The morning came gently.
Soft wind. Distant bird calls. Smoke curling up from the campfires like lazy thoughts refusing to wake.
Caelus sat at the far end of the arena table, posture straight, as always. There was a half-eaten piece of bread in front of him. Some roasted vegetables, grilled meat.
He didn’t remember putting them there.
He also didn’t remember when he started having breakfast here.
With them.
Like he belonged.
Rish was halfway through a dramatic retelling of her favorite thing ever—camp food.
“I’m serious! Where in the Pit do y’all even get these spices? What’s next, steak with gold leaf on top?”
“Technically we’ve done that,” Killeon said without looking up, sipping tea, ignoring the way his dark curls almost fell into the cup.
“What the fu—” Rish choked on her bite. “You’re kidding. You royal-ass bastard.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Killeon replied calmly, and nudged her an extra boiled potato.
Gorrath just stared off into the trees as Ysilla fed him a strip of meat with the kind of romantic softness usually reserved for tragic poetry. The orc was built like a war god carved from granite—and yet, flour dust lingered on his knuckles.
Anders was trying to reason with his horse.
“Moonshine, I told you, that’s mine—no! Hey! I will not be bullied by a snack thief!”
The horse, halfway through chewing stolen bread, blinked slowly and chewed louder.
He clearly understood, just had a different opinion.
Nolan and Varg were arguing again—loudly, dramatically, and definitely over something life-alteringly stupid.
Today’s topic?
Whether Nolan’s beast form technically counted as a real wolf.
“You’re not a wolf,” Varg declared, arms crossed. “You’re a shedding golden retriever with trauma.”
“I am a goddamn apex predator!” Nolan barked. “Have you seen me?”
“You drooled on your own foot last time. You’re six feet of dandruff and bad decisions.” The ranger leaned in, tapping a pinger at Nolan’s chest, slowly.
“I will end you.” The flesshifter shook his fist in the air vigurously.
“I’ve seen yard dogs with more menace.” The elf snorted.
Nolans jaw dropped. “Oh yeah? At least I don’t shed like a cursed carpet, you feral porcupine.”
That had hit the nerve.
“You left an entire torso peel in the bathhouse last week, kennel boy!” Varg yelled, clearly not true.
Their shouting blended into laughter—loud, idiotic, alive. The kind of noise that could only exist in a place where nobody had died that morning. Yet.
Cael didn’t laugh.
He just stared at his food. And for the first time in days—he wasn’t shaking.
He stopped listening at some point.
His eyes had drifted.
Down in the arena’s sand, standing alone in a circle of light, was Sol.
No spectators. No drums. No laughter.
Just him.
Dalimor stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching him like a coach on sacred mission.
Sol moved.
No noise. No show.
Just breath.
Movement.
Discipline.
Unnerving.
For days, he had been still—stone-still, death-still—but now his limbs unfurled with a grace that did not belong to something human. Slowly, like waking light creeping over water, his body rose.
First to a handstand—effortless, weightless. Fingers barely graze the earth.
Then he bent, a ribbon caught mid-air. His spine arched in a perfect crescent, legs folding over until his feet kissed the ground in front of him.
He flowed.
Not like a fighter, but like something born of air and balance.
A small hop backward, and he caught himself on one hand—silent, poised.
And then—
He hovered.
Legs suspended near parallel to the earth, toes pointed, the line of his body curved as an exotic blade drawn by moonlight.
Not shaking. Not straining. Just held there, in perfect defiance of gravity.
He did not fall.
He never fell.
He simply floated.
And for a breathless moment, it looked less like exercise—and more like worship.
Like the body remembering what it once was, long before war, long before death.
Like ritual.
Caelus’ fingers clenched beneath the table. His mind didn’t know whether to run or kneel.
He chose neither. Just scowled.
He didn’t realize he was staring until his breakfast had gone cold, until his jaw had clenched and unclenched more times than he could count.
He couldn’t stop watching.
Couldn’t stop wondering if what he was seeing was real—if the form in the sand, all control and stillness and light, was the same one that had once bled beneath his blade and smiled as if it meant nothing.
He didn’t blink.
Only stared.
His food lay untouched. His thoughts suspended.
He should have been terrified, by all means, he should be running from this creature without looking back. And maybe he was.
Afraid. Intimidated.
Something else…
He told himself it was survival. Adaptation. Rage even.
But the world narrowed into sunlight and limbs cutting through it—sharp, fluid, holy in its precision.
Until—
“YEEEEEEEEEET—!”
A shriek from the gods above—or perhaps The Pit below.
A blur.
A war cry.
