The clearing was alive. Too alive.

  Caelus stood rooted in the middle of it, left completely alone in a foreign place surrounded by people who he was supposed to hunt.

  And yet, they were not afraid of him.

  They did not regard him as a threat. They barely regarded him at all. The weight of it pressed in on him, suffocating and unbearable.

  Laughter. Voices. Movement—everywhere.

  Too many people. Too much sound. Too much life in a place where there should have been none.

  This was not a war camp. This was not a hideout.

  This was a village. A heathen village. And he was the only one who didn’t belong.

  The templar turned sharply, trying to track Sol’s frame through the crowd. Too easy to spot. Taller than most. Unnaturally so. A head above every normal human.

  There.

  He caught a glimpse of him. A strand of white hair in the torchlight. Caelus pushed forward. By the time he got there—Sol was gone.

  Another glimpse. Across the camp, walking past a firepit.

  Caelus shoved past a mercenary, ignoring the glare shot his way.

  Got there too late.

  Then another, at the table. Pouring himself a cup of something.

  It was... indifference. Sol acted as if Caelus’ presence was normal, something to be acknowledged and then promptly ignored in favor of more important things, like a drink apparently.

  Every time he thought he had him, but by the time he had made it through the crowd…

  Solferen was gone.

  This was some twisted game of hide and seek. It had to be.

  And the entire camp decided it’s their duty to complicate it for him.

  A shoulder slammed into him as someone passed by, sending him stumbling. “Oops.”

  A smirk. No apology.

  A foot jutted out at just the right moment nearly sending him to his knees.

  A flask tipped ‘accidentally’, spilling ale down his sleeve. The cold soaked through fast, sticky and sour. His skin crawled. Every laugh around him felt weaponized.

  He gritted his teeth, breathing through his nose.

  They were toying with him.

  Demons.

  The sun had dipped beyond the trees now. The shadows thickened.

  The music started.

  It crept in slowly, slithering through the air as mist. A pulse, a rhythm, distant but growing closer.

  Drums, deep and slow, like the heartbeat of something ancient. Like something stirring beneath the earth.

  Voices rose—low at first, then climbing, spiraling. Men. Women.

  A chant, older than civilization. A song that did not need to be understood to be felt. And the forest responded to it.

  He tried to ignore it. Tried. But it drew him in, entrancing, disorienting him even more.

  He swayed where he stood, blinking hard as the world blurred.

  What is this?

  It wasn’t the kind of music played at banquets, hollow and practiced, made for show—not feeling.

  This was something primal. Something that didn’t need words to make the soul recognize it.

  He squeezed his hand shut to keep it steady. Jaw working at the inside of his lip.

  He hated it. Hated how it seeped into his bones. Hated how the fire crackled too loudly, how the trees whispered in voices he could almost understand. Hated how creatures howled somewhere too close for safety, perfectly fitting into the chant of voices filling the air around him.

  Hated the way his body responded to the sound.

  The rhythm throbbed in his skull. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it reminded him of the funeral drums used in the capital. Only those were played by men.

  This... this felt like the forest itself was rejoicing.

  The faces around him shifted, moving too fast, merging into one another. Someone laughed—right beside him, then across the camp, then behind him.

  He turned. No one was there.

  Sol.

  He had to find Sol.

  Another glimpse—moving between bodies, effortless, untouchable.

  Caelus shoved forward.

  The camp pushed back. Hands brushed his arms, guiding him off course. Someone stepped into his path, forcing him to turn.

  By the time he had righted himself, Sol was gone again.

  His breathing grew sharp. Uneven.

  The music was getting louder.

  Was this a ritual? A curse? Had they drugged him?

  A brush of movement—he turned, and finally—

  He slammed into the Mercenary King.

  Solferen, who had been watching. Solferen, who looked amused.

  “Ah, you found me. How sweet.”

  Caelus' patience snapped.

  “Is this the Mercenary King’s hospitality you promised?” He hissed through his teeth.

  Sol laughed. Laughed.

  “Considering what your people did to mine?” He smiled, sharp and condescending. “I think this is far better than what you deserve.”

  Caelus seethed.

  What is he even talking about?!

  Sol didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on, I’ll show you to your tent.”

  The same tent from the night before. Sol didn’t even wait for him before leaving and returning with something in hand. A bowl of stew. A cup of something dark.

  He set them down on the log table.

  Caelus didn’t move, but his body betrayed him. The second the scent found his nose, the hunger clawed its way back into him.

  He had not eaten in two days. Had refused the food from the previous night out of principle. Had forgotten what hunger felt like.

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  The scent hit him like a hook in the gut. Salt, meat, warmth.

  It smelled like survival. It smelled like betrayal.

  His stomach twisted painfully, demanding.

  Sol stood across from him, studying him like he was something fascinating.

  “Rest,” he said simply. “I’ll show you around in the morning.”

