The camp sprawled across elevated ground, nestled between a golden clearing and a steep, rocky hillside, encircled by tall, ancient woods. A perfect position—protected from the flank yet bathed in light.

  Bright tents of every shape and size littered the open space, their colors stark against the earth. Firepits, crude furniture of logs and planks, and scattered weapon racks filled every available spot in the open air. And yet—despite the racks—blades still lay strewn about, always within arm’s reach.

  The chaotic order of a place built for war yet lived in like a home.

  To the right of the camp’s exit into the clearing—an arena. Chills ran down Caelus spine when they approached it.

  Kids. The same ones who took candies from beast’s hands just yesterday.

  Training.

  The same way he used to when his father gifted him to the church. And these kids already knew their way around the dagger. They were having fun with it. Laughing.

  Varg observed them, stepping in sometimes, showing the right posture, the right grip. His green eyes gleaming with pride. Kind smile on his scarred face.

  Unsettling.

  They stopped at the edge of the hill, where the ground sloped steeply toward the lake below.

  It was beautiful.

  Clear, bright-blue water shimmered under the noon sun, one side edged by a thick stretch of forest. A massive willow tree bent over the surface, its branches trailing across the water like outstretched fingers.

  By the shore, figures waded in, rolling up their pants, lifting their skirts, their laughter drifting lazily on the breeze.

  “You are free to wander around the clearing and around the camp whenever you wish, knight. These grounds are safe, as long as you see the camp, no creature that might harm you will approach.” Sol exhaled, watching them with something almost fond. “But don’t go across the clearing alone, especially at night, this is where our territory ends.”

  Caelus’ eyes darted toward the far edge of the clearing.

  The last time he had looked that way—something massive had been moving through the trees. No way in Void was he going there.

  He nodded stiffly.

  As they circled back toward camp, Caelus began noticing things he hadn’t before.

  A pen with geese and hens tucked away from the bustle. Big mess tents, their flaps now lifted, filled with cushions, simple furniture and other riches. Well-equipped common areas around the fires.

  The campgrounds were bigger than they seemed at first glance. Tents stretched deep into the trees, some barely visible, tucked between boulders and under heavy branches. There were even some small makeshift buildings.

  To the left of the exit, a crude horse shelter slouched against the fence—little more than a slanted roof, a scattering of hay, and a trough half-full of water. No gates, no stalls. Just enough shade to keep a beast from boiling.

  It stood empty.

  Sol gestured toward a lone hut in the farthest corner, perched between the rocky hillside and a tiny, fenced-in garden.

  “There, you better not go.” His voice held amusement. “That’s Ysilla’s place.”

  No further explanation was needed. Caelus already knew. The witch hated his guts.

  “Now, come,” Sol suddenly grinned, leading him deeper into camp. “You’ll like this part.”

  Caelus had never seen him so smug.

  This better be worth it.

  Sol wove them through the maze of tents, pointing out different locations as they passed. Trader. Seamstress. Herbalist. Most of these tents weren’t living quarters.

  That explained why the camp felt empty. But then—where did they all sleep?

  Before he could ask, Solferen slowed down. And that’s when Caelus saw it.

  A black maw in the hillside. Barely noticeable behind the tents.

  A cave.

  Sol’s grin stretched wider.

  “After you.” His tone was all mischief. His eyes dangerously sly.

  Suspicion coiled through Caelus, but he stepped forward, cautiously crossing the threshold.

  It wasn’t a trap… was it?

  The air in the tunnel was wrong. It was not the damp cold anyone would expect from a cave. Instead, warm. Like a mother’s breath against a child’s cheek.

  A faint glow flickered from deep within.

  He stepped forward, vision adjusting—then he froze.

  And forgot how to breathe.

  The cave was enormous.

  And it was alive.

  The path curved sharply to the right, descending into an underground chasm.

  Below him—a hidden city carved from the earth itself, as if the land bent to cradle its king.

  His pulse quickened.

  To the left, a walkway bent around the cavern wall, leading to a raised platform. Weapons and armor stacked neatly against the wooden fence. Pelts stretched on drying racks. A forge glowed at the back, the flicker of flames licking the black stone. The clang of metal rang faintly through the chamber.

  Further below, to the back of the cave, another place lit by fires—a kitchen. Storage barrels stacked high into the crevice in the black rock wall, fires flickering under massive cauldrons.

  There was a whole city made of tents below Caelus feet, furs and carpets draped over rocks, furniture even, God knows who dragged it here and how. Tables, chairs, beds, all lit by warm fire of the torches and stained-glass lanterns. It was filled with people, laughing, eating and drinking, moving around on their business. At least a hundred of them.

  An entire world hidden beneath the earth, dusted faintly with wildflowers and blooming moss.

  And at the farthest edge—a lone, breathtaking monument to this sanctuary.

  A stream ran through the cavern, glassy, ringing, bending around the only place untouched by stone and dirt.

  There, standing alone in its own pocket of light, bathed in the glow of the cave’s opening right above.

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  A tree.

