At the edge of Bellmere, Anders and Varg were waiting. Both looked genuinely impressed with how much their leader was carrying.

  “Did you rob the church or something?” One of them asked, clearly entertained.

  The other—finally noticing Caelus trailing behind—squinted in genuine confusion.

  “Boss, there’s somethin’ weird following you.”

  Varg, of course.

  The knight scowled.

  “Yes, indeed! That’s my new pup. He’s bound to follow me around for a while,” Sol practically sang the words.

  Caelus took a deep breath.

  Patience. The faith demands it.

  “Damn, I hope the money was worth it then!” Varg chuckled.

  Anders, meanwhile, was already by Sol’s side, ignoring the knight entirely.

  “You need help with that?” He eyed the absurdly oversized bag with childlike interest.

  “I’m alright.” Sol huffed with mirth. “You see, the heavier the bag of treasures, the more satisfying it feels.”

  Anders nodded approvingly. Varg cackled.

  Caelus closed his eyes, breathing in deep.

  The road ahead was long. And he was already exhausted.

  The group moved on, leaving the bustling city behind, the weight of the marketplace fading with each step.

  The golden fields of the open road soon gave way to the shadowed maw of Blightreach, where sunlight turned to fractured slivers through the dense canopy. The deeper they went, the more the air thickened, pressing against them with unseen hands. The scent of damp earth, old wood, and something faintly unnatural settled in again.

  By the time they reached camp, the familiar sounds of mercenaries at rest—murmured conversations, sharpening blades, the occasional bark of laughter—greeted them like an old song.

  Caelus would have welcomed the change of atmosphere, had it not been for the absurdity of his return.

  Straight to the predator’s den.

  Sol, ridiculously burdened with his oversized haul, strolled in as if he hadn't just spent an ungodly amount of coin on nonsense.

  Heads turned. Some visibly struggled to process the sight.

  Someone whistled. “Back from battle, I see.”

  “Yeah right,” Varg smirked, “Fought a vicious war with an old woman over dried fruit. Almost lost, too.”

  Laughter rippled through the clearing.

  The other mercenaries—finally noticing templar following behind—exchanged looks, a flicker of recognition passing between them, sharp as flint against steel. Some only spared a glance before going back to their work. Someone briefly looked at him, shaking their head, muttered, “Poor bastard doesn’t even realize he’s already staying.” Others weren’t so discreet.

  One smirked. “Oh, you dragged him back too?”

  Caelus exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. The road had been long. The real suffering was only just beginning.

  Sol, ever so casual, just shrugged.

  “Yeah, he gonna stay with us for some time.” He lifted his free hand innocently. “Pope’s orders.”

  And then—as if on command—

  The camp breathed.

  People poured in from nowhere. A whole village’s worth of them.

  Figures stepped out from the shadowed edges of the clearing. Some from the trees, some from places Caelus couldn’t even pinpoint. It was like a vein had been opened, and life rushed back in.

  A mercenary stretched, cracking his back.

  “Oh, thank the gods. It got jarring inside there already.”

  Inside where?

  Caelus, watching the flood of people, felt something drop into his gut like a stone.

  Where in the Pit had they been?

  Had they just… known?

  That Sol was gone?

  That he was back?

  And now—only now—they could show themselves?

  Sol was already going deeper into the crowd, welcomed with smiles and warm looks.

  A large canvas bag swung from his shoulder, filled with goods from the market. And one by one, he handed things out, casual, practiced, a man fulfilling a duty he had carried for years.

  Kitchen supplies were dropped into the waiting hands of a kind-faced woman, who beamed like she had been given a crown.

  A sack of dried fruit was tossed to a boy no older than fifteen, who caught it with a grin.

  Bundles of herbs found their way into the arms of an older man who nodded in thanks.

  And then—the candy.

  Children.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  They rushed forward, hands outstretched. Sol crouched, pulling small, wrapped treats from his bag and placing them into their palms. Laughter bubbled up. Tiny hands clung to his sleeves.

