Hours passed.

  Pacing. Spiraling.

  He didn’t know what he was doing.

  He just knew the air was too thick, the tent too small.

  And he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Sol had looked at him.

  Why does he look at me like that?

  The camp was quiet that night—too quiet for Caelus’ comfort. No drunken singing, no arguing near the fires, not even Nolan’s off-key humming echoing from the bathhouse.

  The firelight flickered low, painting the canvas walls of the tent in long, warped shadows. A hush hung over everything. The kind of silence that dared not speak a name.

  Caelus sat at the edge of the cot, tunic rumpled, head bowed, fingers laced together in what could have been prayer—or something dangerously close to pleading. He wanted to step out. Needed to. The tent was too small, too warm, pressing heavily on his thoughts like guilt made air.

  But just as he stood, just as he reached for the flap—

  Someone else stepped inside.

  A figure he had hoped not to see again today. Or ever.

  Tall. Fluid. Drenched in the weight of something vast and unspeakable. The kind of presence that didn’t walk into a room so much as fill it.

  Caelus stopped in his tracks.

  The distant fire cast the Beast in warped silhouettes limning his frame at the edges. His face remained in shadow, but his eyes glowed—those slitted, serpentine pupils—as if reflecting the flame of a candle. Alien. Unholy.

  Yet there was no flame. No candle. No light on his face.

  Cael stumbled back instinctively, heart lurching into his throat.

  Solferen stepped forward, slow and certain. A predator scenting the wound.

  “You look troubled,” the elf murmured, voice smooth and amused. He took another step forward. “What’s weighing on you, little lion? Your precious god…?”

  He tilted his head, hair falling forward in silver-black waves. “Or me?”

  Cael’s mouth was a hard, silent line, but the shame flushed hot under his skin.

  He took a step back.

  Sol followed.

  Another step. Another. One after the other. A cruel little dance of fear and danger.

  Like a tide—inevitable.

  Caelus' pulse quickened further, dizzying. He didn’t even realize how fast he was backing up until—

  His hips slammed into the table.

  A sharp breath escaped him. The impact rattled the items on the wooden surface. A cup tipped and rolled.

  Too late.

  He was cornered.

  Sol stepped in close, then closer still—until the space between them evaporated. One hand pressed to the table beside Caelus’ hip. Then the other. He leaned over him.

  Caged.

  Cael could barely breathe.

  His back arched away, trying to gain distance. His palms flattened against the table’s edge, fingers gripping it so hard he could hear the wood creak.

  Sol's breath ghosted against his cheek.

  “Begone, demon,” the knight ground out, but his voice was uneven. Weak.

  Sol’s chuckle was low and deep, almost fond.

  “I see the way you look at me, My Lord... With all that righteous fury, like I’m someone unworthy of standing in your holy presence.”

  His silken hair spilled forward, brushing Cael’s chest.

  “But that’s not all, is it?” His voice dipped, velvety. “There’s something else you won’t dare to name.”

  His lips hovered near Cael’s ear, warm enough to burn.

  “Like you find me rather... intriguing.” The viper whispered, head tilted like an animal leaning into a scent.

  Warm, sweet and faintly spiced, like a dessert, buried under all that cold metal and linen.

  Delicious.

  Solferen barely held himself from purring.

  Caelus turned his head away.

  “I don’t know what blasphemy you speak of. I am a man of God.” But his voice came out pathetically unstable.

  “Are you?” The demon crooned. He didn’t believe it for a second. “Because right now, you look like a man on the verge of breaking.”

  A weightless stir rose beneath Cael’s ribs—brief, unwelcome.

  He exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into the table as though he could anchor himself there. He wanted to shove him, to scream, to do something—but he couldn’t even move.

  His spine locked. His thighs trembled. His faith was a noose now, tightening inch by inch.

  Instead, his hand flew to his medallion at his chest. Clutched it like a drowning man might clutch a lifebelt.

  “Stop.” He hissed, eyes wide, brows furrowed.

  Sol didn’t.

  “Leave me be, you—you enjoy this, don’t you? Toying with me? Trying to break me?” The Templar all but snarled.

