The Cathedral stood bathed in gold. The Radiant Crown of Aurenos, they called it.

  Stained-glass windows stretched high above, filtering the morning light into cascading hues of crimson and amber, casting long, divine shadows across the marble floor. The air was thick with incense, the scent of myrrh and burning oils curling through the grand chamber.

  It was a place of worship, of reverence—a place where faith was not questioned, only obeyed.

  Heavy armored boots crossed the threshold, their hurried march faltering, softening, as if this place would be desecrated by the noise alone.

  The path led the man to the altar’s base, where he sank to one knee, his head bowed, hands clasped against the hilt of his sword. Silence was sacred, broken only by the rhythmic flicker of candles, their flames swaying in quiet prayer, and the slow, deliberate steps from the dais above.

  “Rise, my son.”

  The voice was warm and gentle—a voice that shaped him, molded him through the years into the man he was. The knight obeyed without hesitation, standing in practiced grace as his gaze met the person in front of him.

  Pope Lucen Durette sat upon his high seat, dressed in flowing white and deep azure, his golden hair catching the morning light like a halo.

  He was young, impossibly so for his station, his face unmarred by age and doubt. To the faithful, he was a shepherd, a man who carried the weight of God’s will upon his shoulders. But to the knight, he was something more.

  A mentor. A guide. A father in all but blood.

  “My most faithful knight,” the Pope smiled, the way a parent does when welcoming home a wayward child—fond, patient, and just a little too knowing. “It pleases me to see you well.”

  The knight pressed a fist to his heart, bowing his head once again. A strand of chestnut hair slipped loose, falling across his forehead, but he did not move to brush it away.

  “My service is yours, Holy Father.”

  The Pope’s eyes crinkled with approval. “And ever steadfast, as you have always been.”

  He leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled. “Tell me, my son. How strong is your faith?”

  “Unshaken.” Not a moment of hesitation.

  “As it should be.” The Pope sighed, nodding slightly.

  “A time has come when your faith must be tested once more.” He paused, weighing his next words with care. “There is a man… no, a beast, who must be brought into the fold.”

  The knight listened, unmoving. The Pope’s words have never been meaningless.

  “A king without a crown, ruling over vagabonds and heretics. A man who commands fear, but not faith. A mercenary who refuses to kneel before God.” The Pope’s smile did not fade, but there was something cold beneath it. “You will find him. You will bring him to me. There is work to be done.”

  The knight inclined his head. “A heretic?”

  “A weapon.” The Pope corrected, his voice like silk. “One that may yet serve the righteous cause.”

  He had his orders. That was all that mattered. But still, the knight frowned slightly.

  “If he is a man of such violence, Holy Father, then why seek him for anything but execution? Surely, the church has no need of mercenaries.” A question asked not out of doubt, but of diligence.

  The Pope chuckled, shaking his head. “Faith does not demand understanding, my son. Only obedience.”

  A beat of silence. Then, softer—

  “You trust me, do you not?”

  The knight’s bright steel-blue eyes met his gaze without hesitation. “With my life.”

  The Pope smiled, pleased. “Then do not question God's will, boy. Only carry it.”

  His fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of his throne, gaze sharpening.

  “But be warned, your path will lead you through the Blightreach Woods.” He let the name settle, heavy between them. “There are worse things than heretics in that forest.”

  A warning, or a test of resolve?

  The knight bowed his head one last time. “It will be done.”

  The Pope reached forward, his hand brushing over his hair in a touch that was both a blessing and a claim.

  “You have never failed me, Caelus,” he murmured. “Do not fail me now.”

  A mission, then. A test of his faith.

  Caelus left the cathedral with a newfound purpose in his stride, with pride in his chest, blind to the fact that his hands have just been dirtied once again.

  And so, the Hunt Began.

  The trail started in the village of Bellmere, a quiet settlement too close to the Forbidden Forest for comfort. A place where the trees loomed too thick, the air carried too many whispers, and the villagers spoke in hushed, uneasy tones.

