“Long time no see, Moraine.” Nolan’s voice was easy. Too easy. Like this was a festival, and they were two old friends reunited over cider and song—not two men on opposite sides of righteousness. “You’ve… changed.”

  “So have you,” Caelus said, voice barely audible. His heart had jumped to his throat. His soaked clothes clung like chains. He didn’t know how to act anymore.

  Thornvale’s smile widened. Warm. And yet, the tilt of his head was a little uncanny. Compensating for the unseeing eye, perhaps, but it remained Caelus of a wolf.

  “Lost an eye. Gained perspective.”

  Cael let out something that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been halfway to a sob.

  Nolan gave him a once-over. “You don’t have a change of clothes, do you?”

  Cael flushed. “...No.”

  “Thought so. First thing I heard when I got back was that my ex-brother-in-arms got shoved into a stream by Sol. So naturally I came to find you.” He said it way too cheerfully.

  “You what?” Caelus blinked, a little dazed.

  “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of clothes. I rip them too often anyway.” The man waved his hands lightheartedly.

  Cael frowned. “You what...”

  “Oh! OHHH, right, yeah—so the Church never told anyone then.” Nolan rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I got infected.”

  Silence.

  Caelus stared at him. “Infected?”

  “With the Hollowing!” Nolan beamed, like it was some prize he’d won at a village fair. “I’m a Fleshshifter now.”

  Caelus recoiled like he’d been struck, hand half-raised in unconscious defense.

  “You—what?! Nolan!” His voice rose an octave.

  That smile. Still there. Like he hadn’t just delivered a death sentence in casual conversation.

  “Yup. Happened a few years ago. Woke up naked in the middle of nowhere, covered in blood, shredded skin everywhere.” He gestured with a flaunt. “Super fun. I figured I’d crawl into the woods and die before I hurt someone.”

  Cael’s heart pounded. The word fleshshifter rang in his head like a funeral knell.

  He had hunted them. Executed them. Killed those infected before they turned—before they slaughtered entire towns.

  Church doctrine was clear. They do not come back from it. They are monsters in waiting. Put them down before the waiting ends.

  And Nolan was smiling.

  “I found the camp,” he continued, oblivious. “Or rather, stumbled into it half-dead.”

  He chuckled. “I swear to God, Varg saw me, looked me up and down—completely naked, disheveled, painted red—and just handed me a bowl o’ soup. Didn’t even blink.”

  Soup.

  Caelus couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His throat has closed on itself. His pulse thundered behind his eyes.

  “You’re still not feral,” he managed.

  “Barely!” Nolan beamed. “But hey—progress, right?”

  “You’re dangerous,” Caelus whispered. He didn’t mean it as an accusation, but Nolan’s smile dimmed just slightly.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

  Cael’s breath caught. He couldn’t help it—he took a step back.

  He’s still smiling. He’s still trying to comfort me.

  His old friend. A man he once trusted with his life. Now?

  Untouchable. In every way that mattered.

  Nolan looked down, then up again. “Don’t worry. I’m careful. Verg somehow manages to control me if I turn. But hey, if I start spiraling—just do your duty, right?”

  He winked.

  It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t anything Caelus could process.

  “Control you?” He repeated, voice a little choked.

  “Oh, um, yeah you see…” The shifter scratched at the base of his hairline. A small gesture. Seeking of comfort, like grooming. Animalistic.

  “My Hollow is… not normal. Volatile. Violent. Friend or foe, there is no recognition. Always been this way.”

  Caelus clamped his eyes shut. Hard. Covering his face with his hands.

  No. No, that’s the problem. He said that with a straight face.

  Volatile. No control.

  Fleshshifters normally had control over their Hollows. At first. Until slowly, the beast won over. Sooner or later.

  But not this one.

  The fate was a cruel mistress. He didn’t deserve this.

  “Why are you here?” Cael’s voice cracked.

  “Because no one else would have me. And because this place… it lets you breathe. No orders. No sermons. No masks.” Nolan paused. “Unless you want to wear one.”

  Caelus looked away. “You like it here?”

  Nolan’s face softened. “What’s not to like? Sol cares. The people have your back. Strong bonds. Everyone’s welcome. The only bastards who ruined the vibes got fed to the forest.”

  Cael shivered. That silence stretched too long between them.

  “This place is insane,” he whispered. “You were one of us. You should understand—”

  “I do.” Nolan’s voice lost its smile, just for a moment. “I do.”

  “Then how can you live with this?” Cael’s voice came out too pleading for his liking.

  Nolan lifted his shoulders, awkward. “What else was I supposed to do, Cael? Let them kill me? You think I wanted this? Your dear Pope would’ve had my skin nailed to the temple gates the second I bled wrong. And…”

  He looked down for a breath, sentimental. “When it comes to this—I trust these people will end me… with love. Not fear and disgust. I will go down as a family, not as a monster.”

  That shut Cael up.

  Nolan gave him a tired smile, tilting his head.

  “Theoretically,” he drawled slowly, “if I told you that these people are good—and the Pope is the one who’s rotten—would you believe me?”

