, just enough to look toward the throne. No bow. No humility.

  “Gladly,” he purred.

  The coin purse vanished into his bag like it had never existed.

  Lucen did not look away.

  Neither did Sol.

  It was a standoff made entirely of stillness.

  And Caelus?

  Still kneeling. Still silent.

  Still bleeding from words not spoken aloud.

  For a moment, staring at the two of them, he wondered—truly wondered—who the real messenger of God in this room was.

  The doors of the cathedral groaned shut behind them.

  Caelus followed in silence. No ceremony. No escort. Just the steady clip of boots on marble and the weight of silence pressing between them.

  He didn’t look back.

  Not at the stained glass.

  Not at the Pope.

  Outside, sunlight landed as a hand across the face.

  Sol stepped out into it as if he’d just walked off stage.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The grand cathedral loomed behind him, but he didn’t even glance back.

  He stretched his arms above his head, spine popping with audible relief of a man shedding divine judgment off his shoulders.

  “Well,” he drawled, casting a sideways glance at Caelus, “seems like you’re stuck with me for a while longer. How thrilling.”

  Caelus said nothing.

  Jaw locked. Armor stiff on his frame, as though it were the only thing keeping him from splintering.

  Sol tilted his head. “Don’t you need to grab your belongings or something? You know—just in case you make me drop dead again and need a spare pair of socks.”

  “I don’t possess belongings. What I have belongs to the Church.” Caelus replied without hesitation.

  A pause. Too long for mockery.

  Sol looked at him. Really looked.

  “…Damn,” he muttered, suspiciously sober. “That’s sad.”

  Somehow, the pity was worse than the teasing.

  Then—his smirk returned. Lazy. Sharp. Biting.

  “Well, at least request a spare set of clothes. You can’t keep relying on Nolan’s hoarding habits forever. And if I catch another whiff of battlefield sweat, I swear I’m throwing you in a river again. Armor and all.”

  Caelus scowled, muttered something blasphemous under his breath, and turned on his heel.

  The air changed as soon as he stepped back inside.

  Cooler. Cleaner. Stiller.

  He passed the templar training grounds—row after row of soldiers in perfect synchrony. Posture unbroken. Blades flashing as clockwork.

  The clang of steel and barked orders echoed like ritual.

  No joy. No laughter. No music.

  Past the quarters. Neat, sterile, indistinguishable.

  Each cot folded identically. Each desk stripped of personality.

  No books. No tokens. No drawings. No flowers.

  Just boots lined like gravestones and scripture tucked under pillows as unspoken guilt.

  A few knights nodded at him as he passed.

  Polite. Respectful. Empty.

  No jokes. No warmth. Not a single one asked if he was alright. Just acknowledgement from one piece of machinery to another cog.

  He kept walking.

  And against his better judgment, his thoughts drifted—to the camp.

  The noise.

  The chaos.

  The stupid pot of soup always cooking.

  The ungodly beast pretending to be a horse.

  The arguments. The teasing.

  The firelight laughter that echoed past midnight.

  He furrowed his brows. Hard. And picked up the pace.

  “Sir Moraine!”

  The voice stopped him cold.

  He turned slowly to find a young templar jogging toward him, eyes wide and bright.

  It was the same boy who had spent that night at Sol’s camp after that disaster of a mission. Messy black hair, kind black eyes that have not seen the world yet. One of those who don’t survive long.

  Caelus raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

  The boy hesitated, shifting awkwardly. “Are you, um… heading back? To that camp? With the mercenaries?”

  Cael’s gaze narrowed. “Yes.”

  The boy hesitated again. Then blurted out, “Is that lady still there? Miranda?”

  Cael frowned, head tilting with confusion. “Miranda?”

  “The one with the red hair and the knife tricks?” The young templar gazed up at him with too much aspiration for his own good.

  “Yes.” Cael said slowly, he didn’t like where this was going. “Why?”

  Then the templar thrust something out.

  A letter. Shaky in his grasp. Hopeful. Crumpled slightly from being held too tightly.

  Caelus stared at it like it was diseased.

  “You wrote her a letter?” He hissed.

  “She told me to!” The boy said quickly. “I mean—not directly—but she said I had good hands and maybe I should write sometime—” He brushed his hand through his hair bashfully, flushing red.

  Cael facepalmed, hard enough to echo through the empty halls. “Have you gone mad?”

  The boy shrank back. Eyes wide.

  But…

  Caelus ripped the letter from his hand anyway. Muttering something about idiocy and weakness, and turned sharply on his heel.

  He did not look back.

  He didn’t want to see the boy’s face lighting up.

  Didn’t want to know.

  He just marched across the church grounds, the letter crumpled slightly in his grip.

  Stupid. Absolutely absurd.

  A templar. Writing a letter. To a mercenary.