  The rumors were small at first.

  A shadow passing through. A scarred elf in a mercenary’s leathers. Nothing more than tavern talks—until a loose-lipped smuggler, softened by ale, spoke a name before his nerves could stop him.

  Varg.

  It was enough.

  Caelus had led hunts before. He knew the patterns, the rhythm of the chase. But this was different. The church was not tracking a fugitive, nor a heretic hiding among the common folk, clinging to the shadows of the city. This was a ghost chase. A man who did not wish to be found.

  His squad—handpicked and disciplined—moved with precision. Hunters, not soldiers. They took their places along the well-worn routes where mercenaries passed unseen.

  They waited, hidden in the forests shadow, watching the roads where smugglers carried contraband and merchants turned blind eyes. They listened to whispers of coin exchanged in the shadows, to hushed voices in back alleys.

  Days passed in cold patience, in sleepless nights and murmured reports.

  Then—at last—they saw him. He looked exactly like the stories warned them.

  The Wild Elf.

  No cloak. No grace. Just rough edges and feral presence.

  A living weapon. Scarred, mahogany skin marred by past battles and born violence. Deep green eyes like a beast’s, unblinking, fixed with the kind of stillness that made one’s instincts scream. His hair, long and tangled like thorny vines in moonlight, spilled over pointed ears adorned in rings that didn’t match—clearly stolen, clearly uncivilized.

  He didn’t walk like a man. He stalked. That was the word. Even now, standing still in the alleyway’s dim light, he seemed coiled, a bowstring drawn and waiting. His shirt hung loose, more suggestion than clothing, exposing collarbones cut from granite. Freckles dusted his cheeks like ash after a fire. Blood stained the both sides of his face—not fresh, not his, and not washed off.

  Those red symmetrical streaks down his face looked almost painted.

  A war mark. A warning.

  And Caelus remembered his training.

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  Wild Elves didn’t heal, refusing their natural magic. They didn’t reason. They survived. Bit down on their own limbs to keep from screaming. Broke their enemies’ bones and drank from cracked streams.

  They didn’t kneel.

  They didn’t beg.

  They ran. Or they killed.

  And this one… wasn’t running. Yet.

  The elf walked like someone who had never been caught. A shadow slipping through the village with practiced ease. He did not weave or hesitate, did not look over his shoulder, as though the very notion of pursuit was beneath him.

  So they followed, silent as breath, certain they would not be noticed.

  Through the streets. Through the narrow alleys, where the morning mist still clung to the stone. Out past the scattered homes, where the fields stretched open beneath the pale gold of dawn.

  The tall grass swayed, rustling like whispers, curling against the wind.

  They let him lead. Careful. Distant.

  The templars moved apart, never too close, never too obvious, communicating in signs, in glances, in the language of hunters.

  Right to the edge of the forest.

  And then—

  Varg bolted. As if he always knew.

  Not a look spared.

  Caelus gave chase, his men surging forward like hounds loosed from the leash. His lungs burned, the sting of air slicing his throat with every breath. His heartbeat pounded so loud it drowned out the world.

  They had him.

  Or so they thought.

  Branches lashed at the armor. Mud sucked at their boots. But it wasn’t the terrain that slowed Caelus—it was doubt, coiling tight in his chest.

  Was he being hunted instead?

  Varg moved as if the forest belonged to him. Through the trees, over roots, through tangled thickets that clawed at their armor and slowed their steps. He was not running blindly—he was leading them.

  Caelus saw it then, a beat too late—a single careless look thrown at them over the elf’s shoulder.

  This was not a fugitive’s desperate sprint. This was a path. A plan.

  And suddenly…

  He was gone.

  The knights skidded to a halt.

  No sound. No movement. Only the whisper of wind through the leaves.

  Caelus turned sharply, breath coming hard and fast. His eyes swept the trees, scanning, searching—but something was wrong. No footprints. No broken branches. Like he had vanished into thin air.

