The sun was blinding.
Caelus walked the perimeter with no destination in mind, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to barely-dried skin. The air smelled of pine and damp moss, and every shadow felt like it watched.
Cael tried to do something normal.
Anything.
But his thoughts… they were not normal.
His mind replayed the ritual on loop. Cold water, cracked prayers, and Solferen’s voice saying ‘beautiful’ like it was a curse.
He bumped into a barrel. Then a tent pole. Then a passing elf.
“Sorry,” he muttered, too fast.
They blinked at him like he was contagious.
He kept walking. Fast. Straight-backed. Holy. Completely not out of his mind.
Until—
“Hey,” Nolan’s voice floated in, warm as ever. “You okay?”
“Yes.” Caelus snapped, a little too loud.
Nolan arched a brow. “…You sure?”
“I SAID I’M FINE.”
He was not fine.
Nolan blinked, held up his hands.
“Alright, alright. Damn. Anders said you were trying to baptize yourself in ice, but I didn’t think you’d actually—”
“I did not—” Cael stopped himself. Ground his teeth.
He fled. Walked faster.
But fate was cruel.
Dal passed him with a cup of something bubbling and steaming, eyes flicking over him briefly before pausing.
“Huh,” the elf said casually. “Your energy feels different today.”
Caelus went rigid like he’d been struck by lightning.
“…Different how?”
Dalimor blinked. “Can’t tell. Either you’re spiritually aligned or finally snapped. Either way, fascinating.”
Caelus turned on his heel and power-walked away. Faster.
This was a disaster.
He wasn’t cleansed.
He was burning alive.
He needed something to do.
Anything that didn’t involve thinking. Or talking. Or accidentally making eye contact with people who could sense things.
Cael ended up in the camp storage, staring blankly at crates of apples. He stood there for a solid thirty seconds, wondering if he should start counting them. Or organizing them. Or smashing them against his face until they stopped reminding him of Solferen’s stupid glowing eyes.
“Knight,” someone called. “You good?”
He didn’t answer. Just pivoted. Escaped.
He wandered past the mess tents. Past the training yard. His boots hit the dirt harder than they needed to, fists clenched.
He passed by Bella scolding Anders for freezing someone’s laundry again.
Passed Killeon and Rish arguing about who owed who a drink.
Everything was normal. Camp was normal.
He was not.
So he did the only thing left that felt normal.
He grabbed a training blade from the rack. Took a place in the ring. Didn’t ask who wanted to spar—just stepped in.
He needed to fight.
Not to win.
To bleed out thought through motion.
To bury the heat under bruises.
To sweat until every word Solferen had whispered was gone.
The clearing rang with the sounds of practice—metal, wood, sand underfoot, barked commands between fighters. Caelus was sparring again, shirt clinging with sweat, muscles burning in rhythm. His blade moved cleanly. Precise.
He needed this. Desperately.
His opponent—a younger mercenary, quick and eager—kept him focused, if only just. Every strike pushed Caelus closer to silence. To control. To something resembling peace.
At least until Sol appeared.
The Mercenary King didn’t announce himself. He never did.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Thwip.
A silver blur hissed through the air. It sliced the tip off a hanging vine with surgical ease. The shredded leaf fluttered down and landed at Cael’s feet.
He didn’t need to look.
But he did.
Solferen stood a few paces away, twirling one of his chakrams on a single finger. The other hand rested at his belt. His posture was languid, loose, confident—but his eyes were sharp. Bright with mischief.
“You’re slower today,” he said. “Tired? Overprayed?”
Caelus tensed. His hand curled tighter around the hilt. He turned back to his partner. Said nothing. But his strikes came harder now.
Sol wasn’t done.
“Distractions getting to you? Dangerous habit in a fight. What are you thinking about, I wonder?”
That made Cael misstep. He missed the block—took a blunt strike to the ribs. Recovered fast, but the damage was done.
Sol was grinning now, circling the sparring ring like a beast. Not hunting—taunting.
“Come on, Templar. You can’t afford hesitation. Not when lives depend on you.” His voice darkened—lowered, just enough for only Caelus to hear.
“Not again.”
It set Cael’s teeth on edge. His shoulders stiffened.
“Go on,” Sol continued. “Blame the heat. Blame divine interference. Blame me, if it helps. But you falter again like that, and someone will die.”
“That mouth of yours talks like it hasn’t been broken yet!” Caelus snapped, sharp and sudden.
Sol arched a brow. “You wound me.”
“Not yet.” Caelus exhaled through his nose. Kept going.
“Predictable. Impulsive. Entirely too noble to survive.” Sol’s voice echoed with something Cael heard in his childhood.
The Beast clicked his tongue. “You know, that’s the thing with your kind. You fight like you're made of scripture. Straight lines and empty threats.”
Cael’s jaw locked.
“You call it honor,” Sol said, stepping into the ring now. “But it's just fear. Fear of what happens when you bend. When you break.”