  Sol’s tone stayed calm, nearly pleased. "You think me some kind of brute, My Lord..."

  “Because you are! You are an abomination! A monstrosity! Unnatural—” Cael’s voice rose.

  “Hmm. You think you’ve got me all figured out, holy.” Sol’s fingers brushed against Cael’s chin—barely, like a question.

  The knight flinched like he’d been stabbed.

  “I’ve seen it! The thing. I’ve seen what you are!” He spat, meeting his gaze now. His eyes flared with fury. “You’re not a man. You’re something that should’ve stayed buried.”

  Sol smiled like that was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said.

  “Oh. So you two finally met.” His voice was maddeningly amused. “Maybe now you’ll stop mistaking your delusions for truth.”

  “You are a delusion!” Cael hissed. “A stain! Whatever you were before—it's long dead. And whatever's left now is just a monster in a pretty skin!”

  Sol’s lips curled more, like a cat that got cream, looking into the knight’s steel-blue eyes with fascination. “Pretty, huh?”

  His fingers lingered—soft, almost gentle—against Cael’s chin.

  Too gentle.

  And then—lower. Lighter than breath, they drifted down to the side of his neck.

  Cael’s body jolted away as if something struck a nerve. But the touch didn’t tighten. Didn’t press. Just hovered.

  One wrong thought. One flex of those fingers. That’s all it would take.

  Sol’s thumb traced the edge of Cael’s throat—not even touch, just a thought. Slowly. Lazily. Like he could snap it if he wished to, and the thought entertained him.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Cael stopped mid-inhale, chest rising but no air came.

  His fury fractured into something colder. Something older. Fear.

  The feeling of being studied like prey.

  “Leave—me—be!” Cael growled, voice shook with panic.

  “You talk so bravely, yet you don’t even know yourself. Perhaps you should spend more time with the person in the mirror. Caelus.” Solferen murmured, sound low and reverberating deep in his chest.

  That name—his name—said so softly, in his mouth, was both a kiss and a curse in one breath. A flurry of feeling burst beneath his ribs, impossible to name.

  “I know what I am!” The knight snapped. “I’m a man of God!”

  “Then do what you do best—” The whisper deepened—roughened—until it bared its teeth.

  “—Beg.”

  That word.

  It snapped something in Cael’s throat.

  His hand quivered around the medallion.

  He choked on the next breath. The word caught.

  The silence stretched between them, thick and charged, as he struggled against the pull of something he had never allowed himself to name.

  “Solferen... stop.” His voice trembled—truly trembled now.

  He didn’t want to say it. He wanted to scream. Wanted to punch him, flee, pray. Anything else. But the word crawled out anyway. Not strength. Not surrender.

  “Please.” A whisper. Raw. Real.

  Sol paused.

  His pupils dilated.

  His breath stilled, expression changing. A flicker of pleasure.

  He pulled back. Just an inch.

  “Ohhh...” His tone dipped to something hot and wicked.

  “So you do know that word,” he purred, breathy.

  The tension didn’t break. It simmered, thick and dangerous, a war in the air that hadn't chosen a side.

  Sol’s gaze devoured him.

  “But not the one that would make me stop.” Sol smiled, observing Cael struggle against himself, the fight waged not on a battlefield, but in the space between them.

  The Beast remained close, patient, watching with the sharp eyes of a predator that already knew its prey would not run.

  The knight's fingers twitched before curling into a fist around the medallion.

  “Stop…” An uneven breath.

  “I beg of you,” he finally rasped between shallow breaths.

  A slow, satisfied smile spread across Sol’s lips.

  “Should I?” He didn’t pull away. Instead, he lifted a hand, tracing his knuckles along the edge of the knight’s jaw, tilting his chin just enough that their eyes met.

  “ENOUGH!” Caelus’ face was twisted in panic, he slammed his hand against Sol’s chest, but it was like trying to move the wind.

  Solferen only leaned back slightly, then caught the knight’s face in one hand, turning his head up, face inches away from each other. Firm.

  Cael's lips parted in shock.

  “Fine,” Sol husked, lips curving at the way the man tensed beneath his touch.

