Caelus stepped out of his tent the next morning, hoping—praying—that the previous night had been a sugar-induced fever dream.

  It was not.

  He didn’t stand a chance.

  The gossip wagon had left the station the moment he handed Miranda the letter—and now, as the sun broke the horizon, it came hurtling back with a vengeance.

  He took exactly three steps out of the cave before someone called out, far too loud and far too gleeful—

  “Hey, lover boy’s awake!”

  Laughter exploded from behind a tent.

  He froze.

  Slowly turned.

  Varg leaned against a barrel, smug as sin, sharpening a dagger that clearly didn’t need it.

  “Heard he delivered a letter,” Rish added, appearing beside him like a summoned demon. “Sealed with love and Church-approved celibacy.”

  “I didn’t write it,” Caelus muttered, stubbornly keeping his gaze at anything but them.

  “Sure. That’s what they all say.” The backstabbing elf mused.

  Killeon let the silence speak for him. Just sipped his tea with the calm of someone waiting for divine judgment.

  “Oh my gods,” Nolan whispered dramatically, eyes wide with fake innocence. “He’s blushing. He’s actually blushing!”

  “I am not,” Caelus growled, face absolutely, undeniably pink.

  “He is,” Bella sang from across the clearing. “How romantic! Someone tell Miranda her knight in shining armor’s awake!”

  Caelus nearly turned around and went back to bed. Nearly.

  Instead, he whirled on them—arms stiff at his sides, posture military sharp, righteous fury in his lungs.

  “I WOULD NEVER,” he bellowed, voice cracking with thunder. “I am a TEMPLAR COMMANDER. I have taken a VOW. A vow of restraint, of duty, of celibacy! Romance is a distraction. A disease. I serve the Light, not carnal desires, not foolish passions, and certainly not Miranda!”

  Silence.

  Undiluted.

  Until someone muttered, low and smooth behind him—

  “Shame. Guess I’ll have to get rid of Miranda now.”

  Caelus stiffened. Turned.

  Sol stood at the edge of the firepit, hair tied back with silk, shirt open far too low for morning modesty. He was peeling an orange like it was a religious rite and didn’t even look up as he added, almost to himself—

  “Or you. Haven’t decided yet.”

  Cael opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

  No words came out.

  Just the faint wheeze of someone desperately trying to resuscitate their soul.

  Rish howled with laughter.

  “I KNEW IT!” She pointed at the knight vigorously, eyes manic. “He likes you!”

  “God save me,” Caelus muttered, stomping to the wash basin with the bristling focus of someone preparing for war.

  “He won’t,” Varg called after him. “Not from that.”

  Behind him, the laughter didn’t stop. Neither did the smirking.

  Sol just licked orange juice from his thumb as if he hadn’t just launched a holy man into full existential collapse before breakfast.

  The day dragged lazily.

  Sunlight filtered through the trees in flickering warmth, the forest humming with the low rustle of wind and sleepy birdsong. Camp mornings were always a strange kind of sacred—less like ritual, more like a barely functioning tavern at dawn, especially after celebrations such as this. The fire pit smoked contentedly. Someone snored from inside a barrel.

  Breakfast drifted by in pieces. Half-eaten stew from the night before reheated with questionable optimism. A few eggs. Bread.

  Ysilla wandered past the tents barefoot, muttering about the missing spices from her stash while the not-horse chased a goose through camp as a vengeance incarnate.

  Blasphemy, Caelus thought, sipping his tea.

  Near the edge of the clearing, Killeon and Sol sat cross-legged beneath the old shade tree, heads bent close. Sol gestured with his hands as he spoke, half-laughing, and for once, Killeon wasn’t quiet. He was smiling. Actually smiling—brows relaxed, posture loose. They looked like brothers. No—like they remembered how to be.

  Further off, Dalimor sat with Anders, surrounded by scraps of glowing sigils and tiny orbs of floating water. Anders giggled each time one orb bounced and shimmered, changing color slightly. Dal, for all his usual austerity, looked relaxed as he wrote symbols into the air, letting Anders trace over them with his fingers.

  It was nauseatingly peaceful.

  Too peaceful. In this part of the camp, at least.

  Near the sparring ring, Varg and Nolan were screaming at each other again.

  “No, you absolute wall of meat, you’re not supposed to let the axe HIT YOU!” The elf shrieked, scandalized.

  “I’M PRACTICING ABSORPTION!” The fleshshifter corrected far too loudly.

  “You’re practicing being a moron!” Varg protested, arms flailing.

  Nolan sneered. “You use a butter knife, I use real weapons!”

  That made the ranger outraged.

  His voice dropped into a dangerous hush. “I use a precision-crafted axe—”

  Thornvale didn’t let him finish. “Exactly. A butter knife at longer range!”

  Varg swung his axe in a wide arc—Nolan parried it with his absurdly oversized hammer, the kind that looked like it was forged from pure spite. The force rattled the wooden posts holding up the practice ring. Someone’s soup bowl fell off a table.

  Caelus watched from the fence, biting into a slice of bread.

