Caelus sped off, leaving Sol in the cloud of dust.

  Half an hour to the capital at this speed. Straight to the Pope.

  Certainly, he won’t let that bastard walk freely after what he did! The money he took was three times the amount any normal mercenary would, yet he couldn’t even do the job properly.

  Sol galloped past him, with eyes of a madman and smile nothing short of demonic.

  “First one to Pops gets to tell the story their way!” He shouted, laughing like a maniac. Caelus spurred his horse, already damning his decision to pick the calm, sensible one.

  The forest blurred around them. Trees whipped past in streaks of green and gold, hooves hammering the earth with relentless rhythm.

  Solferen was ahead. Leaned forward—a bandit chasing the wind, whooping as the lunatic he was, hair whipping behind him like a banner of war.

  Caelus cursed under his breath and leaned in, urging his mare faster. The poor thing tried her best, ears pinned, muscles straining—but she refused match the Viper’s stolen steed.

  Maybe she was not in the mood. Maybe it was his stiff posture.

  Or maybe she simply wouldn’t let the foreigner win.

  “Keep up, Your Holiness!” Sol shouted over his shoulder. “We don’t want the Pope hearing my version of events first, do we?”

  “Solferen!” Caelus roared.

  A branch smacked across his shoulder. He ducked too late, teeth grinding. Sol laughed harder. They tore across the last stretch of woods, the trees beginning to thin, the spires of the capital rising in the hazy distance.

  Sol stood in the stirrups, still at full gallop, arms spread wide. “Look at that, baby boy! Civilization! Time to go confess all your sins!”

  Caelus pushed his horse harder, ignoring the stitch forming in his side, the sweat beading on his brow. Every breath burned.

  “By the Sun,” he muttered, “I will see you excommunicated.”

  “Bold of you to assume I was ever communicated to begin with!” Sol howled onto the wind, utterly delighted for some god damn reason.

  The road narrowed. Sol swung his horse sideward around a cart, barely avoiding a collision. Caelus had to take the ditch, mud splashing up his legs. “You’re going to kill someone!”

  The Beast, predictably, was living for this. “Only if they’re standing between me and that Robe-wrapped roadblock to progress!”

  They burst from the tree line. The gates loomed ahead—stone, steel, and the holy banners of the Aureate fluttering in the wind.

  The guards saw them coming and scattered like frightened pigeons.

  “OPEN THE DAMN GATES!” Caelus bellowed.

  Too late.

  They hadn’t even opened fully by the time Sol ducked low and slipped sideways through the gap in a crazy display of vaulting, cackling.

  Cael thundered in behind him—mud-covered, breathless and fuming.

  The moment they crossed into the city proper, Solferen sat up tall in the saddle like nothing happened.

  “Gods, I love mornings!” He sighed enthusiastically. “So full of exercise and betrayal.”

  The knight jumped off his horse as if he was preparing to stab someone.

  At least he really wanted to.

  It felt disturbingly good to ride like that. He would never admit it—not even to himself.

  So he stormed through the town along the long-familiar route, Sol hot on his heels, spewing absolute nonsense.

  The great doors of the cathedral burst open—

  Not with grace. Not with reverence.

  But with the force of a battering ram.

  He slammed into the threshold full speed, iron boots skidding across the polished marble, armor clattering like a falling church bell.

  He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His fury had momentum.

  Behind him—laughter.

  “Careful, my love, you’ll trip over your rage!” Sol called out, far too cheerful for a man actively being chased into God’s house by someone who wanted to strangle him.

  “At least let me hold your hand!”

  He bent over to peek at the knight’s face, hand outstretched in a parody of gallantry.

  Caelus didn’t even look back—he just swung. Edge of the gauntlet meet Sol’s wrist with a sound of steel cracking bone.

  Few droplets of blood landed on the white marble floor, because this demon’s presence in the cathedral was not desecrating enough.

  Sol’s body twisted with the impact, cloak flaring, but he landed in stride, laughing like he had just been kissed. Impressed.

  “Gods, Caelus. You never hit me like that in bed!”

  The clergymen gasped.

  One dropped a scroll.

  A nun actually traced the sun’s path across herself twice.

  At the far end of the cathedral, seated beneath the altar’s golden halo, the Pope blinked once. “Ah. They’ve arrived.”

  Caelus’ breath was ragged, every inhale a furnace of rage and shame. He dropped to kneel without slowing down, armor rattling.

  Sol stood beside him now, practically vibrating with delight. “Oh dear, you land like an elephant. Why do you hate your holy floors so?”

  Caelus finally turned toward the Pope—

  Face flushed, jaw tight, faith cracked.

  And the Pope? Smiling.

  Lucen did not rise from his seat.

  He did not even blink.

  His eyes flicked from the flustered clerics scrambling around the altar to Caelus, breathing like a war hound, then to Sol, who stood there with the grin of a man who had just committed blasphemy and brought back flowers.