  Caelus bit down a scoff.

  What was there to show? Just a den of heretics in the middle of the woods.

  The Beast was already leaving but hesitated at the entrance. Turned back slightly, voice softer.

  “Worry not, Templar.” A pause. “As much as you may hate us, the camp is safe for you. Both from us… and from the forest.”

  Caelus found it hard to believe.

  He sat completely still, but his eyes dropped to the stew. His fingers hovered over the bowl. Just long enough for the hunger to hum louder than his pride.

  He wasn’t going to eat it. He wouldn’t.

  He did.

  One bite. Then another. It was infuriatingly good. The drink? Not water. Wine.

  Bitter. Dark. Warming. He drank anyway.

  The night rolled on.

  The knight sat inside, dazed. He tried not to listen.

  Tried not to watch the shadows dancing on the tent walls.

  Tried not to pay attention to steps all around the tent.

  Not to feel the music rattling his bones.

  To wonder if this was the afterlife.

  Tried not to think if he was made into a part of some ritual now.

  He wanted to stay awake.

  Perhaps it was the music that tranced him. Perhaps it was the sleepless night and an absolute chaos of the day’s events. Or perhaps it was simply the food and wine.

  His body could not take it anymore.

  Caelus crashed.

  Hard.

  Still in his armor. Still gripping his sword like it could keep the world at bay.

  But it couldn’t. Because when he woke up, the camp was still there.

  Quiet. Calm.

  The music, the whispers, the firelight—gone. Just a normal camp, warmed by the daylight. As if none of it had ever happened.

  Caelus sat up, blinking blearily, disoriented.

  For a second, he almost believed it had all been a nightmare.

  But the weight of the emptied bowl beside him, the lingering taste of wine on his tongue, the distant murmur of voices outside—

  It was all real. And he was still there.

  The torture proceeded.

  He lay on the bedroll for a while, trying to ground himself before facing the challenge that this place was.

  The sounds of the forest by day were so different from the ones after sunset.

  Birdsong.

  Leaves rustling on the breeze.

  Distant voices of cheerful, casual chatter.

  A clang of metal, too similar to the sounds of a training ground.

  The melodic hum of a woman, busy with some trivial tasks.

  It sounded… safe. Normal.

  A cruel trick.

  The sun was already high in the sky when he stepped out of the tent. Pretending that nothing had happened. As if the night had not bled through his sanity. As if the world was the same.

  It wasn’t.

  Noon.

  He was never allowed to sleep so late. But then again, this was a place of no order.

  The camp was practically empty, compared to last night.

  But of course, the Viper was there.

  But of course, he noticed the templar as soon as the flap of his tent lifted. And he was already on his way.

  “You look much better, commander.” He beamed, voice a satisfied low rumble. “I take it you actually slept?”

  Caelus sighed, crossing his hands on his chest, brows already furrowed. “Tolerable.”

  It was not.

  “Ah! A man of few words! As always.” Sol chuckled, that annoying grin found its way to his lips again. “Come, let’s eat first, lunch is about to be served.”

  He turned on his heel, waving his hand.

  Solferen led Cael deeper into the camp, gesturing at a crude wooden table, made to hold at least a dozen of people, now empty, and disappeared between the tents. Caelus sat on the bench, thankful he did not have to deal with endless mocking of the heathens.

  Yet.

  He glanced around, noticing the things that didn’t register before, somehow.

  Sol came back, almost serene expression across his face.

  He must be in a good mood.

  Two plates and two cups landed on the table with a graceful movement of a hand.

  This… was not stew. This was a full meal. Golden roasted potatoes, sausages, grilled, by the looks of it, fresh vegetables, herbs, still warm flatbread. Too fresh. Too perfect.

  This was not a simple food he was used to in barracks. Definitely not what he expected from a camp in the middle of cursed woods. This was a feast.

  And where did it come from?

  Caelus sat for a moment, trying to process what he was seeing, then, his eyes scouted around the camp, searching for any sign of a proper kitchen.

  Nothing.

  No large tents dedicated to food. No signs of elaborate preparation.

  Sol plopped onto the bench across from him, all effortless grace, proceeding to eat with the ease of a nobleman at a banquet. But knight’s confusion didn’t escape him.

  “Impressed, I hope?” He smirked, not even bothering to lift his gaze from his plate. “This almost makes up for all the insane jobs people hire me for.”

  “Where…” Cael made a very vague gesture with his hand, still eyeing the surroundings.

  “You’ll see.”

  Great. More mystery.

  The templar was reluctant to eat from the hands of a beast, but ate none the less.

  He needed strength. He had no idea what these heretics had planned for him, but he wasn’t going to die of starvation before then.

  If they wanted to poison him—they would have done it already.

  So he picked up his fork.