  It was strange, watching Nolan like this. Years ago, he'd fought as a perfect Templar—precise, clean, disciplined. Now he fought akin to an avalanche. Like the years in the wilds had carved the civility out of him, and left only brute instinct and the biggest weapon he could lift.

  He was still winning, though.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Barely.

  “Caelus,” Nolan panted, hopping back after Varg nearly clipped his hip. “Tag in. I’m too pretty to die today.”

  Cael raised an eyebrow. “You want me to fight him?”

  “Please,” The shifter leaned on the fence, sweating like a pig. “Varg’s trying to rearrange my skeleton. Go on, get it out of your system.”

  The knight didn’t argue.

  He climbed over the fence, with all the control of a man who needed control. Shield in one hand, sword in the other. The weight was familiar, grounding.

  Maybe he did need this. A release. And besides—Varg had started the letter rumor.

  They circled.

  Elf’s grin stretched wide. “Try not to cry when I dent your pride, Holy.”

  Cael scoffed.

  They clashed.

  Caelus was solid—precise, mechanical. His strikes were measured, clean. Movement of someone who had memorized his own body’s limits. His shield met the axe with textbook timing, his sword striking where he found breath.

  Varg was chaos incarnate. All angles and snarling strength. Every movement improvised, feral—closer to dancing than fighting. He feinted like a street thief and struck like a bull.

  Still, it was a good match.

  Until—

  A shadow at the fence. The laughter behind them.

  “Gods,” Sol called, watching from his perch with a mug of something steaming in his hand, “never thought I’d see a chastity belt challenge a drunken bear.”

  Caelus gritted his teeth, glaring his direction. “We’re sparring.”

  “I noticed,” Sol drawled. “It’s like watching a library fight a thunderstorm. You are too predictable.”

  He vaulted the fence without spilling a single drop from his mug. Landed beside them like it was nothing.

  “May I?” he asked, already stepping forward.

  Neither of them answered.

  “Lovely.”

  He came to stand behind Caelus. Too close. One hand brushing his shoulder, light and assured, as if it had the right.

  His voice dropped near Cael’s ear, velvet wrapped in thorns.

  “Your stance is fine. But your feet tell the enemy everything. Shift—here. Yes. Loosen that grip.”

  The hand slid down, barely brushing the knuckles on Caelus’ shield hand. A whisper of contact. Nothing more.

  But it seared, even through steel and leather.

  Caelus adjusted. Tense. Hyperaware.

  Sol circled slowly, voice still low, conversational—but threaded with something heavier.

  “Now—watch Varg’s dominant arm. He always leads with the shoulder, not the hip.”

  Then—

  Fingers brushed the hair behind Cael’s ear.

  A simple motion.

  Unnecessary.

  Unforgivable.

  Caelus didn’t move.

  It wasn’t teasing anymore.

  It was too honest. Too even.

  He felt the air shift. Something cold twisted down his spine.

  His thoughts scrambled—reaching for order, reaching for meaning.

  The Pope’s voice returned like a curse, right on que.

  He’s not mortal. He’s a test. He’s a trick. He’s trying to break your faith.

  He breathed in slow. Steady. Dug his boots into the dirt. Grounding himself.

  “What are you doing?”

  Sol’s smile was unbearable. “Helping.”

  Cael turned his head slightly, glare sharp as tempered steel. His voice came out tight. “You’re playing with me.”

  Sol’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened—if only for a second.

  “Why do you think I’m not serious?”

  The question slid under Caelus’s skin like a needle.

  He couldn’t answer.

  Because that tone—calm, curious—made something odd in his stomach twist. There was no mockery in it. No flirtation.

  Just… interest. A beast studying its prey. Or a man studying scripture.

  Solferen smiled, taking a step back, finally giving him space.

  But the space didn’t help.

  The knight looked away. Back to Varg. His cheeks hot. His hand still tingling where Sol had adjusted his grip.

  They sparred again.

  This time—he saw it.

  The shift in Varg’s shoulder. That flicker of imbalance.

  ‘Now’ rang in his ears, the voice not his own.

  Caelus moved.

  But he didn’t just strike.

  His shield came down hard, ramming into Varg’s upper arm—not a clean strike. Not noble.

  The opening he made wasn’t offered, it was ripped.

  The axe slipped. The follow-up blow landed.

  Varg staggered, hit the ground with a grunt.

  Silence for half a second—

  Nolan howled from the fence, “HE GOT HIM!”

  Applause scattered around the arena.

  Caelus stared down at his blade like it had spat at him.

  His breath ragged.

  “That was a dirty move,” he muttered. “A Templar doesn’t exploit like that.”

  He didn’t even sound angry. Just… hollow.

  Sol, watching from a few paces off, took another slow sip from his mug.

  “And yet,” he said, “it worked.”

  Caelus didn’t grace it with an answer.

  “Templars are easy to fight,” Solferen added after a beat. “You all fight the same. It’s like facing a thousand men in one body.”

  Cael glared, reply unnecessary.

  Sol took another sip of his drink, watching him lazily.

  “That’s great for an army,” he said, “but out here? Nobility doesn’t keep you breathing.”

  He turned to leave but threw one more thought over his shoulder.