  A trick. A setup.

  The quiet buzzed, sharp and strange. The world froze with that kind of silence that announces the danger.

  Their breath rang louder than shattered glass in an empty hall.

  And in the stillness, something else moved.

  Too fast. Too wrong.

  Realization came too late. The first attack hit before they even saw it coming.

  Something not human. Something old. Enormous.

  A man stood before Caelus, only for an instant.

  Gone. Taken.

  Swept into the air with a blur of motion foreign to anything resembling human. His body slammed into a tree with such brutal force that the bark split, the trunk denting on collision with a creak.

  He crumpled. Like a ragdoll.

  Like a thing already lifeless before it hit the ground.

  He didn’t even make a sound.

  Dead on the first impact.

  Caelus froze. His sword felt too heavy. His brain too slow. He watched death happen in real time—and did nothing.

  It stood there for a moment.

  A giant, disproportionate shape, its twisted frame a grotesque collection of bones—animal, creature, human—all woven together by moss and creeping vines.

  A skull crowned with antlers loomed over them, hollow sockets burning with two sizzling-hot specks of light. A mockery to god’s creation.

  The air hummed with unnatural tension around it, thick with the scent of damp earth and rot.

  It roared.

  A sound like splintering wood, like the earth itself screaming. It bent low, faux muscles tensing, claws gouging into the dirt.

  Ready to charge.

  Caelus’ legs moved before his brain could catch up—instinct, not courage. His body knew this wasn’t winnable. But faith demanded action.

  “To arms!” An order left his lips before he could think better about it. A habit conditioned by years of training and practice. His voice cutting through the shocked stupor like a sharpened knife.

  The knights moved. Steel flashed. Shields braced.

  Nine are left standing.

  The creature charged them akin to an enraged bull, impossibly fast for its size. Its steps tore the earth apart beneath it.

  The squad scattered, barely fast enough to stay alive.

  First swing of the sword found its mark, steel carving into bone. The vines snarled, tightened, pulling the severed remains back into place, bones shifting, reforging their shape.

  The steel? Useless.

  One knight was impaled, body dangling, stuck on antlers and left there as a wicked decoration.

  Eight are left standing.

  Another. Crushed. Trampled under its weight, armor folding inward. Red spilled on the grass.

  Seven.

  Swords stuck in vines. Twisted, taken by the force scarier than the wild. Ripped from their hands like toys.

  Shields splintered.

  Caelus barely dodged a swipe that could have just torn him in two. It found someone else instead.

  A nauseating screech of metal. A spray of warmth across his face.

  Six.

  “Retreat!” A word he had never spoken before.

  A last resort. A defeat.

  But the thing was not done playing yet.

  The squad fell back, still facing the beast—because turning their backs would be suicide. There was no outrunning it. They were going to die, torn to pieces just for the fun of it. And no one will find their bodies to bury.

  Time slowed.

  The beast loomed above them now, its malformed grasp lifting like an executioner’s blade, poised for the final blow. Some closed their eyes and muttered one last prayer.

  Bracing. Waiting.

  But the strike never came.

  Instead—a gust of freezing wind surged through the forest, howling through the trees, carrying with it a delicate chime of forming ice, barely audible, yet sharp as glass.

  The knights flinched, raising their arms to shield their faces as it swept before them, biting the skin.

  A prayer answered?

  No.

  A force of nature unleashed.

  Something slammed into the beast’s arm with untamed fury—a shard of ice, massive as a boulder, tearing through flesh and bone like a cannonball. The impact twisted the creature sideways, its grotesque frame wobbling under the sudden force.

  Magic.

  It screeched a sound of twisting metal, a wail of something ancient and wrong.

  The beast’s attention shifted instantly. Not to the knights. Not to its prey. But to the true danger.

  But it was already too late for the thing.

  A sharp whistle cut through the forest.

  And then came the storm. Too fast to register properly.

