The city welcomed them with open arms.

  No one spared the Viper a second glance, too absorbed in their own affairs. Or, perhaps, it was due to the beaten-down templars attracting all of the attention instead.

  They moved through the crowd swiftly, as if everybody silently agreed they wanted to be done and over with it as quickly as possible.

  Through the mass of people, to the left, then straight through the market streets, turning right. And there it was. The grand cathedral in its full divine glory, stained glass and gold stretching tall.

  The relief was short lived.

  The doors swung open with too much force, slamming into a wall.

  Bootsteps. Loud. Unbothered.

  Not the careful, measured steps of a believer. Not the quiet reverence of a man entering sacred ground. Just footsteps, carrying with them the filth of the road.

  The guards shifted, uncertain. They looked toward the templars that had escorted him, glancing for orders—should they stop him? No command came.

  By the time they hesitated, it was already too late.

  Sol moved forward with the kind of confidence that made men doubt themselves. Past the watching statues of saints long dead, past the towering columns of faith and judgment.

  He did not slow. Did not hesitate.

  The rest of the men trailing behind like a bunch of frightened goslings.

  Caelus stumbled as a sharp push between his shoulder blades sent him skidding to his knees before the altar. His palms scraped cold marble. Heat flared up his face—not from pain, but from shame. It crawled up his neck like a collar of fire.

  “There, Your Holiness.” The Beast’s voice was mocking, yet bored, like he had just dropped off an unwanted parcel at the Pope’s feet. “I had the pleasure of escorting your prized possession back into your hands. Now please, refrain from sending gifts such as these. They get lost and damaged along the way.”

  The words echoed in the vast chamber.

  The last time Caelus had knelt here, the Pope’s hand had rested gently atop his hair. A moment of trust. Of pride.

  Now? Dragged in like a prisoner.

  The Pope did not flinch. He stood with his back to them, hands interlaced behind him, a figure of serene control. He turned just slightly, glancing over his shoulder. If he was offended, he did not show it. If he was amused, it did not reach his eyes.

  “You have my gratitude, Mercenary King. How generous of you to return what is mine.” Serene as ever, he merely tilted his head.

  Sol clicked his tongue, feign disappointment lacing his tone.

  “Oh, so it wasn’t a gift then? And here I thought…”

  The words hung in the air like bait.

  Caelus’ hands curled into fists. He shifted, adjusting his pitiful landing into a proper salute without a word.

  The Pope smiled. The same smile he always wore. Not quite kind. Not quite cruel.

  A blade wrapped in silk. "Generosity is a virtue, my son. One I bestow upon those who serve."

  Sol chuckled under his breath, stepping forward, shoulders loose, unbothered. Unshaken.

  “That so? How interesting. I find that people like you only offer ‘virtues’ when it benefits them.”

  Caelus—who had spent his entire life obeying this man without question—felt his stomach tighten.

  “You speak as though you know me.” The Pope mused, lighthearted.

  Sol’s eyes gleamed. “I know your type.”

  The air in the grand cathedral felt thicker.

  Lucen Durette didn’t blink.

  “And yet, here you stand before me. Proof that all men, in the end, bow before God.”

  Sol’s smirk widened.

  “Bow?” He let the word linger, amused. “I don’t remember kneeling... Nor do I remember you ascending to godhood, Lucen.”

  Caelus couldn’t take it anymore. He bristled, yanking himself upright. “You arrogant—"

  “Enough.” The Pope’s voice cut through the air like the final strike of a blade. Caelus snapped his mouth shut.

  Sol? Grinning. Thriving. “If you wish to hire me, Holly Father, you’ll have to pay. Just like everyone else does.”

  A bold statement. A declaration. He wasn’t just some tool to be wielded at the Church’s command.

  The Pope did not deny it. “Very well then. Name your price.”

  Sol flashed him a full tooth grin, leaning on one of the marble statues as if he owned the place.

  “Expensive.”

  Just one word. Like he knew—if the Church itself sought someone like him, there was no price they wouldn’t pay.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Something akin to amusement flickered through the Pope’s cold, calculating gaze. A predator watching a predator. "I have never once found a price too high to pay for God’s wishes."

  They talked in veiled threats, both grinning like they’re enjoying it.

  Caelus had imagined this scene so differently. A bitter taste crawled up his throat.

  He shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not in this twisted, upside-down version of what should have been a moment of triumph—not theatre. Not this mockery.

  Sol should have been shackled. On his knees.

  Instead? He was standing before the Pope like an equal. Smirking. Sparring. Mocking.

  A tremor passed through his clenched hand.

  Sol must have seen it. Because just as smoothly as he had entered, just as effortlessly as he had unraveled the tension in the room and twisted it to his favor—he ended it.

  The Mercenary King stretched like a lazy cat after a nap, this whole situation didn’t affect him in the slightest. “Fine, Priest, I will entertain you for a while, as long as the price is paid.”

  Caelus bristled, teeth bare in a snarl.

  Priest!

  How dare he.

  But the Pope didn’t seem to mind. Not for as long as Sol followed his game.

  He had clearly expected the beast to accept. A single wave of his hand, and one of the guards stepped forward, bowing his head as he presented a hefty pouch of coin. It looked too heavy for the Pope’s elegant hands, untouched by hardship.

  And yet, with an effortless flick, he tossed it to the mercenary. Sol caught it midair, weighing it in his palm.

  “Would that be enough, elf?”

  “For now.” He was having the time of his life, ripping the Church off its tax money. “What’s the deal then?”

  “A necessary task awaits, one that requires a man of your… particular talents." The backhanded compliment fell most naturally from the Pope’s lips.