  “My sons,” the Pope said softly, folding his hands as a patient father.

  “What a loud homecoming.”

  Caelus exploded.

  “HE BROUGHT THEM BACK! The cultists! We found them and he—he REFUSED to kill them! He brought them into his camp like—like wounded strays!”

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  His voice cracked with fury, echoing across the stained-glass saints.

  “This man should be burned where he stands!”

  A pause.

  Sol smiled as if he was waiting for applause. “The order was to deal with them. It didn’t specify how.”

  He gave a little shrug, lazy and victorious.

  Caelus looked like he might actually combust.

  “They were heretics! Witches!” He sprung back to his feet without permission, facing Solferen, teeth bared.

  There was a briefest pause, something solidifying in Lucen’s expression.

  He raised a hand. Calm. Measured.

  “Very well. As long as they do not threaten the good people of the Empire,” he said smoothly, “Harbor as much abominations as you’d like, Mercenary King. They are not my responsibility anymore.”

  Cael’s heart dropped to his feet. He gaped at the Holy Father, stunned into silence.

  “Neither,” The Pope added, voice smooth like milk with honey, “are the consequences of your actions once your duty to the Church is fulfilled.”

  “Your Eminence—”

  Caelus turned frantically, looking at Sol, at the blood still dried into the cuff of his sleeve. Then back at the Pope.

  “You cannot be serious. He defies the Church. He mocks you to your face!”

  The Pope tilted his head, smile never faltering.

  “And you forget yourself.”

  That made the room still.

  Cael nearly gasped, his eyes wide and, for once, vulnerable.

  Betrayed.

  “You were given to the Church to serve,” Lucen said, gently, softly, each word precise like a blade drawn across skin. “Not to think. Not to feel. Not to scream in rage like a child denied his toy.”

  A pause.

  “Perhaps your father understood how easily you’d forget it. That’s why you were his offering, not his heir.”

  Caelus didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something behind his eyes shattered. He looked like the floor had just dropped out from under him.

  A silent pressure ballooned in his chest, tight and white-hot, as though something vital had been cut loose from his spine. He wasn’t standing anymore—he was just… suspended.

  The air felt colder now.

  Not because of the cathedral’s stones, but because the Mercenary King had stopped smiling.

  He hadn’t moved during the Pope’s cutting words. Hadn’t flinched.

  But now, his voice came slow, low, and dangerous.

  “You know, it’s funny.”

  The Pope turned to him, gaze sharp but still composed.

  Sol didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

  “You preach obedience with the softness of a feather,” he murmured, “But cut your most loyal servant like a butcher.”

  He stepped in front of the knight—casual, almost lazy. But every step echoed with judgment.

  “Tell me, Your Holiness—when you handed him that mission, was it obedience you were after?”

  A pause. Sol’s gaze flicked toward Caelus—still petrified, gaze turned to the floor, still breathing hard, like the words had winded him more than battle ever could.

  “Or were you just hoping he’d fail? So you could twist the knife afterward?”

  A ripple of discomfort spread through the chamber.

  The Pope said nothing.

  Sol’s tone darkened, ever so slightly.

  “For someone who claims to have raised a faithful son, you seem awfully comfortable watching him break.”

  He smiled again—but this one did not reach his eyes.

  “Good thing I’m here, then.”

  Each inhale Cael took felt like swallowing coals. Shame blistered behind his eyes—not because Sol spoke, but because the words hurt less than the silence before them.

  The Pope, poised like the world’s most elegant vulture, gestured smoothly, as if the prior venom didn’t just rip Caelus apart.

  “A barbarian should not meddle in matters of faith.”

  Didn’t even twitch in the direction of the Mercenary King.

  “I’m paying you for a job, not your thoughts. So here is your quest.” He extends a rolled parchment toward Sol without standing.

  “The farmlands of Farrowstead got attacked by bandits. Investigate. You will get paid afterwards.”

  A task so trivial it’s insulting.

  “Aw, no sermon this time? I’m disappointed.” Sol took the scroll with a little more force than necessary.

  The Pope ignored him. He turns to Caelus instead.

  The Templar didn’t move. His expression carved from stone. Vacant.

  “And you, Templar Commander Moraine. Your report?”

  Caelus stepped forward automatically, pulling the folded paper from under his chest plate, and handed it over in silence.

  The Pope accepted it like it’s a chore, nodding slightly in approval.

  “You two may leave now.” His expression was as relaxed as it was when they just entered the cathedral. “May the Aurenos’ Light guide you.”

  “He’s no light.” Sol scoffed, turning away with an annoyed grimace. “He’s but a shadow that devoured what once burned.”

  The Pope looked up sharply.

  But Solferen was already striding out of the cathedral with no care for reverence. Caelus followed after a quick silent bow, fists clenched at his sides.

  Their return was silent.

  Too silent.

  Caelus boiled. Rage simmered beneath his skin, seeping into every breath, every clenched muscle. The Pope’s words echoing in his skull like a curse.

