The tent was quiet. Early sun spilled through the seams in the canvas in a blessing Cael didn’t believe in anymore.

  He ducked inside—quietly, cautiously—and stilled.

  Nolan was awake. Sitting upright.

  Pale, still bruised, but his eyes were open, breath steady, the impossible warmth of life thrumming just beneath his skin. His voice came low, hoarse.

  “Morning.”

  Cael’s lungs finally filled. His chest loosened.

  “You’re awake,” he said, more breath than voice.

  “Surprised me too…” Nolan muttered, trying for a smile. It didn’t quite land.

  Cael sat beside him, hands folded, eyes scanning Nolan’s face as if it might crumble again.

  “You alright?”

  “Dizzy, sore. But yeah. I’ll live.”

  Then—softer, like he hated the words in his mouth—

  “But… Sol. He…”

  Nolan raised a hand, rubbed his eyes as though he was scrubbing the guilt out of them. But it didn’t cover the shame in his voice.

  “I always said I’d never rely on him like that. Wouldn’t be another one of those poor bastards who leans on him like a crutch. Told myself I’d never be the reason he… you know.”

  His hand dropped. His voice cracked on the last word. “But I guess… I’m the worst of them yet.”

  Cael blinked. The pain behind those words felt sharp enough to cut.

  He frowned. “What?”

  Nolan glanced sideways at him. There was surprise in his expression, he hadn’t expected to say any of that aloud.

  Then, lightly—too lightly—he added, “Oh. Yeah. He does that all the time.”

  Cael’s brows shot up, heart dropping into his boots, leaving him lightheaded. “…He what?”

  Nolan looked at him like he’d just asked if water was wet.

  “You’ve seen him fight.” He motioned vaguely toward the far cot where Solferen still lay, motionless. “Don’t tell me you thought all those scars were his alone.”

  Cael’s mouth opened—then shut.

  Because the answer in his head was yes. That was exactly what he thought.

  Because who in their right mind would think otherwise?

  Sol’s wounds. His disfigurements. The scar over his lip, the old claw mark through his forearm, the bruises that never quite faded.

  War trophies.

  Proof of survival.

  And now everything was wrong again—and it made his stomach twist.

  There was a beat. Then Nolan continued, like it was nothing more than common camp gossip.

  “Don’t get me wrong—he’s had plenty of real injuries. Like that ugly thing on his head?” He gestured vaguely toward his own temple. “That thing almost took half his head off.”

  He shuddered, lifting his shoulders as cold passed over him. “I saw it happen. Left a gash so deep you could see his brains, dude. Thought he was dead for sure.”

  The shifter shook his head. “The man is reckless.”

  Caelus hesitated. The next question rose before he could stop it.

  “But… doesn’t he feel it?”

  He remembered the scream—raw and broken—the one Sol let out when Ysilla’s flames bit into his opened flesh. It had cut straight through Cael’s bones.

  Nolan didn’t blink. “Oh, he feels it. Every inch of it. Then he feels it again when it heals.”

  Cael’s mouth went dry. “Then why?” He asked.

  That question had been eating at him all night.

  Why keep doing it?

  Why make yourself the martyr over and over, just to bleed again?

  Nolan didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice had turned distant. Thoughtful.

  “Killeon told me once it started when Sol realized the pain had no real consequences. Not for him. Not in the way it would be for anyone else. No infection, no disability, no death. Just… suffering.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, nails scraping at the hairline in slow circles. “So he started throwing himself in front of danger like a madman. It’s not just protection—it’s an exchange. A sacrifice.”

  He glanced over at Cael.

  “An abuse of power, if you want to be cynical about it. But Sol doesn’t care. He’d kill himself a thousand times if it meant no one around him had to suffer.”

  Cael stared at the floor. “But how does he live through it? Dal said there’s no guarantee. That it could stop any moment.”

  “Heck if I know!” Nolan muttered. “Maybe when you’ve had your bones broken and your body torn open over and over since you were a child, it all just…” He gestured vaguely in the air, trying to find words, “…blends together, messes with your head. He simply doesn’t let himself show it. I think he’s desensitized to it. Like it doesn’t register anymore. Most days...”

  He glanced down, then added with a bitter smile, “that’s the price of magical healing, isn’t it?”

  Silence settled between them like dust.

  He spent the night thinking Nolan would die. And now he was... smiling. Breathing. Like it hadn’t cost someone else everything.

  Caelus looked back at Solferen, still unconscious, draped in cloth and faded light. His body was bandaged, wrapped in linen and magic, but it hadn’t changed what Cael had seen.

  “Varg told me,.. about the night,” Nolan laughed, weakly, mirthless. “Gods, I’m glad I passed out before it started. I’ve traveled with that mad bastard for years, Cael, and I’ve never heard him scream. I hope I never do.”

  Before Cael could answer, the tent flap shifted. Dalimor stepped inside, brushing dust from his sleeves.

  “Morning, you lunatics,” he greeted flatly.

  Nolan perked up, eyes brightening. “How’s Sol?”

  Dal snorted. “You should be asking how you are.”

