The funeral pyre died down, leaving nothing in its wake.

  No armor. No clothes. No bones.

  Just a charred stretch of ground—bare, hollow, scorched clean by the force of magic.

  Not even ash remained.

  Ysilla stood nearby, unmoving. She never quite blinked when you expected her to. Her stillness was too unnatural, like a statue listening. The usual black soot of her curse had crawled higher today, spreading past her fingers to her wrists like creeping vines.

  The price of power. Or maybe grief.

  Above them, night stretched its vast, ancient wings across the sky.

  The first stars flickered to life—silver tears shining through the tattered cloak of dusk.

  And life, hesitantly, began again.

  The camp stirred softly. Not with its usual chaos, but with subdued motion. Voices fell into hushed tones. People gathered around low fires, speaking of days long gone. Some lit candles. Others clutched small trinkets—ribbons, rings, fading portraits. Prayers were whispered—not to Aurenos, not even to gods Caelus knew of. Strange names hung in the air like foreign spices, burning faintly in the dark.

  Caelus walked through it all, boots silent on the earth.

  He should find Sol.

  He should say something.

  The ritual bundle still weighed heavy in his chest. A gesture far too great to go unacknowledged.

  It had mattered. Deeply.

  He spotted the elf sooner than expected.

  Sol stood with Anders, stretching canvas between two poles while Killeon and Gorrath hammered them into the ground. The refugees’ tents—smaller, newer—were being raised right beside the not-cultists’ old corner of camp.

  A quiet integration.

  Hands helped without question. People passed ropes, pounded stakes, tied knots. No one fooled around. No one hesitated.

  He was busy.

  Caelus paused at the edge of the clearing. Watched.

  Maybe later.

  An hour passed.

  By then, the new arrivals had clustered around Sol’s tent. Some stood. Some knelt. Their faces drawn, eyes wide and tired, voices brittle with memory.

  “The guards let the bandits through,” one said first, hollow.

  “They laughed when we begged,” whispered another, trembling. “One of them asked if we had anything worth stealing.”

  “The mayor left. Vanished the night before,” a third said. “He knew something was coming.”

  “It happened overnight,” someone added. “Shadows. Screams. People just… stopping. Mid-step. Like something took the breath from them.”

  Solferen didn’t interrupt. Didn’t question.

  He just listened. And the tension in his posture tightened with every word.

  The pieces were lining up.

  Ferals. Shriekers. Disappearing leadership. Tower proximity. Corrupted guards.

  Dawnmere—nestled beneath the looming silhouette of Torr Tenebris.

  Caelus didn’t move.

  Didn’t approach.

  He didn’t want to interrupt.

  Not when the Mercenary King was already weaving blades through the threads of chaos.

  Next time he found him, Sol was leaning half-inside Dal’s tent.

  Rish sat cross-legged on the floor, pouting as Dalimor fussed over a minor cut on her hand like she’d been gutted.

  “I will say this once,” Dal announced, bandaging with dramatic flair, “You, of all people, are NOT allowed to be injured.”

  Rish raised a brow. “Why? Worried about me, doctor?”

  “I already have one reckless idiot who throws himself into battle,” he snapped. “If I have two, I’m just going to let one of you die.”

  Rish lit up. “Who would you pick?”

  “Whichever one annoys me first,” Dal grumbled.

  Sol raised his hand lazily from where he lounged against the tent pole. “Oh, it’s me. Definitely me.”

  Dal didn’t even pause. “Correct.”

  Sol shrugged. “I can take that. Can’t die even if I wanted to.”

  He said it too casually. Like stating the weather.

  Caelus scowled.

  Demon. Walking contradiction. Always smiling while talking about death like it’s a morning stroll.

  He turned sharply on his heel.

  That was it. No thanks today. Maybe the bastard didn’t deserve it after all.

  “Come on, silver fox!” Rish grinned behind him. “That’s lies. You’ve got the patience of a saint.”

  Dal muttered, “I have the patience of a man who wants to throw himself into a well.”

  Laughter rippled behind Caelus as he stalked off—until he collided, almost face-first, with Killeon’s chest.

  The walking fortress raised his brows, entirely unaffected. “Oh, templar.”

  A hand landed firmly on Caelus’ shoulder. Guiding. Turning him.

  “Come,” Killeon said simply.