  “The best killers move like poetry, not war.”

  And just like that, he was gone again.

  “Poetry,” the knight spewed, like it’s not the most blasphemous thing he ever heard.

  He lowered his sword slowly, breath shallow.

  Sol wasn’t poetry, he was war disguised as one.

  And that made him more dangerous than anything Cael had ever faced.

  Learn him. Watch him. Destroy him.

  Might as well learn his ways then.

  The spar was over.

  Midday broke slow, the heat folding over the clearing in waves.

  Caelus took a walk.

  The camp breathed around him, drowsy and soft.

  The sunlight thick, the sky bluer than churches azure. Insects buzzed, the noise rising and falling in waves, calling and responding to each other across the treetops.

  He ended up at the cave tree—the one that bloomed in impossible colors, tucked in the natural dip between the stones.

  It didn’t belong. Not here. Not on this earth.

  Its blossoms shimmered iridescent white, almost blue. They swayed without wind. Its bark, black as charcoal and slick with morning dew, pulsed faintly—as if it had a heartbeat.

  Cael stepped closer. Reached out on instinct.

  Pressed his hand flat to the bark.

  It was warm.

  Not sun-warmed.

  Alive warm.

  There was a rhythm beneath his palm, like something sleeping—or waiting.

  He tore his hand back.

  Disgust rolled through his chest with nausea. He stared at his own fingers as if they’d touched something unclean.

  What sort of magic lets a tree like that grow?

  He walked away, shaking his head, before the bark could pulse again.

  Instead, he wandered further, around the slope toward the scent of cooked herbs and roasted garlic.

  Solferen was in the kitchen.

  Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, standing in front of a massive iron cauldron that looked like it could feed a battalion.

  Beside him, Gorrath’khaal towered over a row of teenagers, calmly showing them how to clean cuts of meat without wasting flesh. His every movement slow, purposeful, reverent.

  Sol, on the other hand, was a blur.

  He was slicing vegetables as though he was orchestrating a symphony—carrots, leeks, onions. He smiled as he worked. Talked to the children. Showed one how to chop without risking a finger.

  Didn’t work.

  A girl nicked herself.

  Before Caelus could even flinch, Sol was there.

  A clean cloth. Gentle hands. A pressure wrap so fluid it looked practiced.

  And then—he kissed her forehead.

  She laughed.

  Laughed like he was a big brother, or some kind of deity of kitchen mischief.

  Caelus watched from a distance.

  Absurd. What kind of abomination does that? He thought, stomach twisting.

  He should’ve been hunting for weaknesses. Planning countermeasures. Instead, he found himself watching Sol’s hands. And it revolted him.

  But then again… the camp was his weakness, wasn’t it?

  He stepped away.

  Outside, the air shimmered.

  The sun bent downward, casting long gold spears through the trees.

  Lunch came with a picnic.

  The group had gathered beneath the shade of a cluster of trees. Not at the table today.

  Bella had laid out an absurdly colorful throw blanket, embroidered with flowers the size of a dinner plate, as though she’d raided an elven noblewoman’s summer linens.

  On top of it, a spread fit for nobility. Baskets of fresh berries. A decanter of fruit juice, still cool with Anders’ frost. Flatbread smothered in oil and herbs. Cheese board that looked like offerings to a god of dairy.

  Caelus tried to decline.

  Killeon—without speaking—picked him up and planted him on one of the pillows as if he was a misbehaving cat. Caelus nearly hissed on instinct.

  He didn’t argue. He just… sat.

  Then Sol arrived, carrying the main dish in a large pot slung from both arms.

  Pilaf.

  Fragrant. Steaming. Spiced with cloves and cinnamon and something darker. The scent of roasted vegetables and long-cooked meat overwhelmed his senses.

  Sol served it himself, with the casual grace of someone who had fed armies. He set a generous plate in front of Caelus without looking at him—without teasing him.

  Caelus blinked.

  He didn’t refuse.

  Secretly, silently—he liked being included. Even if by force.

  The drinks were gone. The food—picked clean. Laughter, still lingering in the corners of the evening, hung for just a moment too long.

  Then the air changed.

  It was instant.

  Sol froze mid-step, head turned sharply—ears twitching, like an animal on alert. The calm in his body shattered instantly, replaced by something sharp that didn’t belong to any man.

  Something in the trees had stopped breathing.

  Caelus didn’t know how he felt it. Only that he did.

  The forest was silent. Wrong. A weight dropped into the clearing like a predator’s breath.

  Varg rose from the blanket like Sol’s shadow, eyes scanning the trees. No weapons drawn yet—but it didn’t matter. He was a weapon.

  The not-horse, lying nearby like a myth on vacation, suddenly snorted and pawed the ground—a low, warning sound. Something was coming.

  Then—a blur dropped from the trees.

  A young elf. Scout.

  He reached Sol’s ear. Whispered two words.

  And vanished. Gone again into the trees.

  Solferen turned. No hesitation. Voice sharp and clipped.

  “Killeon, Bella—inside. Now. Get everyone underground. No one leaves the cave.”

  Then, louder—

  “Long range, ON ALERT.”