  Its twisted trunk curved like an elegant dancer’s arching spine. Its blossoms so white they gleamed blue. A single, sacred thing in a world of shadows.

  Caelus stood on the precipice of something impossible.

  His world had been small, bound by marble halls and prayers. Towns, villages, missions. Duty. Now, it was cracking open.

  This world was beautiful. And he hated it. His hands clenched at his sides.

  “Well?” Sol’s voice, smooth, amused. Not unkind.

  Caelus didn’t answer. He was still trying to process.

  Sol chuckled. “You are thinking really hard, Moraine.”

  Cael exhaled slowly. Steady. Controlled. He forced himself to tear his gaze away from the cavern and look at the mercenary beside him.

  Smug. Always smug. Watching him like a wolf watching prey squirm.

  The knight inhaled, straightened his shoulders.

  “Hiding in the hold underground like a bunch of rats.” He said, voice flat. “A den of murderers and outlaws. A cesspool of sin.”

  Sol laughed. Loud. Honest. As he had been waiting for that.

  “A hole?” He gestured grandly at the sprawling underground world before them. “That’s cute, Templar.”

  Caelus forced his gaze back to the tree. The glowing blossoms. The sacredness of it.

  “You live like this?” His voice came out before he could stop it.

  The elf hummed, tilting his head. “Like what?”

  “Like… people.” He despised how it sounded. Like an admission.

  Sol’s eyes flashed. “And what else would we be?”

  A quiet steel settled in Caelus’ expression. He wouldn’t rise to it. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  He hated that, too.

  Hated how the air was warm here. Hated how the cavern walls held the laughter like a heartbeat. Hated how his mind was trying to shape understanding where there should be only revulsion.

  He squared his jaw.

  “It changes nothing,” he said stiffly.

  Solferen just chuckled, his gaze disgustingly adoring. “Oh, I wouldn’t expect it to. Not yet.”

  Caelus exhaled sharply, ignoring the implication. “Is this the part where you gloat?”

  Sol laughed again, stepping past him.

  “Oh, Templar, I don’t have to,” he said cheerfully, placing a hand on Caelus’ shoulder with mock reassurance. “Come, I’ve prepared a tent for you, since you’ll be staying for a while.”

  Then stepped down, leading him deeper into the heart of the camp.

  And that was when everything went wrong.

  At first, he didn’t notice. Faces blurred past—a camp full of vagabonds, thieves, outcasts. Exactly what he expected.

  But then…

  Then, he started recognizing them.

  A man by the forge, sharpening a blade—Caelus had seen his face before, on a wanted poster in Cadagar.

  A woman stirring a pot of stew—he had walked past her chained to a prison wall.

  A young man laughing at a gambling table—Caelus had chased him through the streets of a burning village, sword drawn, orders clear.

  Everywhere he looked, names resurfaced. From confessions wrung out under torchlight. From sermons condemning them as sinners. From the last moments before an execution.

  They were supposed to be dead. They should be.

  His blood boiled.

  Caelus stopped walking. Seethed.

  “So, this is what you surround yourself with?” The words were sharp, cutting. “This place isn’t a sanctuary. It’s a circus. Half of them are drunk, the other half are criminals who’d slit your throat for a coin.”

  He turned, scanning the faces of murderers and fugitives. “They should all rot in a dungeon where they belong. Not lounge here. Alive.”

  The words echoed, loud enough that the ones in earshot heard.

  Some turned. Some went rigid.

  Others just went quiet.

  Solferen didn’t speak at first.

  He stood with his back to Caelus, hands relaxed at his sides, the firelight flickering over his scars.

  Then, softly—too softly. “You want to insult me? Fine.”

  He turned slowly, gaze sharp. No smile now.

  “Say I’m a heretic. A monster. Say I do this for gold or glory or some twisted amusement. But leave them out of it.”

  A pause. The camp watched.

  “Spare me the martyr act,” Caelus sneered. “You act like you’re suffering for their sake—but you’ve built yourself a kingdom of beggars and cutthroats. What exactly are you protecting? Their reputations?!”

  The Mercenary King’s expression got sharper. He continued, voice low and measured, but ringing with something old and carved from pain. His long ears had drawn back—subtle, beastlike.

  “Once, I swore to spend every shred of my dignity freely, if it served a higher cause.” He was clearly holding back. The nail of his index finger picking at his thumb.

  “And I’ve yet to find a cause holier than keeping my people fed and safe.”

  He stepped forward.

  Caelus didn’t move.

  “I would sooner bow my head in disgrace a thousand times, than watch any of them hang theirs in need.”

  Caelus felt it. That shift. The weight pressing in. But he would not falter.

  “You harbor monsters.”

  Sol stepped forward. Slow. Unhurried.

  “No.” His voice was low, steady. Dangerous. “I harbor the ones your precious church condemned without a second thought.”

  He gestured, not with drama—just a simple tilt of the head.

  A quiet woman stirring a pot of stew. Her wrists still bore the faint scars of shackles.

  “That one?” Sol’s voice came calm. Icy. His expression as welcoming as mountain blizzard. “She slit a man’s throat.”