  “If it is god your soul so earnestly seeks…” He straightened his back. “Then I shall be one.”

  Cael’s hand squeezed the medallion so hard the metal creaked.

  The gleam from fires outside licked the edges of Solferen’s silhouette in a golden halo. Luminous. His eyes still burned with that unnatural light from inside. Face serene like a saint.

  For a moment—just a moment—his faith fractured.

  He believed it.

  Just for a heartbeat.

  And it terrified him.

  But then, Sol tore himself away.

  Turned and left.

  Just walked out.

  “Run if you like, Ser Knight,” he called over his shoulder. “But one day, you’ll have to ask yourself—what is it you truly worship?”

  Just like that, the Beast left the tent, but his ghost lingered, searing, inescapable. The chain around the knight’s neck snapped.

  The metal didn’t break from strength.

  It broke from tension. The same kind snapping inside him.

  Cael didn’t hear him go.

  He heard only the pounding of blood in his ears, the sound of his own heartbeat threatening to crack his ribs open.

  And then his knees gave out.

  He collapsed on the floor, shaking, his entire body wound tight like a bowstring about to snap. His palms pressed hard over his face, breath tearing in and out of him.

  Panic. Shame. Something else—deeper, filthier. Unnamable.

  His skin burned with phantom touches, though no one was there. And yet he felt watched. Branded. Not from the outside in, but from within.

  The look Sol gave him was a knife.

  What unsettled him most… was that he didn’t want to dodge.

  He hadn’t stopped him.

  He hadn’t even tried.

  Even now, hours—or was it minutes?—later, he couldn’t tell if he was trembling from rage or from something far more dangerous.

  In the darkness behind his eyes, images bloomed.

  Visions he hadn’t meant to conjure.

  Visions the Church had never given him names for.

  Scarred hands around his throat. Like he knew Caelus would never stop him.

  No, not choking. Not quite.

  His lips brushing the corner of his neck like a secret, then—

  Caelus gasped, a sound half-choked and wholly broken. He shoved the images aside, but they clung like thorns—rooting in places he couldn’t reach.

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Make it stop. Please—make it stop.

  What would have happened if he hadn’t begged?

  If he hadn’t gripped that medallion as if it could save him from himself?

  If he hadn’t whispered ‘please’ like a confession?

  What would the demon have done?

  Touched him? Pinned him down?

  Or—no—torn his throat out and laughed with blood running down his chin.

  That made more sense. That was the only thing that made sense.

  Because demons didn’t want you. They played with you.

  They danced at the edges of hope—and when you dared to reach, they gutted you.

  That’s what this was. A game.

  Sol had said it himself, hadn’t he?

  ‘One day, you’ll have to ask yourself—what is it you truly worship?’

  It wasn’t a seduction. It was torture.

  Foreplay to a worse punishment.

  Just like that night at the temple.

  Just like every glance that came wrapped in mockery.

  Just like the ‘flirtation’ that left Cael bleeding, breathless, marked.

  And besides—

  Why would Solferen want someone like him?

  A templar. A man. A walking contradiction.

  Half-mad with guilt.

  No.

  He hated him. He hated Sol.

  He would not fall to his lies.

  He was stronger than that.

  He had to be.

  He clutched what was left of the medallion against his chest, the torn chain biting deep into his palm.

  “God,” he rasped under his breath, “don’t leave me alone here…”

  But the silence gave no answer.

  Only the phantom heat of hands that had never touched him.

  Outside the sanctuary, Solferen exhaled slowly into the night air. Like a man walking away from something too delicate to touch a second time.

  The stars above the tree line shimmered faintly, distorted by thin clouds and flickers of campfire haze. The air had cooled, but not enough to calm the burn in his chest.

  He had expected resistance. Fury. Maybe even another attempt on his life.

  But this?

  This was exquisite.

  The breath that left him wasn’t relief. It wasn’t triumph.

  It was disbelief.

  He ran a hand down his face, fingers brushing over his mouth like he could wipe away what he’d just done.

  “Damn.”

  He really liked him.

  Gods help him, he did.