  ‘That’s why you were his offering, not his heir.’

  The road didn’t register.

  When the camp came into view, a voice called cheerfully from the rocks.

  “Oy, welcome back, Holy Boy! Did the big man pat your head for behaving?”

  Cael didn’t even blink.

  He stormed through the camp—past the people, through the cavern, down by the stream, straight to his tent. His jaw clenched so tightly it popped.

  Low, like a prayer laced with venom, he whispered, “I walk in Your light… why must it burn so?”

  “Because you keep throwing yourself into the fire.” Came a voice behind him.

  That snake.

  Sol.

  The heat in Caelus’ chest surged upward, like bile. He stopped before he could reach his tent. Turned so fast he felt something pop in his neck.

  Glared.

  Solferen was following him—grinning, shameless, hands tucked behind his back like a schoolboy who just burned down a chapel.

  “That’s your fault!” Cael all but yelled. “All of it! The Pope—this mission—everything! You’re reckless. Incompetent. You think this is all a joke!”

  He hissed through his teeth, taking one charged step into his direction.

  Sol blinked, mock-offended.

  “Oh nooo! How dare I, a lowly elf, not conduct myself with the noble grace of the Church's prized lapdog?”

  He clutched his chest with a theatrical flair.

  “Forgive me, Templar—I must have forgotten. Only the righteous and pure can fumble an entire mission and still come crawling back to their master expecting approval.”

  Sol stepped closer, voice dropping, fangs bared just behind his smile.

  “Confess, Caelus... do you think he was proud of you?”

  A pause.

  “When you stood there, red-faced and shaking like a kicked child?”

  Cael flinched—just barely. Sol saw it.

  “No spine, no bite, no thoughts. Naught but a good little relic doing exactly what he’s told. Not a person. Not a knight.”

  He tilted his head. “Just a very well-dressed message delivery system.”

  That was it.

  The world narrowed to red.

  “You twisted, arrogant, rot-made creature—”

  Caelus roared and shoved him—hard.

  Sol stumbled back—surprised. Delighted.

  And then—

  SPLASH.

  Silence.

  Just for a breath.

  Cael sat there, ass-deep in the freezing stream, water soaking through every layer of armor and cloth, hair dripping, mouth open in sheer disbelief.

  Sol stood over him. A proud artist admiring his masterpiece.

  “There. Chill.”

  The camp exploded with laughter.

  “Holy shit, did you see that?!”

  “He really said ‘baptism by force!’”

  Caelus shook—unclear if from cold or pure, unfiltered rage.

  “I will end you,” he growled through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, don’t be so upset, darling,” Sol cooed, ever unbothered.

  “At least now you’re clean—since you are avoiding the magic abomination bathhouse.”

  More laughter.

  Caelus stood, soaked and shaking, the river dripping from every inch of him.

  He said nothing.

  No threats. No curses.

  Just the squelch of his soaked boots storming out of the cavern, away from all of it.

  Caelus came to his senses at the lakeside, the still water stretching before him like a mirror he refused to look into.

  He was still soaking wet. The dusk sun did little to warm him. And yet, he remained—perched on a cold rock, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them. Whether it was an attempt to preserve warmth or sanity, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he couldn’t go back inside. Not yet.

  He hadn’t changed out of his clothes. He didn’t have anything to change into after all. And he definitely would not speak to Solferen about it.

  To the Pit with that bastard.

  For over twenty years, he had served the Church with unwavering faith and loyalty. He was the prize. The golden example. Pope Lucen’s pride, the gleaming blade of justice in his God’s name.

  Even his father—stern, distant, withholding—paraded him like a trophy at courtly functions. The only recognition of love Cael had ever received.

  And now?

  If this accursed camp… if that barbarian… were his final test, then he was failing. Utterly. Miserably.

  “Oh boy, have you tried to drown yourself?!” The words pulled him violently out of his thoughts.

  He hadn’t heard the footsteps.

  A low voice spoke softly, with familiarity long forgotten. “You don’t look so good, buddy.”

  Cael jerked his head up, startled, rising to his feet. “What?”

  Standing before him was a man he hadn’t seen in years.

  Long copper hair, sun-kissed and wild, now tied back with a lazy twist of red cloth. A strong jawline, short stubble.

  Long claw mark carved down one side of his face, across a ruined eye—clouded, blind. And yet, the other eye—golden and sharp—gleamed with unmistakable mischief. He looked like the forest had adopted him—wild, weathered, alive.

  The smile on his lips was crooked and easy.

  The smile of someone who had never once bowed to anyone he didn’t respect.

  But Caelus knew that face.

  “…Nolan Thornvale?” The last time he’d seen him, he’d had shorter hair. Both eyes intact. Still wore the white and blue of the Church.

  A Templar. Traitor. Vanished years ago after turning his back on the Order.

  And now he was here right before him. In this lunatic camp of heathens and criminals, somehow looking better than he had any right to.