  They ate in silence. Caelus tried to avoid looking in Sol’s direction altogether. The longer he could avoid communicating with him—the better.

  He focused on the food, methodically finishing what was left on his plate.

  Almost done. Almost free from this moment.

  Then came the clatter and chatter.

  Women.

  A small group weaving through the camp, balancing piles of plates and cups in their hands, exchanging quiet laughs between themselves.

  Among them—the red-haired vixen from the first night.

  “Oh! Sir Charming! Where’s that brooding knight of yours?” Her voice was sugary-sweet, teasing. “Tell him I miss him dearly already!”

  The giggles rippled through them like a wave as they hurried by.

  Caelus exhaled sharply.

  Then—the last one stopped.

  “Good afternoon, sweetheart.” She leaned from behind the dishes to give the Mercenary King a loving peck on a cheek.

  The gesture was so casual, so intimate—he felt a jolt of wrongness crawl under his skin. Who kisses a monster like it’s a man?

  Her.

  When Caelus saw her, for a moment, something in him paused.

  She didn’t belong here.

  Not in this cursed place, not among these heathens and killers.

  White curls, almost silver in the light, framed her face like a halo. Her skin was pale, untouched by the grime and blood that clung to the rest of them. And her smile—soft, warm, unbothered—as if she had never known fear.

  Like something out of a saint’s tale. A vision of purity, stepping effortlessly through a den of darkness.

  And for one terrible, dangerous moment—he almost believed it. Then he caught himself.

  A trick. It had to be.

  There was no innocence here. No saints. No angels. Only demons in disguise.

  “You guys are done with that?” Her voice rang, bright and beautiful. Angelic. Just like her looks.

  Caelus swallowed down the strange feeling clawing up his chest.

  “Bella, dearest.” Sol greeted her with a slight bow of his head before standing. His eyes softened instantly. “We are! So let us help you with that.”

  An odd display of… reverence.

  “Oh, what a distinguished gentleman you are,” She mused gleefully and let the dishes fall effortlessly into Sol’s waiting hands.

  “Thank you very much!” Her smile was dazzling.

  Her gaze flicked to the knight then. “And this dashing young man must be Caelus Moraine, I assume?”

  Genuine interest. For once—no mockery. No bitterness. She behaved like a noblewoman from the courts. Like she belonged among kings.

  He rose to his feet, his body moving before his mind could catch up, bowing slightly in a perfectly measured, elegant greeting. “That would be correct, my lady.”

  Something about her demanded politeness. Yet at the same time, something about her was… unsettling.

  Violet eyes were not meant for humans.

  Bella flashed them both a brilliant smile, as if the world itself was nothing but a pleasant afternoon stroll.

  “It is lovely meeting you, Ser Moraine,” she cooed, voice sweet as honey. “I do hope you’ll find your stay… comfortable.”

  Caelus nearly scoffed.

  Comfortable. As though he was a guest and not a prisoner in a den of heretics.

  She turned to Solferen, tilting her head with unveiled affection. “And you, my walking curse, don’t work yourself too hard, alright?”

  A final pat on the Beast’s shoulder, and then she was gone, drifting away like a petal caught on the breeze, disappearing among the tents.

  Too perfect. Too light-footed. As if she wasn’t even real.

  Caelus exhaled, rolling his shoulders, still feeling the weight of that strange encounter.

  Sol let out a quiet chuckle, watching after her with something between amusement and pride.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” He mused dreamily.

  Cael frowned. He didn’t like where this was going.

  Sol finally turned to him, the smirk sharpening into something unreadable.

  “Like the Belladonna flower…” he purred, tilting his head. “As lovely as it is deadly.”

  Caelus’ frown deepened. “A warning?”

  The elf just grinned. “A fact.”

  And then, with the same infuriating ease as always, he pivoted toward the basin of water nearby, rolling up his sleeves.

  “Come on, Templar. If I have to be your babysitter, the least you can do is help wash the dishes.”

  The water in the basin was cold, the scent of herbs mixing with the soap. Caelus had never once touched dishwashing in his life, but here he was—scrubbing plates in a mercenary camp like some common servant.

  Sol worked beside him with deft hands, stacking the cleaned dishes without a second thought.

  “Tell me, Templar,” he said, casually flicking water from his fingers. “What do you think of our little home so far?”

  Caelus shot him a glare. “It’s exactly what I expected.”

  A lie. It’s nothing what he expected already.

  “Oh?” Sol raised a brow. “And what was that?”

  “A pit of chaos.” Cael grumbled.

  Sol laughed, shaking his head.

  “You wound me, Moraine. This place is far more than just chaos.” He gestured toward the camp. “Come. Since you're stuck with us, might as well learn your way around.”

  Caelus dried his hands on a rag, feeling the last remnants of cold from the dishwater fade.

  The sun was high. And for the first time, he was going to properly see just what, exactly, he had been thrown into.