  “Flattering.” Sol tilted his head, entertained. “But I assume you’re not paying for just any man.”

  “No. I need efficiency.” The Holy Father nodded, “There is a cult that took refuge in Runewick, south of Cadagar. Dangerous men, twisting faith into something vile, spreading unease with their nonsense. You will deal with them.”

  “Deal with them? You do like to keep things vague, Your Holiness.” The Mercenary King chuckled softly.

  “I trust a man of your experience does not need specifics.” The Pope smiled—sly as ever.

  A dangerous leeway to give for a creature like this one.

  “Fair enough. Consider it done.” Sol’s eyes sparkled.

  “Brilliant!” The Pope clapped his hands together, turning to his favorite Templar. “Caelus shall accompany you through your travels.”

  It was not a suggestion.

  Sol rolled his eyes. Hard. But he didn’t argue.

  “Yes, your Holiness” The knight saluted. As expected. No hesitation.

  What a good dog. The corners of Sol’s eyes crinkled.

  The Pope continued. “You, my son, will take twenty men—"

  That was the line, apparently.

  “Oh fuck no!” Sol cut in instantly, grimacing. “I don’t have time to babysit a bunch of church children.”

  “But—” Caelus turned to glare at the Viper.

  “I said no. I can tolerate one...” Sol’s voice turned dead serious. He didn’t as much as spare Cael a glance. “If he behaves.”

  A moment of silence. The Pope was considering if arguing about it was worth the time, but the look on mercenary face said it all.

  “Very well. Caelus will accompany you alone. For your sake, don’t let anything happen to him.” The Popes voice dropped in temperature, but his smile didn’t waver.

  “Do not worry, Priest. I will treat him with utmost hospitality!” The elf snickered in response, his voice bearing a dramatic lilt.

  “But your Holiness! We must at least retrieve the bodies—” Caelus’ protest was broke off before it could even take shape.

  “There are no bodies anymore, templar.”

  Sol barely looked at him. His voice, when it came, was cold. Flat. There was no mockery this time, no bite of amusement. Just the simple, unshaken truth.

  “Youd be lucky to find a piece of armor, at best.” He continued simply. Didn’t even joke about this one. He turned his head, looking the man straight in the eye. “Because that thing you saw? It’s the least of your problems.”

  The words hung there, sharp as a blade, cutting through whatever argument Caelus had left.

  The Pope remained silent.

  And with that, the deal was sealed.

  The Mercenary King turned on his heel, already moving for the exit—already done with this whole exchange.

  But just before he stepped through the grand cathedral doors, he tossed out one last insult like a flirtation, wiggling his fingers in the Pope’s direction.

  “Bye-bye, Pops.”

  Caelus stared after him, open-mouthed, incredulous.

  The sheer disrespect.

  That thing—that beast—was striding out of this holy place with his head high, his arrogance untouched, and not a single consequence weighing him down.

  His grip tightened at his sides. He turned sharply to the Pope.

  Lucen, for once, actually looked satisfied.

  Caelus couldn’t take it anymore. He forced himself to swallow his fury, to keep his voice measured—but he failed.

  “Forgive me, Holy Father, but why him?! This animal is too far gone for redemption, and his men are no better!”

  It was as close to shouting as he had ever dared. His emotions bled through, raw and unrestrained.

  Lucen finally turned to him, his expression still serene, untouched, patient. “Patience, my boy. All things must serve their purpose before being discarded.”

  The words settled something in Caelus.

  Relief sharp enough to wound. Like someone had finally reset his broken compass.

  May it be temporary, but for now—it gave him peace of mind.

  A man like that should not be walking free. Should not breathe the same air as the righteous, should not stand unpunished. Justice would come. He just had to wait.

  “What are you waiting for, boy? Follow him!” The Pope’s voice was almost cheerful, his smile widening. “And don’t forget to report his every step.”

  Caelus straightened, gave a quick, respectful nod, and turned on his heel, hurrying after the menace of a man, out into the streets of Cadagar.

  Sol left the cathedral like he had just wrapped up a business meeting. That annoying smile melting off his face the moment he stepped over the threshold.

  Walked straight to the market.

  And started buying absolute rubbish.

  Not weapons. Not supplies. Not illegal substances.

  Candies. Spices. Fabrics. A suspiciously cute wooden toy.

  Caelus—who was still recovering from emotional whiplash—was staring at him. His brain itched. That was the only word for it. Something in him was misfiring, trying to apply logic to a dream that refused to follow rules.

  He was actually staring.

  Sol did not even acknowledge it.

  He was too busy testing the softness of a ridiculously plush blanket and haggling with an elderly woman over the price of dried fruit.

  Caelus wanted to scream when Sol’s hand practically hit him in the face, holding a bar of scented soap. He reeled backwards, outraged.

  “Does this smell like lavender to you?” The elf asked, entirely unbothered. Caelus was too stunned to answer. It was apparently taken as a response.

  “Mhm, thought as much” Sol mumbled, tossing it into his bag.

  Perfume oils. Herbs. Candles. A joyful laugh after recognizing one of the vendors—who was just as happy to see him. Accessories. Gardening supplies?

  The man was blowing his entire payment on things that did not make any sense.

  Was this some kind of sickness? Some kind of twisted ritual?

  Right. That must be it, because there was no explanation for what Caelus was witnessing.

  The bag behind Sol’s shoulders grew ridiculously huge. Some items were thrown unceremoniously into Caelus' hands. He was fuming.

  At last, the final coin was spent, and the elf turned toward the city gates. The massive bag made maneuvering through the crowd a struggle.