Sol left, dissolving into the crowd, but the strangling weight of his words lingered.

  The camp was alive outside—laughter, clanging, the low hum of songs about victories that probably weren’t real. It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have felt like anything. Yet the echo of Sol’s voice, the weight of his presence in the tent, lingered longer than fear should. It left him angry at his own mind for betraying him.

  Caelus sat in silence for a long time, tense, head in his hands, eyes fixed on nothing. Letting it all blend into meaningless noise. He struggled to make sense of that man—that thing. A demon in all but name. His words struck like a serpent’s bite, dripping with venom.

  And yet…

  His actions told another story. Not of cruelty. Not even of indifference. But of care. Fierce, unapologetic care—for them. Criminals. Heretics. The condemned.

  His people.

  And Caelus was not one of them.

  He was tolerated—barely. A splinter in the foot, kept only because it hadn’t yet been pulled.

  Still… the tent. The bed. The food. They could’ve offered less. He wouldn’t have been surprised. Perhaps they didn’t want a liability on their hands. A weakened templar wasn’t much use in a fight.

  No matter. As long as he had the strength to carry out his duty, that was all that mattered.

  The table that was generously offered to him was promptly used. And exactly for what Solferen had accused him of, too. The camp, the detail, the attitude. Every observation.

  Folded, sealed, and tucked behind his armor.

  Let them mock. They will have to answer for it before the Light.

  The flicker of torchlight danced on the cavern walls, shadows shifting minatory. The air was warm, but it pressed against his skin like a second, suffocating layer.

  Too much noise. Too much life in a place carved from stone and secrecy.

  He used to think silence meant discipline. Here it meant they were waiting to see if he’d snap.

  He needed air.

  Caelus rose from the table, neatly placing the stack of paper and quill back on its place. Everything in order. Everything exactly where it belonged.

  Unlike him.

  The ink on his fingers had already dried, leaving faint black veins across the calluses. He rubbed at them, as if he could scrub off the misplaced unease that came with every word he wrote.

  The hum of the cavern pressed closer—footsteps, laughter, someone’s argument over dice. Every sound scraped against his nerves. It was suffocating, all this life in a place where faith had come to die.

  He stepped out of the tent, out of the hollow. Past the people. Too close to the caverns wall, trying to blend with the darkness not to be seen by any of them.

  Back toward the surface.

  The world outside hit him in color—green, wet, breathing. The cave had stolen all scent but metal—the smoke from the forge never quite left the air, it clung to the throat, to the inside of armor. Now the forest threw everything back at him in waves. Pine sap, wet moss, the faint sweetness of rot. The sun was already sinking behind the treetops, burning the sky in shades of violet and deep gold.

  A wasted day.

  Aboveground, the camp had come alive once more. Mercenaries flooded back in from wherever their lawless work had taken them.

  Crime runs, he thought bitterly. Where else could they have been?

  Hunters and gatherers returned from the forest, exchanging goods, calling out greetings as they were returning home.

  A few horses loitered near the clearing, free of their saddles and bridles, grazing lazily on the tall grass.

  More figures poured out from the cavern behind him—stretching, talking, shaking off the weight of whatever they’d been doing underground.

  And, of course—the blasphemy started immediately.

  “Oh, look, the Holy One is running around again.” A voice, deliberately louder than it needed to be.

  “But of course! We don’t keep dogs on a leash here, they are free to roam where they please.” Another parroted. “If he dies—he dies.”

  Laughter.

  Caelus has had enough. He stepped further away from the camp, into the clearing, away from their antics. Even the ever-looming threat of being eaten by the forest was preferable to these lunatics.

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  “Aurenos guide me through the shadows…” He muttered under his breath.

  His feet carried him downward, toward the lake. The one he had seen before from the cliff’s edge. It was larger up close, its crystal surface perfectly still, mirroring the sky’s dying light. Pink, gold, violet, shifting over water so smooth it looked like polished glass.

  The world was quiet here.

  Sleepy calls of birds faded into the canopy, crickets humming as the dragonflies flitted through the last rays of sun.

  Such serenity. He wanted to believe this quiet was mercy, but mercy had never followed him before.

  He lowered himself onto a boulder at the water’s edge, exhaling slowly. His back ached from the tension he refused to acknowledge. But here, away from them, away from the weight of it all—he could breathe.

  If only just for a moment.

  Before the forest turned ugly again. Before the sun fully vanished, and whatever things lurked beyond the clearing began to wake.

  The air cooled his skin. For the first time in days, his shoulders began to uncoil, inch by inch, knots loosened by silence.

  He watched the last thread of sunlight drown in the lake’s mirror, rippling gold across violet water. The smell of pine and damp earth grounded him more than any prayer ever had. Here, at least, the world didn’t ask anything of him. Only the sound of insects and the weight of his own thoughts.

  That’s when he saw her.

  She moved toward the far edge of the clearing, untouched by the filth and sin that clung to the people around her. Among the forsaken, the lowborn, she stood out like a ghost of a past life.

  A noblewoman.

  The air shifted—faint perfume, foreign to this wilderness. It smelled of gardens and candle wax, of a world he thought he’d buried under armor.