  Maybe not liked like a poem. Not a candlelit promise. But like the ache you feel when you see something fragile trying to stand tall. A thing that was breaking but didn’t yet know it was allowed to fall.

  Sol closed his eyes. Ran both hands through his hair, pressing the heels of his palms into his skull as if he could scrub out the thought.

  “That was too much,” he murmured to himself.

  Too aggressive. Too soon.

  The boy was repressed to the bone. Cracked all the way down the center and still trying to hold his shape with prayer and spite. If pressed too hard, he’d shatter.

  And Sol wasn’t here to break him.

  This wasn’t about conquest. He wanted something else.

  He wanted choice.

  He wanted Cael to step forward—not fall.

  Not like this.

  Because if he kept pushing… if he didn’t stop—

  He wasn’t any better than the Church.

  That thought landed like bile in his throat. Heavy. Real.

  Unforgivable.

  And that… disgusted him.

  He wasn’t proud of what he'd done.

  He wasn’t even angry.

  He was ashamed.

  Not because of how close he came—

  But because he didn’t recognize himself in those moments.

  Not the man he’d been.

  Not the leader.

  Not even the monster.

  Just… hungry. And not for flesh.

  That wasn’t seduction. That was cruelty.

  And the worst part?

  For a moment, Caelus had still looked at him like he was something holy.

  Solferen stood very still. Like a creature mid-ritual who’d realized—too late—that the offering had been a living thing.

  He hadn’t touched him. Hadn’t crossed that line. Not truly.

  But he’d wanted to.

  Rot take him—he had wanted to.

  He was supposed to be better than this.

  He was supposed to know restraint.

  To know when to tease, when to charm, when to stay away.

  And yet a single trembling voice—a single whispered please—had nearly undone him.

  Something about Caelus Moraine had him unraveling.

  And Sol hated how easy it had been to let go.

  He hadn’t wanted Caelus to fall.

  He wanted him to walk toward him.

  Eyes open.

  Heart steady.

  Choice intact.

  Let him come forward—let it be his choice. Let him step closer on his own.

  He saw it. He knew.

  The way Cael’s voice cracked. The way he froze.

  The way he shook when Sol touched him—

  Not just with terror.

  There was longing there, buried under shame so deep it might never crawl free.

  But if he tore it out too soon… he’d only be planting new scars over old ones.

  Let him come. Or don’t.

  He would wait.

  And if Cael never came?

  He would let him go. It was only right.

  Sol sighed, his breath curling soft against the cold. The firelight behind the tents flickered like dying stars.

  Killeon stepped into view, a shadow that had always been there. Arms folded, shirt open, eyes glittering with that usual unimpressed calm.

  He didn’t say what he’d overheard. Didn’t need to.

  He just looked at Sol. And sighed. Loud. Dramatic. The kind of sigh that said ‘you absolute dumbass.’

  Sol arched a brow. “Don’t start.”

  Killeon tilted his head. “Too late.”

  Another beat passed. Wind stirred the trees. A moth flitted past the torchlight. Another slow, theatrical sigh.

  “You nearly cracked him in half,” Killeon said blandly. “And for what? A confession?”

  “He was close,” Sol muttered, almost defensive. “He said ‘please’.”

  Killeon’s gaze narrowed.

  “He said it like he was choking on his own tongue. Not like he was about to kiss you.”

  Sol turned his face away. Jaw tense, nail scraping the line of his thumb. “He wants it.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Killeon walked past him. Patted his shoulder once in a gesture that was not comfort but definitely mockery.

  “Let me guess. You told yourself you were helping.”

  “I backed off.” Sol shook his head, palms lifted.

  Killeon tilted his head at him, judgmental. “After cornering him like a villain in a storybook? Sure.”

  Sol rolled his eyes, heat of shame he have not felt since age ten burning at his cheeks. “He’ll come around,” He mumbled, secretly praying he wasn’t lying to himself.

  Killeon didn’t stop walking. He just tossed over his shoulder—

  “Hope your ego keeps you warm tonight.”

  And then he was gone.

  Sol stood alone again.

  But this time…

  The night felt colder than before.