  Anders poked his head over his shoulder, eyeing the bag. “You got sumthin’ for me?”

  Sol didn’t even look up.

  “What, want a toy, SON?” He teased.

  Son… Yes, the mage mentioned that before, didn’t he?

  But they were nothing alike.

  Anders snorted, pushing his shoulder playfully, taking whatever was given to him anyway.

  Then the air shifted.

  Caelus felt it before he saw it.

  A presence behind the children.

  Sad. Watching shyly as the kids clinging to that beast like he’s their father.

  A young boy. Standing apart from the others. Still. Hollow-eyed.

  A ghost.

  Sol stilled for a moment, noticing him too. His motions were different now, careful, deliberate. He reached into his bag. Pulled something out. That wooden toy he picked earlier. Offered it.

  The boy hesitated. Floated closer. Took the gift. Held it to his chest as though it was something fragile, looking at it with confused eyes.

  And then—he smiled. Wide and bright. A real, child’s smile.

  Caelus felt gooseflesh rise down his spine. Something primal in him whispered that nothing here was right.

  Just one blink—and the boy was gone. Nothing but the rustle of the trees.

  None of the other children seemed to notice him. Not really. They didn’t flinch when he vanished.

  As if it was expected.

  Sol rose to his feet, smiling warmly, already moving on. As if nothing had happened. As if this was the most normal thing in the world.

  And Caelus? He just stood there, lost and confused.

  Staring.

  Trying to piece together what, exactly, he was witnessing.

  What the Pit was this place?

  What the Pit was this man?

  The knight was rooted to the spot in absolute daze, looking at the people before him. His knees locked. His breathing shallow. As though, if he moved too suddenly, the dream would notice—and punish him.

  This cannot be. This is not right. They might look human, of course they do, they walk like them, they talk like them, but they are mercenaries. The forsaken. The damned. The outcasts, heretics and murderers. He will not be fooled. He knows their nature. The Church—

  CRACK.

  A slap rang through the camp, echoing through the woods. His ears rang. His vision flared white.

  Templar’s head snapped to the side, pulsing hot across his cheek, tension rippling through his frame as he turned to face his attacker.

  A tiny woman stood before him. Her soft amber hair a curly mess cascading around her face. She wore moss and feathers like they’d grown there. Fury burned behind dark eyes, her hand still raised, trembling with rage.

  “You.” Her voice was low, shaking with something deeper than anger. “You led me to the fire.”

  Recognition flickered. His gut dropped. That cold weight that comes before judgment—the kind that had always belonged to the accused, never the knight.

  He had seen her before. Year ago.

  Bound. Filthy. Her cries swallowed by the cheers of the faithful. He had not lit the flames, but he had delivered her to them.

  The Witch.

  She was supposed to be dead.

  And maybe she should have been.

  The thought came unbidden. Ugly. He swallowed it down like poison.

  “You...” His voice was steady, but something twisted in his gut. “You survived.”

  “No thanks to you!” She spat at his feet.

  Caelus’ fingers curled into fists. He did not strike back. He could not. He had never agreed with this method of the church, but that was his duty.

  Somewhere behind him, Sol watched—smirking, arms crossed. “Not exactly the warm welcome you were expecting, huh, templar?”

  It didn’t go unnoticed.

  “SOLFEREN, YOU SON OF A WHORE!”

  The entire camp stilled.

  Somewhere in the distance, a crow took flight.

  This tiny woman, a blur of amber curls, and sheer unchecked rage barreled through the crowd as a storm on legs, seething, finger pointed like a loaded weapon right at the Beast’s chest.

  “You leave for ONE gods-damned day, and suddenly, you come back smelling like the church?!” She shrieked.

  Sol tilted his head, blinking slowly. “Good to see you too, Ysi.”

  “Oh, don’t you 'Ysi' me, you absolute sack of—” She lunged.