  And just like that, Caelus was being marched back toward the madness he’d just escaped. Nothing changed much at the scene, aside from Sol now lounging on one of the tree stumps.

  Varg, Nolan, and Anders arrived in casual disarray—one of them likely dragging the other two. Caelus didn’t see who started it, but judging by Nolan’s disheveled shirt and Anders’ victorious smirk, bets could be made.

  Normally Anders looked charming, innocent even. With all those blue eyes and honey gold hair, soft boyish stubble. Until he smiled. Then he looked like a trouble. And today he actively chose to be everyone’s problem it seems.

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  They dropped around the campfire without ceremony. Anders bounced in like a pebble flung by divine prank, scanning the group.

  “Nowhere to sit,” he chirped, then grinned. “Nevermind.”

  Without pause, he climbed over Sol and perched on his shoulder as though it was a goddamn throne.

  Sol didn’t even flinch. Just tilted his head slightly under the added weight.

  “You’re not ten anymore,” Sol muttered, dry. “You weigh like a man now. Are you aware?”

  Anders elbowed the top of his head like an armrest. “Then maybe stop making such a good chair.”

  Sol exhaled sharply through his nose, amused but hiding it for dramatics. “You’re lucky I like you.”

  “Love you too, old man.” Andres cooed.

  Caelus blinked.

  Did he say—?

  Before his mind could process that unholy equation, Killeon circled behind the group and slid down to the ground, settling under Sol’s legs like they were the arms of a sofa. He leaned back casually, resting against one of them leisurely.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said calmly.

  “I am many things,” Sol replied with a deep sigh. “Convenient furniture is not one of them.”

  The campfire popped. Anders was now dangling one leg across Sol’s chest like it was a branch. No one seemed to care.

  Caelus sat rigidly, as if someone had driven a lance through his spine.

  He’d seen families before. He knew how warmth looked. But this… these were grown men. With a bag full of war crimes and mental illnesses on their backs.

  And they clung to a demon.

  Caelus didn’t speak for the entire conversation. Just sat, simmering in silence.

  Varg finally cleared his throat. “So. Plan?”

  “Something’s wrong,” Sol said plainly. “The village under Torr Tenebris—Dawnmere—it’s tangled in it.”

  “Web’s sticky,” Varg agreed. “Lot of legs crawling.”

  Sol nodded once, then shook Anders off his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The mage slid sideways to the ground with a high pitched “Oop” and a thud.

  “We investigate properly,” Sol continued, unbothered. “That’s what your Pope wanted, wasn’t it?”

  A sly glance toward Caelus. “And we’re nothing if not obedient.”

  Caelus scowled but didn’t rise to the bait. He was too off-balance. Too aware.

  “Tomorrow, we prepare,” The Mercenary King announced, rising now, one knee still used as Killeon’s backrest. “We move the day after. I’m taking Anders—tower knowledge. Killeon—because I need someone brooding. Varg—scouting.”

  He paused.

  Then, grinning wide enough to slap thunder out of the sky.

  “And of course, our golden boy. Can’t leave him behind. The church would cry.”

  Caelus twitched. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

  Sol hummed, “I only flirt with the ones I like.”

  Caelus opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again like a dying fish.

  “Regret,” he muttered. “Deep, abiding regret.”

  “You’ll live.” The Beast crooned.

  Then Nolan cleared his throat. “Can I join?”

  Sol looked over his shoulder. “You planning to behave?”

  “Nope,” Nolan quirked his eyebrows, coy.

  “Perfect. You’re in.”

  Before Cael could escape, Sol snapped his fingers at him.

  “No shiny armor. You’ll blind us and paint a target. Come on.”

  He led Caelus down to the blacksmith’s alcove near the cave wall. There, tucked in a corner like forgotten treasure, was a chest. Sol knelt beside it, popped it open, and gestured.

  Inside lay armor—not quite the ceremonial luster of Caelus’ holy set but forged with finesse. Light. Durable. Matte silvered steel, marked subtly with engravings he didn’t recognize.

  No holy crests. No declarations of faith.

  It was armor built to survive. Not to inspire.

  “For the mission,” Sol said simply.

  By the time Caelus looked up, the man was gone.

  A gesture. Just a gesture. For the mission. Nothing else.

  Of course.

  Still, Caelus took the armor back to his tent with care.

  Later, he found himself wandering again.