Another step. Closer now. “Fear of what you become if you stop pretending to be better than the rest of us.”
That landed.
Caelus flinched—almost imperceptibly.
Sol’s hand moved fast.
Just a flicker of motion, fast enough to make the air snap. He reached between Cael and his opponent, knocked the kid’s sword out of line with two fingers. Before Caelus could reset his stance, Sol caught his wrist, twisted, and turned the sword toward Cael’s own chest. The motion was effortless, almost gentle.
“See? You guard your faith better than your life,” he murmured. “Dead.”
The mercenary blinked. “Holy shit.”
Caelus froze. Eyes burning into Sol, murderous—but Sol didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He tilted his head, watching him with amused interest.
“Careful, Knightling,” he murmured. “You’re looking at me like a sinner again.”
And that—was the breaking point.
Cael launched forward without thought.
Not with a sword. Not with grace, not with form.
With his hands. Just raw fury.
His palm slammed against Sol’s throat, driving him back until his spine hit the nearest post with a dull thud.
The force rattled the wood. The sparring ring had gone silent.
Killeon didn’t even reach for him yet—maybe stunned. Maybe impressed.
Sol exhaled, breath caught—not in pain. In delight.
“You think this is a joke?” The templar hissed, voice shaking with rage. “You think you can play with people like this? You think you can mock everything—faith, mercy, me—and get away with it?”
Sol’s grin sharpened. “You’re a lot more fun when you’re not reciting scripture.”
His hands never rose. He didn’t fight back. He just smiled like Cael was a child throwing a fit.
“You bring sacred things just to scorn them,” Caelus spat. “You pretend to care. Then you laugh. Why?”
“Because I see you,” Sol said simply. “And you hate that more than anything.”
“You don’t know anything—”
And Sol, eyes alight with something almost kind, didn’t let him finish.
“You’re not mad because I mock you. You’re mad because I make you doubt yourself.”
Cael’s grip tightened.
Solferen didn't flinch. If anything—
He leaned into the grip, smiling.
The knight faltered for half a second, eyes narrowing.
What kind of monster…?
But his palm stayed there, fingers digging into the warm of Sol’s throat—and that’s when he felt it.
A pulse. A heartbeat. A rush of blood beneath his skin, thundering against his fingertips.
Cael’s expression twisted in disbelief.
He has a heart? After that blade through the chest? After that laugh while his own neck bled open like a fountain? He had sworn he felt it stop in that vision.
It shouldn’t have been, but it was.
The pulse quickened.
Cael stared.
What in the name of the Creator—
Why did his heartbeat spike? Why did his skin grow warmer under pressure?
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sol rasped, voice rough against Cael’s grip—but his smile was lazy. Sinful.
“But if you wanted your hands on me, Darling, all you had to do was ask.”
“Shut up—” Caelus made a strangled, furious noise—shoving him harder, knuckles white. Sol’s pupils pulsed, dilating, only for a second.
“What?! Are you trying to choke him now?!”
Ysilla’s voice shrieked from across the camp like thunder.
“WAS ONE ATTEMPT AT HOMICIDE NOT ENOUGH?!”
Boots hit the dirt. Killeon appeared instantly and yanked Caelus off with both arms.
“No, I get it,” he stated. “Killing him just once doesn’t do it justice.”
He was calm, yes, but his strength was absolute. Cael fought it—but Killeon didn’t budge. “But we have shit to do tomorrow,” he continued. “Save your righteous fury for then.”
Sol coughed once, straightened his neck, and laughed—actually laughed, rubbing his throat.
Caelus wrenched away from Killeon, seething, chest heaving. His pulse roared in his ears.
He didn’t even realize how many mercenaries had stopped to watch.
He didn’t care.
He stormed off, every step pounding, lungs full of fire, throat tight with everything he couldn’t say.
His fingers were still tingling.
From the heartbeat.
The sun dipped below the tree line like a blade sheathing itself, casting the camp in amber silence.
But the world didn’t end just because he tried to kill someone.
Again.
The camp carried on.
The ring was cleared. Voices returned. Laughter resumed—nervous, cautious at first. Then louder, bolder. Someone clapped him on the back as he passed, muttering something about ‘drama for dessert.’
He didn’t respond.
Didn’t stop.
His steps were hard. His face—stone.
Every part of him felt tight. Overtwisted. His body had held too much tension for too long, and now it didn’t know how to let go.
He passed the forge. The mess tents. He didn’t look at anyone. Couldn’t.
The sound of the fight echoed in his skull—the heartbeat beneath his palm, the way Sol had smiled at him, that voice, that word.
Darling.
He nearly gagged.
By the time he reached his tent, the camp had quieted.
Mostly.
A fire still crackled somewhere far off. Someone laughed near the kitchens. But the closer he got to the edges, the quieter it became.
Like the air itself knew what had happened.
He ducked inside the tent without a word.
Didn’t take off his boots. Didn’t light the lantern.
Just sat. Hard.
On the cot.
His hands trembled once before he buried them between his knees.