  He scoffed aloud. Quietly. Furiously.

  The rules were clear.

  Templars didn’t form attachments. No romantic entanglements. No distractions.

  Discipline was devotion, and devotion was strength. That was the teaching. That was the vow.

  And yet—

  He wasn’t blind.

  He knew what happened among the lower ranks. The glances. The quiet laughter during patrol rotations. The late-night disappearances to the nearest tavern. Keepsakes hidden behind armor.

  He had turned a blind eye. Once. Twice. Maybe more.

  That was mercy, wasn’t it? A necessary compromise.

  They were young. It would pass.

  But this?

  This was stupidity.

  A letter to a mercenary woman who twirled daggers like ribbon and flirted like sin made flesh? In that heathen Rotcamp full of killers and monsters?

  He felt his temple twitching with the force of his scowl.

  How foolish. How naive. That girl was just toying with the poor idiot. She probably laughed about it the second he left. Probably collected admirers like trophies. Toyed with them too.

  That's what they did, wasn’t it?

  They laughed. They touched. They whispered things they didn’t mean and pretended it was freedom.

  It wasn’t. It was filth wrapped in chaos.

  His boots struck the stone a little too hard as he turned a corner.

  He wasn’t like them.

  He would never be like them.

  He was not weak. Not easily swayed. He belonged to the Church. Every inch of him—mind, body, soul.

  This letter meant nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  Still, his hand tightened slightly on the parchment.

  He imagined her tossing it into the fire.

  He imagined the boy waiting by the gates.

  And for some reason, that made something in his chest ache.

  Worse than pain.

  Worse than guilt.

  Like something had cracked—but he didn’t yet know where.

  He shook his head as though it could throw the feeling off.

  Foolishness. He was above this.

  The boy is naive. That’s all it was.

  Naive and young and—

  He stormed out of the temple clutching spare set of clothes and that damned letter, hidden between the folds like it might burn him if touched too long.

  They didn’t speak when they left the Cathedral.

  Not through the gate.

  Not down the polished white steps.

  Not as the holy spires shrank behind them, swallowed by the trees.

  Sol rode ahead, loose on the beast’s back, humming something offensive.

  Caelus followed. A shade bound to duty.

  Every hoofbeat was another echo of the Pope’s voice in his head. Each command a stone sinking deeper into his gut.

  Learn him. Watch him. Destroy him.

  Solferen, the creature he’d stabbed in the neck just a week ago, looked annoyingly alive. Relaxed. Cloak fluttering, jaw sharp with that same unbearable calm—as if he hadn’t just charmed a bag of gold out of the Pope and walked out unscathed.

  Like he hadn’t humiliated him.

  Again.

  Caelus stared at his back hoping it might burst into flames under the weight of his glare.

  The man was a demon.

  Confirmed.

  Unnatural.

  Manipulative.

  A threat.

  So why was he so calm?

  Why didn’t he feel like a monster? Why did he laugh? Smile? Help people?

  Cael’s fingers twitched on the reins.

  The Pope had confirmed it. He is not mortal.

  But that thing on Sol’s chest… that vision…

  That had to be a lie. A trick.

  Meant to confuse him. Twist his faith.

  To make him see Aurenos in a false light.

  That was how creatures of The Pit worked, wasn’t it? With temptation. With illusions.

  But something—

  Something sat wrong.

  Because if this was just another attempt to dismantle his devotion—

  Then why show him that?

  Why show him death?

  Why show him sorrow?

  Why make him feel it—down to the sword in the chest and the blood in his lungs?

  Wouldn’t it be easier to confuse a man of God with beauty? With warmth?

  With a vision that made sense?

  But that first part…

  The fire.

  The massacre.

  The screaming.

  It felt real. Too chaotic to be scripted.

  Unless—

  Unless it wasn’t a lie at all.

  He tried to laugh it off. Shrug it off.

  Tried to stuff it back into the hymns he’d memorized since boyhood. But the psalms rattled in his skull like coins in a hollow cup.

  Not like in the old days, kneeling in stone corridors with fear in his throat. Back then, the words could protect him.

  Now… not even a blade could.

  They picked up Rish and Killeon on the road.

  Rish immediately swung herself up onto her horse as a war goddess reborn, yelled something obscene about ‘missing Sol’s thighs’, and proceeded to alternate between catcalling him and trying to braid Killeon’s hair while he glared at her in slow, cold disbelief.

  Sol played along as if he was posing for a painting.

  Killeon muttered something about “tackling her off the horse and feeding her to Bastard.”

  She winked at him. “Promises, promises.”

  Caelus didn’t register any of it.

  The noise passed through him as water through the net.

  He rode in silence, eyes fixed ahead, drowning under the weight of visions he couldn’t unsee and scriptures that no longer fit.