  He spotted Sol at the edge of camp, kneeling in front of a young girl from the refugees. He was gently fixing her braid, tucking tiny wildflowers into the strands with a precision that seemed too soft for a warrior.

  The girl beamed. “You remind me of the stories. The ones mama told me. About the star-man who never died.”

  Solferen chuckled, low and fond, “Tell your mama to raise her standards.”

  He patted her head lightly, and she ran off—flowers bouncing in her braid.

  For a heartbeat, Sol didn’t move.

  The smile dropped. The smirk faded. His brow furrowed ever so slightly. And the weight of something Caelus didn’t understand passed over his features.

  Sorrow.

  Real and raw.

  Cael’s breath tangled, lost between heartbeats.

  Then someone called Sol’s name, and the King was all swagger again, turning with an easy grin and disappearing behind Dal’s tent.

  Caelus stayed rooted. Chest tight.

  The next time he saw Sol, the man was vanishing into the cave, a small vial in hand.

  The camp had long since quieted.

  Tents drawn. Fires low. Even the children, usually whispering past dusk, had gone still. Only the soft calls of owls marked the hours, and the distant creek of leather from sentries shifting at their posts.

  Caelus should’ve been asleep.

  He told himself he was just walking. Just getting air. Just surveying the perimeter.

  Just—

  Looking for him.

  Not that he’d admit it aloud. Even in thought, he flinched.

  He told himself it was curiosity. Suspicion. Keeping an eye on the abomination as the Pope commanded. That was all. Just tactical awareness.

  Besides, he still have not expressed his gratitude. Just a simple thanks—

  He stopped in his tracks.

  There. Near the edge of the cave path, slumped against the roots of that monstrous, beautiful tree—the one with petals of starlight and bark that pulsed with a heartbeat—lay Solferen.

  At first, Caelus thought he’d just fallen asleep. But the closer he stepped, the clearer the details became.

  An empty vial rested in the grass beside him, half-tucked into the moss. His coat had slipped open, exposing sharp collarbones, the ridge of muscle across his chest, the shallow rise and fall of breath, the scars. His skin shimmered faintly with sweat in the moonlight. Hair tangled, lashes fluttering like they did in sleep or pain—he couldn’t tell which. His mouth was parted just slightly. His brows drawn.

  He looked… tormented.

  Caelus stood there, pulse thudding.

  He shouldn’t be here.

  He shouldn’t be seeing this.

  He shouldn’t be looking.

  And yet—

  Something about the scene made it impossible to turn away.

  The Mercenary King, collapsed like a broken statue. All that smug fire gone. No laughter. No armor. Just bare exhaustion and something so human beneath it all, Caelus felt his throat tighten.

  This was not a trick.

  This was Sol. Unmasked. Unmade. Real.

  And unfortunately, achingly beautiful.

  The thought came unbidden.

  He looks good like this.

  Wounded. Real. Close enough to touch—

  It was as though his thoughts were struck by lightning—bright, violent. Gone.

  FOOL. SINNER. IDIOT. TEMPTED WRETCH.

  He took a full step back, like the tree might smite him just for thinking it.

  A rustle to his right startled him—Killeon, stepping out of the dark, slow and silent as a shadow. He didn’t speak. Didn’t acknowledge the templar. Just looked down at Sol, then exhaled a sigh so soft it could’ve been mourning.

  He stepped beside the elf, crouched low, and with careful hands—reverent hands—gathered him up like something fragile.

  Something precious.

  Tiny particles of red dusted off Solferen’s body as he was lifted. Caelus shivered.

  Killeon’s jaw was tight, eyes dark with worry, but his movements never faltered. He adjusted Sol’s limp weight over his shoulder, cradled the back of his head gently, then turned without a word.

  As if he had done this a hundred times before.

  Caelus watched him vanish into the cave, the shadows swallowing both of them.

  And still—he stood there.

  Long after they were gone, he stayed frozen beneath the tree.

  Heart racing.

  Hands cold.

  The image lingered—Sol’s body curled against the roots, the glow of it soft on his skin, mouth parted in some silent grief.

  That wasn’t a creature.

  That wasn’t a trick.

  That was—

  Caelus clapped a hand over his own face and groaned into it like a sinner begging for forgiveness.

  God help him.

  He was starting to see that thing as a person.

  And that night he laid with eyes wide open.