  He crossed his arms. “The amount of blood you leaked last night? I swear, it was enough to turn the whole damn camp into Hollows. Even the poor Velmari was covered head to hoof!”

  Nolan froze, paling further. “Did anyone…?”

  “No,” Dal cut him off dryly. “No one turned. Congratulations on your first successful bloodbath.”

  Caelus’s brow furrowed, and something prickled under his skin.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “But… Solferen was covered in Nolan’s blood. When you drew the wounds into him—when his flesh opened—some of it must’ve gotten in. Shouldn’t that have…”

  He trailed off.

  Dalimor glanced at him. Then, slowly, he tilted his head.

  “He already carries one curse in his blood,” he said quietly. “It burns the others out.”

  He didn’t elaborate.

  As expected.

  The silence that followed was thick with implication.

  Cael didn’t ask further. He sat back, still and silent, hands clenched in his lap.

  Because if Sol was immune to other curses…

  Then what was the one already in him?

  And how long had he been living with it?

  Dal’s words lingered. Cryptic. Heavy. Final.

  And Nolan’s earlier murmur hadn’t left him either.

  Cael’s hand moved almost on its own—fingers curling over his chest, right where the blade had gone through Sol’s heart.

  That vision. That cursed flicker of memory he’d never asked for and couldn’t forget.

  Hands, so small.

  A world that seemed too large.

  The floor too close. The ceiling too high. The sword enormous in comparison to those trembling fingers.

  Was that the first time? The first time he bled?

  A part of him didn’t want the answer.

  He could still feel the echo of the pain—that memory-laced phantom agony Solferen had shoved into his skull when the god-thing showed its face. The warmth of blood. The terror. The betrayal.

  Was that his whole life?

  He wasn't able to think on it for long.

  Voices spilled into the tent like a flood.

  “Is he awake yet?”

  “Careful with that tray—”

  “Ugh! What is that smell?”

  “Rish, did you really bring your sword inside?!”

  And then chaos.

  Bella darted in first, her skirt catching on the tent flap, clutching a fistful of meadow-picked flowers. She beelined for Sol as if she was laying offerings to a shrine, gently placing the blossoms on his head like a crown.

  Anders was behind her, carrying a pillow that looked like it’d been stolen from someone’s bedroll. “He’ll want this when he wakes up.”

  “You assume he’ll want that,” Killeon muttered as he stepped in, his arms crossed but his eyes full of concern. “He hates softness.”

  “He needs softness!” Anders countered, pointing his finger downward like a royalty demanding obedience.

  Gorrath’khaal entered with a pot so large it could’ve fed six men.

  “For Thorn,” he said gruffly. “Healing takes meat.”

  Nolan, bewildered, muttered, “I’m not a boar...”

  “Shame,” chirped Rish, already elbow-deep in the pot. “You’d look good with tusks.”

  Behind them, Bella carefully peeled back one of Sol’s bandages to peek—and immediately gagged.

  “UGH!”

  “What did I just say?” Anders snapped, slapping her hand away. “Stop playing with his wounds like it’s a carnival!”

  “It looked like melted beef jerky, I couldn’t help it!” The girl whined.

  “EVERYONE OUT!” Dal’s voice cracked over the noise, vibrating.

  “Wasn’t even here.” Killeon grumbled but backed out all the same.

  “Leave the food!” Nolan shouted after Gorrath, who was already retreating with the pot tucked under his arm like treasure.

  Anders grinned. “I’ll sneak back in later.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Dal barked, ushering them all out.

  Caelus stood there, dead still in the eye of the storm, until someone—not even sure who—bumped his shoulder and shoved him out with the rest.

  Outside the healer’s tent, whirlwind did not wait politely. It greeted Caelus the moment the flap fell behind him.

  A cluster of mercenaries had formed around the steaming pot Gorrath brought, passing bowls like greedy children at a harvest fair. Varg stood among them, but for once—not eating.

  Instead, he ladled out a generous portion, plucked a cup of warm broth, and vanished back toward the tent. A few blinked after him in surprise.

  “He’s not eating?” Rish whispered dramatically. “Who’s gonna tell the crows?”

  Anders snorted. “He’s turning into a saint. Any day now he’ll grow wings.”

  “Ye, outta his ass,” the orc woman drawled.

  Before the argument could escalate into another arm-wrestling match, Cael’s eyes caught something.

  Something wrong.

  “...What is that?” The words left him before he could think.

  Rish had just turned, proudly holding something long and black in one hand, gripping it by what was unmistakably a shoulder socket.

  It was a whole damn hand.

  Blackened. Mummified. Still half-clenched like it had died mid-sentence.

  Rish blinked.

  “Oh. This?” She raised it like a trophy. “Just a keepsake.”

  Cael recoiled. “Is that a human hand?!”

  Anders leaned in with a cheerful nod. “Yep! Belonged to that bandit we caught yesterday. The one who tried to off himself.”

  “He shrieked like a banshee!” Rish added, far too happy.

  Cael gagged. “Why is it here?!”

  Not even why did they have it.

  Killeon chose that exact moment to stroll past, balancing a fresh bowl of stew on one hand. “We amputated it. Necrosis was setting in.” He took a sip from the spoon. “He’s gotta live long enough for Sol to interrogate him when he wakes up.”

