The air smelled like wet leaves and leftover chaos.

  Sunlight filtered through the trees in golden shafts, warm but not gentle. The camp was unusually quiet—like the calm that came just after a storm, not before one.

  Sol strolled out of the sanctuary, almost shining. He flexed his muscles with a groan and called over his shoulder as he adjusted his belt. “Varg! Take a party north. Ridge trail. I want berries. All of them.”

  “Any particular kind?” Varg replied, clearly used to these requests.

  “Red ones. Blue ones. The good ones.” Sol clarified. “I already did the dying part—let’s not make it a trend.”

  Varg snorted. “Aye, one corpse per week’s our standing limit.”

  Caelus, already halfway in the saddle, scowled.

  Berries.

  He’s sending trained scouts to forage like royal errand boys.

  Because the Mercenary King woke up craving fruit.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're sending scouts for berries?"

  Sol didn’t answer. Just waved a lazy hand in the air as if he was brushing off a fly—or judgment.

  Then he turned to the rest of the group.

  “Rish, Brother. You’re with me. We’re going shopping.”

  Rish lit up like a bonfire. “Field trip! I call front seat!”

  She bolted toward the horses—too fast, too eager. That was her first mistake.

  The second? Passing too close to Bastard.

  The massive beast let out a deep, rumbling snort and snapped its head toward her as a Voidhound scenting blood. It bared its enormous teeth and lunged.

  Rish squealed, leapt sideways, and landed in a full roll like a greased-up gremlin.

  She popped back up grinning.

  “Ooooh you LIKE me, huh?” She cooed, brushing dirt off her pants.

  Bastard snarled.

  “Stop flirting with the war horse,” Killeon said with a hint of possessiveness, already mounted.

  “You hear that?” She said sweetly, circling the beast with unhealthy curiosity. “He’s jealous.”

  Caelus blinked slowly.

  Was this normal behavior?

  Next thing Rish tried to do, is to hop onto a horse that wasn’t hers, missed the stirrup, and flopped over the saddle like a sack of potatoes.

  Killeon turned his entire soul away in protest.

  “You always this lively,” she muttered, struggling to right herself, “or is it just me?”

  He blinked at her, calmly.

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Of course.

  Meanwhile, Sol had mounted without fanfare, entirely too relaxed for someone who’d nearly bled out a few days ago. His unicorn—if one could call that monster a unicorn—ambled up beneath him loyally, jaws still red-stained from last night's mysterious ‘hunt’.

  Caelus glared at them both.

  This is madness. This whole camp is madness.

  And now their leader, the man who just rose from near-death, is playing berry baron and organizing milk runs.

  Abuse of power. That’s what this is.

  He is unfit to lead.

  …And somehow Caelus is still the one being mocked every day.

  Unbelievable.

  The path stretched before them—muddy, narrow, lined with damp moss and the faint scent of pine.

  Sol rode ahead, posture lazy. His not-horse moved as a shadow, quiet and effortless, wagging its long tail like a snake. Killeon trailed close, Bastard plodding forward as if he hated the concept of roads. Caelus rode behind them, trying not to think.

  He failed.

  His mind was already spinning—wheels of anxiety grinding in his chest.

  He was going back.

  To the Cathedral. To the Holy City.

  To Him.

  The Pope.

  What would he even say?

  ‘They wouldn’t let me leave.’

  ‘I tried. I really tried.’

  ‘They bullied me into staying.’

  ‘They laughed.’

  Would Lucen believe that?

  No.

  More likely, he'd be stripped of his rank. Branded incompetent. Or worse—he’d be kept close. Watched. Questioned.

  What if they proclaimed him a runaway already?

  Cael’s hands clenched tighter around the reins. His horse picked up on it, snorting, ears twitching. He eased the grip—but only slightly.

  Beside him, Rish chattered cheerfully about how insane it was to send Varg out for berries, of all things. “He said all the berries. Like—what does that even mean? All the berries? What is this, a fruit-themed crusade?”

  Killeon didn’t respond. Just looked vaguely amused. A subtle twitch of the mouth.

  Caelus gave them a look that could have soured milk.

  They were so casual. So unbothered. One of them died last week and now they were joking about it. Shopping, even.

  But then Sol turned slightly, pointing ahead. “We’ll stop in Bellmere. Killeon, you’re on it.”

  “Of course.” Killeon didn’t even ask why.

  “Supplies. You know what to get.” Sol waved his fingers vaguely in his direction.

  That was it.

  No explanation. Not even a list. Just pure cryptic Sol nonsense.

  Rish squinted. “Uhhh. You’re not gonna elaborate?”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Solferen just smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  And off they went, breaking away from the main road toward the village gates.

  Caelus blinked.

  But—after a second’s hesitation—he followed.

  He didn’t know why. Hope, maybe.

  That after this errand, they’d go straight to the cathedral.