“Rish—DON’T—”
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Anders’ voice cracked mid-shout, arms outstretched, far too late.
Cael blinked. The moment snapped.
The demolition woman launched herself over the table like a boulder shot from a siege engine. She cleared the fence and slammed into Sol’s back mid-stretch with the full momentum of unmedicated joy.
“AAAH—!” Sol hit the dirt with a muffled grunt, arms sprawled, a knee in his spine and blonde braids slapping him in the face.
Rish was laughing as if she’d committed the perfect war crime.
“YOU ABSOLUTE FERAL GOBLIN—”
Dal’s voice exploded across the yard as he stormed into view, robe flapping like the wings of vengeance. “HE JUST GOT CLEARED TO MOVE, YOU LUNATIC—!”
“YOU’RE WELCOME FOR THE STRETCH!” Rish howled, gleeful as a child with a stolen knife, and Sol laid there, wheezing into the dirt.
“RISH,” he gasped, inhaling sand with deep, offended breaths, “THE BLOODLINE ENDS HERE—”
He didn’t even lift his head.
It came muffled, from somewhere beneath Rish’s elbow.
…Well. So much for elegance.
Dalimor marched straight through the chaos, slapping both of them with mechanical precision as they tried to escape in different directions—
WHAP. WHAP.
“STOP. RUNNING. AROUND. ME.”
The elf’s voice had reached full parental wrath.
Which, of course, only made them run faster.
Sol scrambled to his feet like a startled cat, sprinting after Rish, who had already dashed in a wide circle—
And together, they took off, cackling madly, chased by their own healer, whose hands were already glowing with threat.
“FITE MEEE—!” Rish yelled over her shoulder.
“YOU WANT FITE? YOU GET FITE!” Sol bellowed, right behind her, arms flailing with no purchase.
Dal was still yelling.
The entire camp watched this unfold like it was a regular Tuesday. Anders took bets.
Someone at the table made a terrible joke.
Something about “Rish finally riding something flexible.”
Laughter erupted. Nolan fell off the bench wheezing.
Moonshine snorted, tail flicking like a judge handing down a guilty verdict.
And Cael—
Without thinking—
Smiled.
Not politely. Not bitterly. Not as a reflex.
It was small. Honest. The kind of smile that crept up before the mind could catch it.
That smile wasn’t earned. It was stolen. And when he realized it was there, he wiped it away like a sin—
But it was too late.
Nolan saw.
The former Templar didn’t say a word. He just smiled wider. A secret had just unfolded between them.
The morning settled with a sigh.
Breakfast clattered on wooden plates. Steam curled from mugs. Rish was still breathless from the chase, giggling into her tea. Anders poked at his eggs like they’d personally wronged him—a bet lost perhaps. Killeon was quietly buttering bread with the solemnity of a soldier preparing for war.
Caelus sat at the far end of the table, posture straight. Observing. Not speaking.
Still there for some odd reason.
Perhaps his mind adjusted to this while he was out of it.
The bushes rustled.
Dalimor appeared.
Elegant. Displeased. Covered in sand.
His usually immaculate white hair was askew, pushed back in a messy wave like he’d run a hand through it twenty times in a row. His robe—rich burgundy and charcoal, normally pristine—was streaked with dust. A ribbon of sea-glass clung desperately to his hip. His expression? A regal mask of absolute betrayal.
“Children,” he muttered a curse as he joined the table, dripping dignity and disdain in equal measure.
He didn't ask.
He just reached over Bella’s plate and stole a pastry without breaking eye contact.
“HEY—” Bella protested, but Dal was already biting into it with serene grace.
Caelus blinked.
A flicker. A memory.
That was him.
The one who strolled into his tent the night they were drinking, snatched a pastry from his plate, and walked out muttering ‘Gentlemen,’ as though that excused the crime.
Cael had thought it was a fever dream.
Now?
Now he just watched Dal dust sugar off his robe as if this was somehow beneath him, not the theft.
The elf sat, poised, ankle crossing over knee with terrifying precision.
And Cael had to admit—grudgingly—he was almost too perfect.
Pale. Lithe. Not particularly tall, but statuesque in the way a blade was beautiful.
Hair like snowfall. Eyes sharp and slanted, not human—not even close—an icy turquoise that cut through morning haze. Frost on glass.
His posture was flawless, almost arrogant.
Even his fingers, long and steady, moved like they belonged to someone who had never once fumbled a thing in his life.
A Pale Elf. A real one.
Caelus had never seen one in the flesh before he came here.
They didn’t leave their cities.
Barely spoke to outsiders.
And under no circumstance did they ever share healing magic with humans.