  Caelus gripped his sword.

  Sol smirked. “Oh, don’t look so eager. The man was a noble’s son who tried to force himself on her.”

  Caelus’ grip tightened.

  Another gesture.

  A boy, barely past childhood, mending torn fabric in the firelight.

  “That one?” Sol’s voice turned mockingly thoughtful. “Condemned at birth. His crime? Being born from a wrong person.”

  Caelus could feel the rage building in his chest, clawing to reject every word.

  The whole camp was staring at him now.

  Sol stepped closer. The firelight cut across his face, the shadow of something unnatural curling at the edges of his grin.

  “You call me a monster.” He didn’t blink. “And you’re not wrong.”

  Another step.

  “I kill to keep these people safe.”

  Closer.

  “I get my hands dirty, so they don’t have to.”

  The flames flickered. The cavern walls pressed in.

  “But tell me, Templar—”

  The air grew cold. The grin was gone.

  His voice dropped to a whisper, sharp as steel against flesh.

  “What does that make you, when you stand on the side that lit the fire?”

  The words hit.

  Like a blade through the ribs. Like a brand searing his skin.

  Caelus hated him in that moment. He refused to believe in a world where the church was wrong and this creature before him was right.

  He stood there, tense as a drawn bowstring, breath slow and heavy in his chest. The camp around him buzzed quietly, but in his ears—it was silence. Just the echo of Sol’s last words, digging deep under his skin.

  He forced a step back, chin lifting.

  “I see,” he said, voice tight, formal. “There is no guiding you to the light.”

  Sol blinked once.

  Then smiled. Not cruelly. Not smug.

  Just... patient.

  “Of course not,” he said softly, like humoring a child throwing a tantrum. “But you're welcome to keep trying, little beacon.”

  That was somehow worse.

  The Mercenary King simply brushed it off at that. Turned.

  The tension didn’t fade as Sol led him deeper into the cave, up a winding slope toward what looked like a more private section of the cavern.

  “I figured you’d prefer something a little less… communal,” he said lightly, gesturing at a tent tucked beside a smooth outcrop of rock. The fabric was dark, thick, clearly reinforced. Not like the others.

  Behind him, someone cliched their tongue in judgement. “All this attitude and he's still giving his cot to the rabid dog."

  Whatever that was supposed to mean?

  Caelus stepped inside.

  And stopped.

  A bed. A real one. A wooden frame, furs and cloth piled neatly atop it. A table. A bench. A basin. A candleholder with actual candles. More than what most knights were given on the road.

  He opened his mouth—whether to thank or question, even he didn’t know.

  Sol beat him to it. “I figured you’d need a table. You know. For writing your precious reports to daddy...”

  Caelus blinked. Any desire to speak instantly regretted.

  Sol leaned on the pole, one hand dramatically over his chest. “…So you can snitch on us in comfort.”

  There it was. That grin. Infuriating.

  “Oh, and see that cavern over there?” Sol pointed toward another nearby opening in the rock. Steam rolled lazily out of it, catching the golden light of a torch.

  “That’s the bathhouse. Please, for the love of the gods, use it.” He smiled sweetly. “I will not have a hound stinking up my camp.”

  Caelus’ eye twitched. He turned to glance in the direction of the bathhouse—and stilled.

  Anders.

  Standing just outside, hands raised, redirecting a stream of water mid-air, the flow perfectly controlled by magic. Effortless.

  A shiver ran through Caelus.

  Disgust.

  “Magic is an abomination,” he said, flat and absolute. “Mages are a danger to society that should be neutralized.”

  Sol didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. He just laughed. Not mocking. Not cruel. Simply… amused. Like he’d heard it all before.

  “Say—would you judge a man as swiftly if he held a blade instead of a staff?”

  Caelus snapped back, “You can take a blade away.”

  Sol arched a brow. “Ah, but have you ever tried to take a blade from someone fighting for their life? They’ll skin you with their bare hands.”

  The knight’s lips thinned. “If we let them run free, the murders will only increase. No one will be held accountable.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

  Sol’s smile dropped.

  “Those who commit crimes should be punished,” he agreed, voice sharp and cold as broken glass. “All I’m saying the innocent should be left out of it.”

  He stepped forward again. Not threatening—just looming. A shadow grown too tall.

  “Do you punish every child in the village if one of them breaks a window?”

  Caelus hesitated.

  Sol didn’t stop.

  “Do you arrest the first man with a blade when someone is murdered?”

  No answer. Just a clenched jaw.

  “No?” His voice cut sharper now. “Because you investigate, or so I hope. You find the one responsible. So why—” His eyes flared gold. “—is it different with mages?”

  Caelus opened his mouth—

  “Oh, wait,” Sol cut him off. His voice turned low. Deadly. “I forgot.”

  The grin returned, but now it was twisted. Bitter. Personal. “You're human.”

  He stepped in, so close Caelus had to stiffen.

  “And humans always kill what threatens their authority.” His voice dropped into a growl. “Don’t bother answering.”

  He didn’t.

  Because for one heart-stopping breath—he had no answer to give.