  Even with her eyes veiled with a delicate mask, even from this distance, there was no mistaking her. Caelus had seen her before.

  Back in a different life, in gilded halls where he was paraded as his father’s greatest achievement. Back when she was a vision draped in silks and whispered admiration, moving effortlessly among high society. Now she was moving the same way through tall grass.

  But she had been missing for a year now.

  Her family had searched for her—endless inquiries, exhaustive searches. He had led one of them himself.

  And yet, there she was. Not lost. Not imprisoned. Walking freely. Adorned in simpler jewels, wearing linen instead of fine embroidery—and yet, still just as radiant.

  His pulse quickened.

  He had to talk to her.

  Caelus stepped forward, gaze locked onto her like a man chasing an illusion.

  A rustle in the tree line ahead.

  She stopped.

  It stepped out.

  At first, his mind rejected what he was seeing, scrambling to categorize it into something familiar—a wolf, a bear, something of this world. But it was none of those things.

  Too big. Too wrong.

  A hulking frame, thick with muscle built for destruction. Its hide rippled as it moved, tension and power coiled beneath the skin.

  And its head—

  A grotesque parody of a canine.

  Too stretched. Too long. The snout heavy with jagged, uneven fangs—teeth meant for tearing through flesh and bone. Its jaw alone could crush a man whole.

  Fur burned brick-red beneath the dying sunlight, black spots and stripes licking up its back.

  The air thickened, pressing down on Cael’s shoulders.

  Ancient. Primal. This was no mere beast.

  It was something from an era before men ruled the earth. A creature of nightmares thrown into the waking world.

  And it was walking toward her.

  His body moved before thought. Instinct. Training. A lifetime of duty.

  The sword rasped from its sheath.

  He braced himself…

  But a hand closed around his wrist. Iron-strong.

  "We do not harm what does not try to harm us."

  Sol.

  Caelus’ mind screamed to pull away. But the grip wasn’t cruel. Just… anchored. As if Solferen knew exactly how much pressure to use to stop a blade—and a man.

  He was alone. He was alone, wasn’t he?

  But the mercenary had been there, waiting, watching.

  No one moves that silently. No one should know exactly when to appear. So how long…?

  Caelus turned sharply, fury crackling in his chest, but Sol didn’t spare him a glance—his peridot eyes fixed on the scene before them. He nodded toward her.

  And Caelus petrified.

  The noblewoman stood before the beast, utterly unafraid. A gentle smile softened her lips, her posture relaxed, welcoming.

  The monster lowered its head into her waiting hands, pressing its massive skull against her touch. She whispered something soft and loving.

  Then, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to its snout.

  Air left Caelus’ lungs. His mind reeled. Everything he knew, everything he believed, cracked beneath the weight of what he was seeing.

  The grip on his wrist disappeared, but he barely noticed. He couldn’t stop watching.

  The beast acted like… a hound.

  It licked her hand, whining as she pulled away, nudging at her for more attention. Huffing. Whimpering.

  Caelus’ stomach twisted. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t disgust. It was worse—he understood it. That longing. That loyalty.

  He had seen warhorses trample through blood, seen trained beasts obey cruel masters. But this… this was worship. From a creature older than sin.

  This was not possible.

  “Bright mercy…” Cael’s voice barely made it past his lips.

  The beast lifted its head.

  It had noticed him. Its golden eyes met his, ancient and unreadable.

  And then, so did she.

  The woman turned slightly, catching sight of him at last, gentle amusement warming her expression.

  “Sir Caelus Moraine.” Her voice was soft. Her tone had that strange, wispy echo—a lingering note, as if her words were meant to be sung rather than spoken.

  She stepped away from the creature, trailing one last hand along its jaw. It whined, low and guttural, clearly unhappy with the loss of her attention.

  Then, with a slow, almost lazy shake of its massive head, it turned and padded off, vanishing into the shrubbery without a sound.

  Unhurried. Unimpressed by the knight’s presence.

  Caelus barely swallowed down the urge to reach for his sword again.

  The woman watched him, calm. As though none of this was unnatural.

  “I would have never thought I’d see you in a place like this,” she said.

  Neither did he.

  Everything about her was delicate—until she moved. Then it was like watching porcelain shift without cracking.

  His mouth was dry.

  “Lady Rovena Dorevain.” The bow came automatically. A reflex ingrained in his bones, drilled into him by a lifetime of etiquette.

  He opened his mouth just to close it. He didn’t know what to ask.

  How? When? Why here?

  Her lips curled into a knowing smile.

  “Please, there is no need for such formalities,” she murmured. “You must have a lot of questions, Sir Moraine.”

  “Indeed, my Lady.” He nodded, his entire demeanor changing to what you would expect from a noble. “Yet I’m afraid I do not know where to begin.”

  He trusted her. The only person in this god forsaken place that had his respect.

  “Allow me to take this burden off your shoulders, then.” Rovena turned, gliding slowly toward the camp, each step measured, perfected, as if she were walking through a ballroom instead of the wilderness.

  “Do you, perhaps, remember what happened on the day of The Ascension Flame?”

  Caelus’ breath stilled. His mind drifted through the memories.