  The elf sidestepped with practiced ease, hands lifted in mock surrender. “Whoa, whoa, careful—fragile goods.”

  “I SWEAR TO EVERY GOD ABOVE, I WILL TEAR YOUR FRAGILE ASS APART.”

  Caelus took one solid step back. Not out of courtesy, but caution. People had been executed for far less than laying a hand on their leader.

  Ysilla, apparently, had no problem throwing hands with the Mercenary King.

  “You vanish without a word, come waltzing back like you own the place, dragging a fucking church dog behind you, and—oh, oh, what’s this?” She grabbed Sol’s ridiculous bag, yanking it open before he could stop her. “...YOU WENT SHOPPING?!”

  Sol scoffed. “It's called strategic resupplying.’

  Ysilla threw a candle at his head. He caught it effortlessly.

  “That was uncalled for,” he chuckled, unbothered.

  “You’re uncalled for!” The witch snapped back.

  Caelus stared.

  The mercenaries stared.

  Someone whispered, “She’s gonna kill him this time.”

  Someone else hissed, “Shut up, I wanna see if she wins.”

  Ysilla was breathing heavily now, chest rising and falling, eyes ablaze. “What in the name of every damned star are you thinking, Sol? The church? Really?!”

  Sol sighed dramatically, rubbing his temples. “Oh, I don’t know, firecracker… Maybe I just wanted to have fun and make a little money?”

  “YOU SOLD YOUR SOUL TO A CULT!”

  “First of all,” Sol lifted a finger, “they have nothing to collect.”

  Ysilla grabbed his collar. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach it. “I swear to all things holy, Solferen, if you drag ME into this mess, I—”

  A massive shadow loomed over them. Ysilla was suddenly lifted—effortlessly—off her feet.

  She yelped, flailing. “What in the—”

  A grumbling, amused voice rumbled behind her. “You’re going to break him, love.”

  The absolute wall of muscle had arrived. Seven and a half feet of towering, scarred orc, lifting her like she weighed nothing. A golden bull’s ring glistened under his flat nose.

  The anger melted off witches’ face. “Oh.”

  He just held her there, calm as could be.

  Ysilla crossed her arms, still glaring at Sol.

  “Gorrath'khaal!” She spelled his name like a wife about to scold her unruly husband. “Put me down.”

  “Mmm.” He did not put her down. Instead, he adjusted her as though she was some kind of oversized cat, tucking her against his chest.

  The entire camp was watching.

  Sol, bastard that he was, grinned. “Oh, is that all it takes? Noted.”

  The witch hissed like a wild animal. “I will set you on fire, you absolute waste of air—”

  She threw her hand in his direction forcefully, a small flicker of fire on her blackened fingertips threatening to break loose.

  “Mhm.” Gorrath just turned and walked off with her, ignoring the way she still vibrated with barely contained rage.

  The camp erupted into laughter.

  Sol, pleased with himself, turned back to Caelus. “Now, where were we?”

  Caelus just stared.

  At this insane, lawless place.

  At these people.

  At the way Solferen just accepted getting berated like it was part of his daily routine.

  This was the Pit. It was the purgatory. Without doubt.

  Caelus had no words. No thoughts. Just silence.

  The camp was alive with laughter, voices rising and falling, as if it had always been this way. As if it would always be this way.

  The elf, unbothered as ever, flexed, popping his back before striding deeper into camp.

  And Caelus? He was just left there. Lost. Trapped. Drowning.

  This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

  And yet—

  The fire was warm.

  The scent of cooking meat and fresh earth filled the air.

  People moved around him, completely at ease, laughing, smiling, living. A mercenary walked past, giving him a mocking clap on the shoulder. “Welcome home, church boy.”

  Caelus’ breath hitched. It felt like a verdict. A sentence passed without trial. His spine stiffened. His ribs squeezed tight around a breath he couldn’t fully take.

  No. No, this wasn’t home.

  This was a nightmare. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever wake up.