  That this wouldn’t stretch on longer.

  That maybe, just maybe, he’d be allowed to speak and breathe and return to his station.

  He kept his distance, but close enough to hear.

  Rish, now practically riding sideways in her saddle, hissed, “What are we doing here? Why are we buying cream? And milk? Are you possessed?”

  Sol, deadpan, “Preparation.”

  Killeon added, too casually, “It’ll make sense later.”

  Caelus sighed. “Does it involve sorcery?”

  Killeon looked at him, unreadable.

  A meaningful pause.

  “Yes.”

  Rish made a strangled sound of joy.

  They returned with baskets upon baskets—absurd quantities of milk, cream, vanilla, sugar, and more berries than any one group should legally be allowed to purchase.

  “If I find out we’re summoning a dairy demon, I am leaving this party.” Rish muttered.

  Sol just grinned as they tied down the supplies.

  “Drop them off at our trader’s cart,” he told Killeon. “He’ll take it all back to camp once he’s done here.”

  Still no explanation.

  Still no clarity.

  Only that smug look between brothers. They were in on a joke the rest of them hadn’t even heard the setup for.

  And Caelus?

  He stared at them.

  One part confused.

  Two parts terrified.

  And the rest—spiraling toward something he didn’t dare to name.

  The cathedral waited.

  The Pope waited.

  The verdict waited.

  But instead of divine wrath, he was standing next to a man ordering cream by the liter and planning gluttony. It was the most natural thing in the world for him.

  What in the Pit’s endless roads was this?

  What kind of demon planned dessert before facing the gods?

  The journey from Bellmere felt longer than it had any right to.

  Caelus didn’t speak once. Not during the ride. Not when they passed the high towers of the Outer Ring. Not when the stained glass glimmered with judgment itself in the cathedral’s spires.

  The Pope’s hall loomed like an execution chamber.

  Lucen Durette sat on his throne, ivory robes immaculate, gaze sharp as a scalpel. His fingers tapped the armrest with the same rhythm as a blade being sharpened.

  Sol strolled in as if gods watched his steps with envy.

  Caelus dropped to his knees like a penitent sinner. He didn’t remember deciding to. His body simply reacted, spine straightening like a pulled cord. Not even Sol’s shadow had ever made him move like that.

  A soldier. A loyal knight. A man with a single, impossible duty.

  And he has failed.

  Silence held court, waiting for someone to flinch. Unbearable.

  The Pope's voice, when it finally came, was silken, but edged. His eyes narrowed.

  “I see you’re alive.”

  Sickening silence.

  Caelus remained frozen. Shame roared in his ears.

  “You were expected to report days ago.” Pope’s honeyed tone only made it more dreadful.

  Cael’s teeth peeled the skin of his lip. He kept his gaze low. But the marble floors wouldn’t save him. His voice, when it came was a dead thing.

  “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  “Yet I hear nothing. No letters. No messengers. Not a single word of reassurance that my most trusted knight still breathes.”

  Lucen leaned forward, eyes narrowed. A viper ready to strike.

  “Do tell me, Sir Moraine—what possible excuse could you have?”

  Caelus drew a slow breath, forcing calm where none existed.

  Lucen did not smile. “Well?”

  Cael swallowed the last of his pride, forcing out the confession stuck behind his teeth. “They did not let me leave, Your Holiness.”

  A pause. A very long pause.

  The Pope’s fingers stop tapping.

  “…They did not let you leave.”

  Caelus wanted to die. There and then.

  He winced, breathing through it like it physically pained him. “No, Your Holiness.”

  Lucen’s eyebrows ticked, his expression turning somewhat sour.

  “…Pardon me?”

  Caelus closed his eyes.

  He cannot do this.

  The Pope’s eyes narrowed, he leaned back, quietly peeved.

  “Sir Moraine. Are you telling me that after days of absence—after failing to deliver your report on time—your excuse is that you were held hostage by vagabonds?”

  His voice slithered into something quieter. More dangerous. He spoke slowly, as if trying to prolong the humiliation.

  “By whom? The ragtag group of criminals and heathens? The mercenaries you were sent to observe? The ones you were meant to keep under control?”

  Caelus nearly choked on the words.

  “Yes, Your Holiness.” He exhaled, his head swimming.

  Lucen hissed through his teeth. “They imprisoned you?”

  “Not… exactly.” Cael cursed himself inwardly.

  The Pope's brow twitched again, just a hint of repulsion in the curve of his lip.

  “Then explain.”

  Caelus prayed for the floor to swallow him. For mercy. For the cathedral to collapse around him. “They… simply refused to escort me out of the forest.”

  The Pope stared.

  Then—slowly, painfully—he dragged a hand down his face and left it there like a disappointed father.

  “You mean to say that a First Blade of the Holy Church—a warrior trained in combat, sworn to my service, a man who’s entire being is dedicated to order and discipline—was held in place by words?”