  Arrows, burning, sang through the air. They landed with precision, sinking into the creature’s back. Flames ignited it from within, charring the vines, burning through the marrow.

  Ice smashed into its legs, locking its movements, trapping it in place.

  A glaive flashed. Behind it—an elf, eyes burning bright as embers.

  No, not an elf, his frame too big.

  He didn’t emerge. He crashed.

  The man jumped into the air full speed, glaive swinging mid-stride, bringing all his weight behind the first strike.

  Steel met bone with a deafening crack—the impact so brutal, the beast stumbled.

  It tried to recover, but it has no time. Because in the next heartbeat, he was on it again. The glaive swung, cleaving through vines, carving deep into carcass.

  The creature staggered. Struggled.

  One final strike. The glaive came down, straight between its eyes.

  A sickening crunch.

  Something pulsing inside the skull shattered. The beast stiffened, its burning eyes flickering, sputtering, then dimming.

  Then body crumpled piece by piece—bones unraveling, vines withering, sinking back into the earth where they belong.

  Silence. Just for a breath. The knights stood frozen.

  The beast was gone, too fast.

  And yet, the danger had only begun.

  Caelus only managed to take a single breath when the cold press of steel found his throat.

  The templars—gasping, reeling, alive—found themselves at the mercy of a blade. A blade that had just saved them.

  "The likes of you are not welcome here." The voice was calm. Cold. Unbothered. Their savior’s gaze, eyes burning rich amber with specks of toxic green, swept over them—calculating, unimpressed.

  He had seen worse. Done worse.

  Figures stepped out from the trees—relaxed, at ease, weapons drawn but held loosely.

  Like they had not just witnessed carnage.

  Like the forest belonged to them alone.

  Like the knights were intruders in someone else’s game.

  Caelus, still catching his breath, stared.

  One of them, standing before him now—A mage.

  A runaway from the Church. The one they have been taught to despise. And he just saved their lives.

  “Wait.” The word left his lips before he could think it through.

  He lifted his hands, letting his sword drop to the ground. The others followed his lead. Slowly. Carefully.

  “We are here by the order of the church. We—"

  “Obviously you are, templar.” A voice snickered.

  “I say we off them now” Another voice—just as amused.

  The mage—barely paying attention to the unfolding hostage situation—prodded something inside the beast’s cracked skull with his dagger, distracted.

  He looked soft, even pretty. Like a choirboy who picked locks for fun.

  “Naw, papa would love to hear them out. At least for the amusement.” He chuckled, almost to himself.

  Papa?

  Was he talking about the Mercenary King?

  Caelus’ eyes darted between the mage and the glaive-wielder, trying to gauge something—anything—from their unreadable expressions.

  After a moment of tense silence, the steel vanished. Reluctantly.

  The elf, or whoever this person might be, lowered the glaive, rolling his shoulders, already turning away as if they’re no longer worth his time.

  “Faig enough.” He said, his voice dismissive. “But remember, templar. You and your men would be corpses if we wanted you dead. That’s your only warning.”

  Caelus’ jaw tightened. Around him, his men did not move. Not because they have surrendered. But because the dead still lay where they fell.

  Their bodies strewn across the bloodstained grass, armor split, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. And they could not even grieve.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  Because while they stood over the corpses of their brothers, drowning in failure—

  The mercenaries laughed.

  They joked. Tossing words of casual conversation, like this was just another day. Their voices rang lighthearted, sharp with amusement, completely detached from the carnage around them.

  Behind Caelus, one of the mercenaries tilted their head, unimpressed. “Are we not going to confiscate their weapons?”

  Another merc scoffed. “Have you seen them just now? They don’t know how to use it anyway.”

  Caelus felt heat creep up his neck. His fists clenched. His entire body burned with humiliation.

  And there was nothing—nothing—he could say to refute it.

  They had been spared.

  Not because they fought well.

  Not because they earned mercy.

  But because their killers did not think they were worth the effort.

  And that—that was the deepest cut of all.