Caelus didn’t know how long he’d been lying there—staring into darkness, thoughts spiraling.

  The songs had ended.

  The drinks had dried.

  Even the fires had gone cold.

  But his mind wouldn’t still.

  He lay there, arm over eyes, boiling.

  He lost. He overestimated himself. He underestimated that smug, chaotic snake.

  Is it worse to be bested by a demon or to realize you never stood a chance?

  No. No, this cannot be.

  He was just tired.

  He wasn’t ready for that kind of fight. Sol fought dirty. That was all. He didn’t play fair. He just got lucky.

  Next time, he would be prepared.

  Next time… he’d win.

  A cruel memory slithered in. Sol’s voice. That awful grin. Words whispered between the spins.

  ‘You’re not used to being touched, are you?’

  Cael sat up too fast, face hot with fury.

  Why did that line repeat in his head?

  What was that supposed to mean? He had sparred plenty! Been in close quarters before. Probably more than that Bastard King himself! Infuriating, insolent brat.

  He scoffed.

  Collect yourself, Caelus. Sleep first. Then the mission. Tomorrow, he’d drag that wretched thing out of the forest himself if he had to—

  But Sol found him first.

  With the first light of the sunrise, the tent flap creaked open with all the reverence of a cat knocking over a shrine.

  Caelus, barely asleep, twisted under the blanket. His head pounded. Muscles sore. Everything still burned from the night before.

  “Good morning, saintshine,” a familiar voice crooned, right next to his ear. Not spoken. Purred. “You dream about me? You were making noises.”

  Cael’s fist flew before his eyes even opened.

  There was a thud, a grunt, and then a breathless laugh, too smug for its own good.

  “Ow,” Sol wheezed. “Rude.”

  Caelus sat up, wild-eyed, hair a mess, still panting from panic and rage. “GET OUT.”

  Solferen grinned from where he crouched, at a very safe distance now, rubbing his shoulder like a proud parent whose child just threw their first punch.

  “I brought breakfast,” he said, holding up a suspiciously toasted piece of bread. “Also, we’re leaving in thirty. Put on your angry armor.”

  Cael stared.

  First at the bread.

  Then at the grin.

  Then at the part of the tent where he was going to hang himself if this continued.

  Sol placed a tray of breakfast on the table as if he lived there.

  And just before slipping out the tent, he tossed over his shoulder—

  “Don’t worry, I packed your pride. Found it where you left it—under my boot.”

  Caelus buried his face in both palms and groaned.

  Aurenos, please. Let it be the last day in this damned place.

  He sat there in silence. Staring at the tray.

  The toast sat on the edge—crisply golden, corner slightly torn from elf’s careless grip.

  His fingers had been right there. Probably still stained with blood from gods knew what, or who.

  The mere idea of it made Cael’s stomach twist.

  He looked away. Then back again. The toast hadn’t moved. It just sat there. Mocking him.

  He ate everything else.

  The fruit. The porridge. The eggs. Every piece meticulously avoided the corner of the tray where that cursed toast remained. He was starving—but not that starving. Pride was still a thing. He would rather die than eat anything touched by that man’s unholy hands.

  Sol's words echoed again in his head.

  Cael grit his teeth.

  Not today.

  He shoved the tray aside with more force than necessary. The toast slid slightly but didn’t fall.

  Of course not. Even gravity was against him now.

  He stood.

  Started dressing. Shirt. Pants. Tunic. Armor.

  Not pristine anymore. Thanks to him.

  He buckled each clasp like a man preparing for war. Which—he was. Not a battle against some distant enemy. A battle against the growing, unwelcome truth clawing its way up from inside.

  The Mercenary King was under his skin. Like a parasite. A poison.

  And if Caelus didn’t purge him soon—he feared what would rot.

  The sun hadn’t fully cleared the trees yet, and already Caelus was storming across the clearing like a thundercloud in steel. Boots heavy. The tray back in his tent, the cursed toast untouched.