  Caelus gestured wildly, outraged. “So the solution was... to put his severed limb in the food line?!”

  “Don’t worry, we won’t cook it.” Anders shrugged. “Yet.”

  Cael didn’t know whether to scream or cry. He chose neither.

  Varg reappeared then, dusting his hands off, and approached him directly. His expression was calm—too calm, considering someone was still arguing over whether they should pickle the bandit hand.

  “You probably need to return to the Pope, right?” He asked.

  “Blessed be!” Caelus, relieved by the return of sanity, nodded once. “Yes. He’ll want a report.”

  Varg tilted his head toward the mess. “Come. Let’s eat. I’ll escort you. We need to pick up a few things in the city anyway.”

  Cael hesitated.

  And then a shriek behind him.

  “ANDERS PUT THAT HAND DOWN—YOU’RE GETTING FLESH ON MY BREAD.”

  “Too late!” The boy shouted back.

  Cael sighed. Deeply. No hesitation left all of a sudden.

  “Yes. Breakfast. Let’s... let’s do that.”

  Because somehow, breakfast with Varg was the least insane option available.

  The table was set like something from a noble's garden court.

  Fresh bread, still warm. Sliced fruits arranged with obscene precision. Vegetables cut into elegant spirals, meats folded into rosettes. Cheeses of varying sharpness and age, laid out on polished wooden boards. There was even something sweet—round and glazed, spiced with citrus and fig—that might’ve been a cake if Caelus hadn’t seen the ‘baking’ process and known better.

  Across from him sat Rovena.

  She looked like no one else belonged in the same frame.

  Her mask covered her eyes entirely, but it didn’t look like a restraint—it looked like art. Filigree goldwork swept across the surface in curling vines and mirrored leaves, and from its edges hung delicate chains tipped with tear-shaped beads, swaying gently as she turned her head. Her hair was braided back, save for two soft sidepieces that curled around her cheeks as strokes of paint.

  She sat tall. Regal. Every gesture unhurried. Every word light.

  And behind her? A bunch of mercenaries mock-wrestling over a crate of bandages and slinging curses loud enough to wake the dead.

  Caelus could hardly process it.

  To Rovena’s right sat Belladonna, equally poised, though her smile was wider—more vivid. A touch more wicked. Her silver rings sparkled as she brought a glass of mint tea to her lips, and her braid was looped in loose coils over one shoulder like a ribbon on a gift.

  Ysilla sat left of Rovena, draped in crimson fabric and wild leather belts that didn’t match at all but somehow still worked. She leaned back as a lioness after a hunt, legs folded under her, a silver fork dancing between her fingers as she watched with lovestruck eyes how Gorrath carved a slice of meat with surgical grace.

  Gorrath’khaal. Who—despite being a hulking orc with hands that looked better suited for warhammers than silverware—ate with precise, almost reverent manners.

  Varg, on the other hand, lounged like a lord in a den of thieves. He ate lazily, one boot hooked over his chair leg, golden earrings catching the sun. He sliced his apple as if he was gutting a man, and licked the juice off his knife with all the elegance of a well-traveled highwayman.

  The women spoke in low, soft voices.

  Poised. Elegant.

  Discussing interrogation tactics like debutantes discussed the upcoming spring gala.

  “Well, we could use something mild to start with,” Bella said gently, spooning honey into her tea. “A truth charm, perhaps. It won’t work unless he’s already afraid, but—”

  “Oh, he’s afraid,” Ysilla smirked, dragging her bread through something red and spicy. “But not enough.”

  Bella sighed, tapping her spoon lightly. “We don’t want to break him, Ysilla.”

  “Why not?”

  Caelus was going to have an aneurysm.

  It was too much. Everything about this table—it felt like high society. The kind of breakfast he hadn’t had since he was a child in the ducal halls. Everything tasted like as memories. The cold cut meats, the herbs in the tea. The fruit slices laid just so.

  It was... civil.

  But around them? Insanity.

  Someone was screaming in the distance about a rat stealing their boots. Children were chasing the not-horse through the clearing with ribbons. A man tripped and face-planted directly into the stew cauldron, thankfully not hot.

  And here he was. At the eye of the storm.

  Trapped between a noblewoman in gold chains discussing pressure point magic and an orc spreading lemon butter with a knife probably once used in a bar fight.

  He took a sip of something floral and bitter. Maybe rose water.

  It didn’t help.

  “Do you think he’ll talk to you?” Bella asked suddenly, tilting her head toward Rovena.

  “Absolutely.” Rovena said simply, “Everyone talks to me.”

  Her smile didn’t touch her lips. Just her voice. It was soft. Terrible.

  “Fair enough… But if it does not work I can always have my way…” Bella sang innocently.

  “Corpses always speak in riddles. Better solve the issue before he turns into one.” The witch chuckled lightheartedly.

  Caelus set his glass down.

  Very slowly.

  He didn’t say a word.

  Varg leaned in slightly. “You alright, knight?”

  Cael gave a tight nod. “Yes. Fine.”

  Just like back in the capital.

  Except with bandit hands as centerpieces.