  Caelus didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Nolan saw the storm in his eyes. The way his trust bent and buckled under the weight of everything he had ever known.

  “Figures,” Thornvale said, not unkindly. “It’s alright.”

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  He stepped forward, gently holding out the bundle of clothes he brought.

  “You’ll get there. When you’re ready. On your own.” He smiled fully again, his auburn eye sparkling warmly.

  “No one here’s gonna push their agenda on you.”

  Cael’s armor clattered to the ground, one clasp after another unbuckled with the weight of a long day behind them.

  Nudity wasn’t unfamiliar. Back in the barracks, men lived, bathed, dressed, slept shoulder to shoulder. He and Nolan had shared that life once.

  Still, the redhead gave him space. He leaned against a boulder, arms crossed, legs outstretched, watching the campfire’s glow push back the dark.

  Caelus hesitated before putting fresh clothes on. He felt gross. Mostly because of the last days’ events. Old sweat and roads dust was not as foreign as this.

  He glanced at the lake.

  “It’s safe, right?” The knight asked, question directed at Nolan.

  Thorn didn’t need to look to understand.

  “Aye, nothing dangerous lives in there, Sol probably spooked whatever there could have been away.” He chuckled.

  A swim it is then.

  Moonlight skimmed across the surface like molten silver. The forest was quiet.

  Not silent, but listening.

  Even the water felt different in this place. Still mellow from the sun, it carried the warmth differently. Even from the bottom to the surface, it moved around him like a sigh, like the breath of the Blightreach made liquid.

  He stepped in, submerging.

  One exhale, and the lake cradled him. Weight of his body escaping momentarily, weightlessness all consuming. With every movement, the tension bled out of him, carried away by ripples too soft to notice, cleansing not only the body but the mind.

  Cael allowed himself to let go. Head tilted back, hair drifting on the surface—he let the lake hold him. Just for a moment.

  The lake was so still that he could hear his own heartbeat beneath the surface. He let it envelop him, numbing his muscles and heart alike.

  A sway of the wind carried over the distant laughter from the camp.

  It’s time to go.

  Caelus stepped out of the water reluctantly. Moisture was wiped off by the driest edge of discarded items of clothing. Fresh set hastily put on.

  He walked back to his tent barefoot. Clothes too free fitting for his body. Armor carried by Nolan. He felt more exposed now than when he was naked. No plates. No shield. And yet—no one used it against him.

  Somehow.

  Thornvale stayed over at his tent, small comfort found in foreign place, bringing two mugs of ale from somewhere.

  Entrance flap lifted and fixed by some rope, they sat in the warm glow of campfire, observing.

  Caelus sat still, one leg drawn in, the borrowed tunic slightly too big, sleeves rolled and slipping back down with every movement. His thumb moved over the medallion’s edge in slow, unconscious circles. Nolan lounged next to him on a thick old blanket, munching on something fried and unidentifiable.

  The camp outside glowed with warmth. Laughter. Music. Lanterns bobbing on posts. From their quiet perch at the tent’s mouth, they could see everything.

  The kids weaving between mercenaries, women lounging on fighters like they were furniture, men sharing drinks without a hint of violence in their grins.

  Belladonna, the girl with eyes color of violets, sneaking out of the cave, pulling her hood up, hiding her long silver hair, like a teenager running from home for a late-night date.

  In the middle of the camp—Ysilla and Anders. Using their magic for matters most trivial. The witch’s fire burned strong, she lifted her hands, tips of her fingers blackened as if burned.

  Andres, meanwhile, was almost dancing, a stream of water pulled from the stream flowing like a dragon above the tents, bending and weaving around the mage who was directing it right above the fire.

  “You’re heating it too fast, idiot!” Ysilla hissed, her amusement barely concealed.

  “I’ll boil you if you don’t shut up.” Anders shot back, smiling with glee.

  They were laughing.

  Laughing, playing, bickering like children. Like there was no weight on their shoulders, like there was no war waiting for them just beyond the tree line.

  The templar huffed into his ale. “Magic is supposed to be used for warfare, not for… washing your asses. Why are they using it for such trifles?”

  Nolan nearly choked on his snack, coughing laughter into his fist. “You’ll find out there’s a whole different world out here, mate. One with very clean asses.”

  Before Cael could retort, a sudden thump outside the tent made them both flinch.

  “HAH!” A loud voice cut through the low chatter. “I knew I’d find you in here, you two-faced traitor!”

  Varg. Yet another person he didn’t want to see.

  Cael didn’t even have time to groan. The elf stepped in as though he owned the place, which, to be fair, he acted like he did. A bottle of something dark in one hand. A tray of food in the other.

  He dropped the tray between them and plopped down beside Nolan without asking, stretching out like a damn lounging lion. “Unbelievable. You run off on a quest, come back looking like wet garbage, and do you visit your bestie first thing? No. You go straight t’your holy ex-boyfriend.”

  “I said I was sorry.” Nolan grumbled. His body language was one of a scolded dog.