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  He passed the fire pits. The wash lines. The sound of early morning sparring drifted from the far end of camp, but he didn’t look. He refused to give Solferen the satisfaction of even a glance that way.

  He made it to the horses.

  And of course—of course—someone had to speak.

  “Morning, Holy Boy,” Ysilla called, passing by with a basket of herbs slung casually on her hip. “Nice fighting yesterday.”

  There was a glint in her eye that told him exactly what part she liked best.

  Caelus stopped in his tracks.

  Turned.

  His voice was cold. “At least I fought.”

  Ysilla raised a brow, pausing mid-step. The ends of her hair glimmered as if they remembered fire.

  Caelus pressed on, sharp as steel. “Unlike some who walked into the flames like a bride to an altar.”

  Silence.

  Varg, adjusting a saddle nearby, let out a slow whistle. “Well, damn.”

  He looked genuinely impressed. “Didn’t know the Clankbucket could bite.”

  Even Ysilla’s lips twitched, not with anger, but mild amusement.

  “Look at that,” she drawled, nearly impressed. “He found his spine after a public beating. Good for you.”

  She walked on. Her smile all teeth and silence.

  He stomped in the opposite direction.

  The horses were saddled. Packs secured. Anders was already bouncing on his heels, too excited for someone who’d nearly drowned a camp kitchen trying to ‘wash potatoes’ yesterday.

  Caelus mounted with silent fury.

  If the leather creaked in protest—good. Let it. Let everyone around him feel the tension. He’d had enough of being the camp’s favorite joke.

  Let them try laughing now.

  He had not slept well. He had not eaten Sol’s bloody toast. He had been publicly annihilated by a barefoot Mercenary King in front of half the camp, and now he was going to redeem himself. They were finally going. Finally. No more delays. No more distractions. Just the mission.

  “Wait!”

  The voice was small. Sweet.

  Everyone turned.

  Belladonna stood at the edge of the path, smiling as she tugged her hood up. She was radiant in the morning sun—eyes like amethyst, hair a silver halo, posture graceful despite the oversized cloak that nearly swallowed her whole.

  “I’d like to come along,” she said, almost shyly.

  Caelus blinked. “Light above, you’re serious?”

  Before logic could interfere, Varg had already dismounted and handed her his reins.

  Just like that.

  “Take mine.” He offered without hesitation, eyes soft in a way Cael didn’t think the ranger was even capable of.

  The horse was enormous. She was… not.

  Cael gaped. “Is this a joke?”

  “She asked nicely,” Varg replied, tightening the stirrups for her height. “You try saying no t’that face.”

  Belladonna giggled, one hand raised to her mouth like she’d just heard a cute joke. “Thank you, Varg. I promise I’ll be good.”

  “She’s… a child.” Cael’s brows furrowed, glancing between the two.

  “Twenty,” Nolan corrected, strolling in from somewhere.

  “She’s also weighs less than my cloak,” he shrugged, joyful as the sun itself. “What do you think she’s gonna do? Bite someone?”

  “She looks like she should be singing hymns in a temple school—not riding into danger!” Cael protested.

  “Relax,” Varg drawled, lifting her into the saddle with the ease of someone placing a teacup on a shelf. “She’s more dangerous in camp unsupervised.”

  Caelus turned slowly to Solferen, desperate for a voice of reason.

  Wrong place to search for it.

  Sol looked at Bella as though a blessed icon had deigned to descend among mortals. He pressed a hand to his chest bowing like greeting royalty.

  “Belladonna, dearest,” he cooed theatrically. “Your grace honors us. Thank you for blessing our grim endeavor with your radiant presence.”

  She curtsied from the saddle, just as dramatic, beaming. “You’re far too kind, Warden of My Unlife!”

  “I know,” he replied.

  Caelus was losing it.

  “She’s not trained,” he hissed. “She’s delicate. She’s the only nice person here! Why are we bringing her?!”