And yet—
Here sat Dalimor.
Dusty. Scowling. Eating someone else’s pastry with imperial grace.
The others didn’t even react.
And Caelus realized—again—he still didn’t understand anything about this place.
Footsteps, crunching lightly over sand.
Sol passed by on the path to the cave—shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, hair wild with dried grit, skin still streaked with dust from the arena ambush.
His voice, lazy as ever.
“Still here?”
Caelus didn’t move at first.
But the words needled, the abhor winning the fight over the fear.
He turned—slowly. Voice flat as stone.
“Still here? Figures. Can’t leave even if I wanted to.”
Solferen paused. Turned just enough to look back over his shoulder.
One brow lifted. A smirk teased the edge of his lips—barely there, but maddeningly smug.
He blinked.
“Sounds like a you problem.”
Caelus' voice cracked under restraint.
“I have been trapped here because of you.”
Sol’s eyes only sparkled brighter with unhinged joy. “Again. Sounds like a you problem.”
“I COULD NOT REPORT BACK.” Cael snapped.
Sol rubbed at his temple with the heel of his palm, like this was a hangover—not a breakdown.
“And?”
The knight bristled. “And?!”
That did it.
He exploded.
Caelus grabbed him by the front of his silks, yanking him half a step forward.
His character completely taking over his body, despite all rationality.
“I have been STUCK in this GODFORSAKEN CAMP for DAYS because these LUNATICS REFUSED TO LET ME LEAVE!”
Sol blinked again. Deadpan.
He gently pried Caelus’ hand off his tunic with two fingers, as if dealing with an overexcited kitten.
“Ain’t that your doing, though?”
The jab landed.
Caelus seethed.
“You pushed me!” His voice stayed level. Barely.
“You wanted me to attack you.”
Sol rolled one shoulder in a loose shrug.
Tone maddeningly mild.
“Don’t pretend you haven’t wanted me dead since day one. Whole camp heard your tantrums.”
Caelus stared at him.
For a moment, it looked like he might actually bite him.
But then he let out a hissing breath. Straightened.
“You’re a monster,” he said.
Calm. Measured.
Too calm.
“You deserve death.”
The words hung in the air like iron.
Rish let out an impressed, “Ooohh.”
Sol’s head tilted. He laughed—low, unbothered, almost fond.
“You’re picking fights with me very bravely,” he murmured, voice dropping low,
“for someone who thinks I’m a demon.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Something cold twisted in Caelus’ chest. He waited for the terror to rise again.
Waited for the revulsion. The god-fearing panic. The need to run, to pray, to purify—
But there was none of that.
His anger fizzled.
Or no—it flared hotter. But differently.
Something between fear and fury.
Since when did that happen?
Since when did the dread stop?
Sol leaned in. Barely. Just enough.
Enough for Caelus to smell the sun on his skin—the dust, the faint bite of wild herbs, smoke and berries.
A shadow of a smile in his voice.
“I like it. Brave little lion.”
Caelus didn’t breathe.
His heart jumped into his throat.
The insult would have been easier. This was worse. This sounded like affection.
He hated himself more for the thing he remembered now—
He had smiled. Earlier.
Smiled.
He didn’t respond.
Just huffed—sharp and brittle—sat and turned back to his plate, stabbing a roasted carrot like it insulted his ancestors.
Sol tilted his head, watching him.
“…Did that carrot personally wrong you, or am I just projecting again?”
Caelus didn’t look up. “Shut up.”
Sol clicked his tongue, almost thoughtfully. “If it makes you feel better, I’m sure it deserved it. Looked smug.”
A beat.
“Stab it again for me.”
Caelus stabbed the carrot again.
Regret. Immediate.
Sol’s laughter followed him as he walked off toward the springs.
Rich. Warm. Effortless.
“Relax,” he called, stretching as he went.
“I’ll go wash the sand out of my arse and take you to your precious holy father.”
No one said anything for a beat—just the rustle of the wind, the scrape of cutlery.
Then, somewhere down the table, Ysilla leaned sideways and not-quietly whispered behind her hand. “Was that flirting?”
Anders choked on his tea. Bella slapped his back. Rish nodded earnestly like a scholar observing rare mating rituals. Killeon didn’t even look up—just muttered, “Gods help us all.”
Caelus went rigid.
Idiots.
He stabbed the carrot a third time. One final stab for good measure.
Dal kept his gaze at the carrot—pointedly. Just murmured flatly, “Someone sedate him.”
No one did. They just kept eating as though it was any other morning.
And Caelus sat there, furious and flustered, staring down his plate like it held the secrets of the universe.