  That tone—calm, gentle, final—had always chilled him more than fury. Solferen laughed, cooed, purred. The Pope whispered. And only one always made him want to run.

  Caelus felt his soul leave his body.

  “…Yes, Your Holiness.” He lowered his head further. His voice was a whisper.

  He didn’t know which burned more—the truth of it, or how true it sounded out loud.

  Silence.

  Absolute silence.

  Then the Pope leaned back, pressing his fingertips together, exhaling as if praying for patience.

  “Sir Moraine.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness?” Quiet. Pathetically small.

  The smile came. It was not kind.

  “You will find a way to send your next report on time, or you will answer to God personally.”

  Caelus swallowed. “Understood, Your Holiness.”

  And then, from behind him—

  “Don’t be mad, Pops,” Sol—who’d observed the whole exchange without as much as moving—drawled, grinning like The Rot incarnate. “He was under house arrest. Tried to chop my head off, you see. Adorable, really.”

  Lucen didn’t look at him. “Get. Out.”

  The words weren’t loud—but they cracked like thunder.

  Sol bowed mockingly low, smile razor-sharp. “As you wish, Your Holiness.”

  And with a hum in his throat and mischief in his wake, he left.

  The doors closed.

  The silence that followed could have drowned a city.

  Caelus knelt. Motionless. Bones aching against marble. Every breath shallow. He dared not raise his head.

  At last—

  The Pope’s voice. Softer than silk. Sharper than a knife. Dropped to a whisper.

  “…Speak.”

  That one word felt like a noose tightening.

  Caelus swallowed hard. Shame burned beneath his ribs as coals.

  He opened his mouth. And the truth spilled out—broken, scattered, reluctant.

  The fog. The altar. The red thing sitting on the Mercenary King’s chest. The blade. The dreams. The pain. The vision.

  He didn’t embellish. He couldn’t.

  The truth, even pared down, sounded like madness.

  Lucen stood, slow as judgment. He stepped down from the throne.

  One step. Then another. Gravity bowed to him.

  Each footfall echoed like the tolling of a cathedral bell.

  He circled Caelus slowly. A lion around a lamb.

  "You were right,” he murmured. His voice was rich with loathing, but reverent—a man speaking of a holy relic turned sacrilegious. “He’s not human. Possibly not even mortal.”

  Caelus’ pulse jumped.

  With relief and returning fear both.

  Lucen kept walking.

  “The thing you described—”

  He paused behind Cael’s shoulder.

  “Matches what little survived the old burnings. Heresies sealed by fire.”

  His words curled as smoke in the air. Suffocating and pervasive.

  He stepped to the side.

  “A spirit that feeds.”

  He was in front of Caelus now. Hands clasped. Gaze endless.

  Caelus’ vision narrowed. He tried to speak. No sound came.

  The Pope stood tall beside him.

  Too calm.

  “I want you to watch him.”

  Caelus’ head snapped up, blood draining from his face.

  “You want me to continue working with him?”

  The Pope’s tone gentled. It made it worse.

  “Pretend to.” He smiled.

  No warmth. No comfort.

  The smile of a puppeteer, knowing the strings will pull just right.

  “I want you to learn him,” he whispered. “Every habit. Every flaw. Every moment of weakness.”

  Caelus could barely breathe. “And then?”

  “And then…” Lucen leaned down, inches from his ear. “When the time comes—you will destroy him.”

  Caelus winced.

  But his breath evened.

  His chest steadied.

  And somewhere, deep beneath the fear—

  He understood.

  This was divine justice.

  This was why he was chosen.

  The creature—that thing—had walked in mockery of the Light for far too long.

  It laughed. It bled. It mocked God’s will. And yet the Church had not struck it down.

  Not yet.

  Because that honor—

  That holy burden—

  Would be his.

  The beast would die. Eventually.

  The Pope stood straight again, robes trailing like mist. He looked down upon Caelus as if from a mountain, backlit by the cathedral's divine light. But just before he turned, his voice dropped again. Low. Terrible.

  “Do not forget what you are, Caelus Moraine.”

  Caelus looked up.

  Lucen’s eyes held centuries of cold behind them. “A man of God. You were built for this.”

  A pause.

  “The beast will attempt to break you. With cruelty. With kindness. With doubt. With visions. He will try to poison your soul.” His expression didn’t shift. “Do not falter. Stand in the Light of Aurenos.”

  Lucen’s footsteps echoed away.

  Caelus remained kneeling, the cathedral vast and silent around him.

  His hands trembled. Not from fear. Not anymore. From resolve.

  This was his holy duty.

  To study the monster. Learn it. Disarm it.

  And one day—end it.

  But deep down, the dread still twisted in his gut.

  Because he had already tried.

  And that failed attempt now sat proudly across Solferen’s neck—

  A clean, perfect scar, like a gift.

  Like a decoration.