  Sol tilted his head, all faux curiosity. “You mean to say, after the way you were folded like laundry last night, you still think anyone here looks more fragile than you?”

  From somewhere behind them a loud “Oooooooh,” rang.

  Courtesy of Varg.

  Caelus grit his teeth so hard they made a noise. His horse shifted beneath him, absorbing the fury like a sponge.

  Belladonna, seemingly oblivious, turned to him with a dazzling smile. “Don’t worry, Ser Knight. I’ll stay close and behave.”

  That didn’t help.

  The party mounted anyway.

  Anders and Bella chatted from their saddles, the picture of serenity. She looked like the poster child for celestial goodness. Bright smile. Wind-kissed cheeks. Giggling like the world hadn’t been on fire yesterday. Anders said something that made her laugh, and she did—light and airy, like a chime.

  Cael tried not to scowl. He failed.

  He adjusted his gloves, spine bolt straight in his saddle, and skimmed the surroundings.

  No Sol.

  Naturally. The man managed to vanish within three seconds.

  Just as he opened his mouth to complain, a sharp whistle cut through the morning air.

  The forest responded.

  Shadows shifted. Leaves rustled. And from the tree line, something moved.

  A wrongness slithered into the clearing. Graceful. Deliberate. Alien.

  The not-horse.

  Caelus tensed. He’d forgotten how horrifying it looked. Now even worse in the daylight.

  It stepped toward Solferen with eerie precision, hooves silent on the earth. Its sinewy form looked grown, not born—as if it had been sculpted from midnight and bad omens.

  The creature approached the elf. A favored pet returning to its keeper. Its head dipped in greeting.

  Fingers brushed the beast’s face, a wordless exchange passing between them.

  Then, without command, without a tug of reins or as little as click of tongue, the cursed unicorn bowed.

  One knee lowered into the earth. Its entire body shifted down like a knight before its king.

  With a single elegant step, Sol mounted—fluid, quiet, effortless. As though the two had always moved as one. Terrifying. Beautiful.

  Caelus has seen monstrous things. Beasts, horrors of war, miracles. He has fought demons, faced down the worst the world could conjure, and stood unshaken.

  And yet—

  He watched Solferen mount that thing, and his mind struggled to comprehend what in the Pitfire he was witnessing.

  The not-horse shifted its weight. No saddle. No bridle. No reins. Nothing to control it but the silent language of movement.

  And move they did.

  Not the jerky, unpredictable chaos Caelus expected. No wild bucking, no fight, no stubborn resistance. The beast moved like a liquid shadow, effortlessly attuned to Sol’s every subtle shift. When Sol leaned, it followed. When he breathed, it listened.

  “What in the name of Creator…” Caelus said under his breath.

  Anders, overhearing, squinted pointedly at Sol, then shrugged. “Yeah, well, that’s his horse.”

  Caelus couldn’t believe what he’s hearing.

  “That is not a horse!” He protested.

  Varg, checking Bellas’s saddle glanced over, unimpressed. “Something wrong, or you’re just being you again?”

  The knight threw a hand toward the not-horse, Sol’s silhouette a seamless extension of the creature itself. “He’s not riding it—he’s wearing it.”

  Someone nearby choked on their laughter.

  “You jealous?” Another teased.

  Caelus groaned.

  He could not deal with this. His training taught him that mounts require control, discipline, structure. What he’s seeing is none of those things.

  This isn’t a man mastering a beast—this is a beast that has already decided who it belongs to.

  A monster answering only to another monster.

  ‘Only demons can ride them’ echoed in his mind again.

  And the demon, now seated on the not-horse’s back, turned slightly to look lazily at the rest of them—smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “Well?” He said, voice like a flicker of firelight. “Shall we?”

  Caelus did not answer.

  He just kicked his horse forward and muttered something about “unholy beasts and show-offs.”

  And the ride began.