  “You said—?” Varg scoffed, scandalized. “You owe me at least three drinks, a story, and maybe a kiss on the cheek for emotional damage.”

  “Absolutely not.” Thornvale protested, shaking his had sternly.

  “Then I’m staying in this tent forever.” The elf threw his hands up, expression flat.

  Caelus blinked, still processing the scene. “You… live in my tent now?”

  Varg gave him less attention than a passing insect. “I live wherever the soup and gossip is, Your Holiness.” He raised the bottle. “Want some?”

  Cael hesitated. Then sighed. “...Fine.”

  The ranger beamed, victorious.

  He had no right to be lounging here.

  Not when Cael could still hear the screams in the woods. Not when people had died.

  Caelus didn’t know why he didn’t kick the elf out. He ought to kill the man for what he did. Or, at the very least, beat him up.

  But the prospect of the liquor in his hand seemed more enticing at this very moment.

  Perhaps some other time.

  His hands itched. Not for violence, but for the impossible. For a world where things made sense again.

  The three of them sat in lopsided quiet. Nolan tore another piece of bread. Varg passed the bottle to Cael, who sipped and regretted it immediately—it burned like fire but left a pleasant warmth behind.

  He coughed. No one offered sympathy.

  Outside, the camp danced with life. Music picked up. Someone was definitely howling like a wolf. A child shrieked with laughter.

  Killeon, clearly visible in the open, was being dragged to the dirt by at least four children clinging to his arms and legs, screaming “Get him!” like it was a war chant. Killeon disappeared as if he was being dragged underwater by a pack of predatory fishes.

  A pie flew across someone’s table in the distance.

  “HEY, I MADE THAT JUST NOW!” Gorrath’khaal’s voice boomed over the camp some from the kitchen. He sounded offended.

  Varg leaned back on one arm and whispered with mock reverence, “Gods, I love this freakshow.”

  Nolan chuckled beside him.

  Caelus just watched. His eyes searched for Solferen almost instinctively. The bully who just pushed him into the water. Desire to catch him in action committing a crime against humanity took over.

  There he was, in the furthest part of the camp, sitting cross legged on the floor, hunched over far too much akin to some cave gobbling.

  Holding something.

  Caelus narrowed his eyes. There was something small in Sol’s hands.

  The tiniest orange kitten—cupped in his scarred palms like a sacred relic.

  The kitten lay on its back, absolutely basking in love it received. The Beast stroked its cheeks with his thumbs so impossibly gently, cooing something to the animal, giving it tiny nose kisses. The kitten licked his nose in response making him beam with joy and such adoration.

  Disgusting.

  He’d been told monsters wear masks of kindness. But what kind of monster kisses a kitten’s nose?

  Cael visibly recoiled. He drained the rest of his drink like it was medicine.

  And when Varg shoved a plate toward him—something crispy, golden, and suspiciously delicious—he didn’t say no.

  He didn’t say anything at all.

  He didn’t even argue when the elf started picking through the tray as though it was a shared buffet.

  He took the food. He took the warmth. He took the noise.

  Without warning—movement.

  A large figure slipped into view from the side of the tent as a thief at dusk, trying—and failing—to be stealthy.

  Killeon ducked low and dropped behind Nolan’s shoulder, breath shallow as if he was hiding from divine retribution.

  Cael blinked. Frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  “Shhh,” Killeon whispered, flattening himself against the ground. “Don’t blow my cover.”

  “Cover from what—?”

  “GET HIM!”

  An army of children tore past the tent in a stampede. Armed with sticks, spoons, a mop, two frying pans, and what looked like a haunted ladle. One of them—the ghost child—floated silently through them, eerily serene amid the chaos.

  Killeon didn’t move.

  “No one comes to Sol’s tent,” he muttered, eyes darting. “That’s sacred ground. They won’t follow me here.”

  Caelus gestured wildly to the scene unfolding in his tent—Killeon hiding, Nolan lounging, Varg chewing loudly. “WELL ASIDE FROM YOU THREE, IT SEEMS!”

  “Hush,” the ranger said around a mouthful of bread. “This is neutral territory.”

  And just when Cael thought it couldn’t get more ridiculous, someone else stepped into his tent, treating it as a public tavern.

  A Pale Elf—serene, short silver hair brushed back gracefully, unfamiliar—glided in without hesitation, plucked a pastry off the plate, nodded politely. “Gentlemen.”

  And walked out.

  Caelus stared at the flap still swinging from his exit. “PARDON ME—?”

  No one batted an eye.

  His sanity felt like it was dripping out of his ears and no one had the courtesy to notice.

  Not Nolan, who just kept sipping his drink.

  Not Killeon, who sighed like he’d just escaped a battlefield.

  Not even Varg, who simply poured more ale in a tribute to his last dregs of sanity.

  Caelus took another bite. The food was still too good.

  He wanted to scream.

  Instead, he muttered into his mug.

  “I hate it here.”

  No one disagreed.

  It was his tent. He simply accepted he no longer had control over it. And let it all slide. Because really, what was the point in fighting the madness anymore?

  They’d already won.

  He just hadn’t noticed.