They rode hard. Faster than breath. Faster than prayer.

  Hooves slammed into the cursed earth. Wind howled past them. The woods screamed around them.

  And behind them—behind them, the village pulsed again.

  As if something had tasted blood.

  And liked it.

  Branches tore at them like claws, the forest roaring past in a blur of motion. Hearts thundered louder than hoofbeat. Someone shouted behind Caelus, but it was already lost in madness. Shapes whipped by, hardly noticeable. He ducked, barely avoiding a low branch that could’ve taken his head clean off.

  They didn’t ride.

  They flew.

  The world narrowed into breath and motion. Nothing else.

  No time.

  The heat of adrenaline made his armor feel like fire, sweat clinging to his neck and back. The road didn’t matter. The pace didn’t matter. Only getting there before it was too late.

  The moment they burst from the tree line into the camp, it was like a bomb went off. Mercenaries yelled. Tents shuddered.

  Horses skidded across dirt, foaming and trembling from exertion. Cael's mount reared, nearly collapsing beneath him.

  Varg didn’t wait. He leapt off before the horse stopped, landing in a roll, boots barely catching the earth as he sprinted full tilt toward Dalimor’s tent.

  Sol didn’t stop either.

  Didn’t try to stop.

  His Velmari barreled through the camp, foam flying from its mouth, eyes burning. Sol leaned low over Nolan’s body, arms locked around him.

  “GET THE FUCK OUT!” He roared at the mercs gathering in alarm. They scattered like frightened birds.

  The Strider didn’t pause until Dal’s tent was in sight.

  Then it skidded, hard—hind legs bending, muscles coiling tight. Its hooves dug trenches into the dirt, flaring dust and fury as it halted with a violent screech.

  It sneered, loud and furious, like it wanted to trample gods.

  Sol was already sliding down.

  He cradled Nolan, lowered him with more care than he'd shown anything living in months.

  Cael and Anders stumbled after, panting, soaked with sweat.

  Dal tore out of the tent, eyes wide and glowing with trepidation. His palms brightened with light before he even saw the damage.

  He didn’t ask questions.

  Simply dropped to his knees, hands already over Nolan’s blood-slick chest, searching—trying to patch the holes with magic before too much more drained out.

  “Too much,” the Pale Elf hissed, voice tight, fear gnawing through his otherwise aloof calm. “I don’t have enough. I don’t have—fuck—he’s not going to make it.”

  The words struck like prophecy fulfilled in blood. Heavy.

  Merciless.

  But Solferen was already stepping forward.

  “Then take me!” He barked.

  Dal’s head snapped up.

  “We can’t have you dead again, you fucking idiot!” He roared, face contorted with fury and grief.

  “There is no time, Dal!” Sol thundered, grabbing him by the shoulder. “He’s bled too much! DO IT!”

  That wasn’t a request.

  A command. A royal one. A personal one. Dal’s mouth twisted into a snarl. His eyes closed for a heartbeat. Then he turned back to Nolan, scowling like the act offended him personally.

  And challenged the matter itself.

  His hands burned brighter, violently, light flaring as a star trying to stay lit with dwindling fuel.

  “Don’t you fucking die on me,” Dal hissed under his breath. “Either of you.”

  And Sol's back arched with the first draw of magic.

  Caelus skidded to a halt beside them, panting, unable to look away.

  He watched as Dal pulled at something deeper, older—glowing, like burning dawn. It slid across his arms and down into Nolan’s wounds, a sunlight made liquid.

  Dal didn’t flinch. Neither did Sol.

  But Cael flinched for him.

  His arm instinctively reached for the medallion, but there was nothing there. Long gone was the familiar solace of the chain around his neck.

  It started slow.

  Thin, paper-cut slashes opened along Sol’s bare forearm. Then deeper. Then worse.

  Cael’s breath hitched as he watched in morbid fascination—gashes tore across Sol’s body, widening with every second, as though some invisible blade was carving into him.

  An arm—halfway severed. A deep wound across his torso, only visible by the amount of gore seeping through clothes. A gash split open above his hip. A chunk of flesh disappeared from his ribs. One of his legs gave out.

  Blood that looked too dark to be human soaked into Dal’s robes.

  It should’ve been gore. It looked like mercy.

  And still—still—Solferen didn’t make a sound.

  His face didn’t so much as twitch.

  Caelus’ did.

  He winced with every wound, every muscle that tore open beneath the weight of healing.

  And it kept going.

  Cael had seen a man weep from a broken finger.

  Now, he watched Solferen’s flesh peel away in ribbons—and the elf didn’t even blink.

  What kind of creature bears that silently?

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  What kind of man calls that kindness?

  Dalimor never stopped muttering. The spell was greedy. The prayer greedier still.

  For all that, Sol stayed upright. His face was unreadable—serene even—as if this was normal. Like this was just another day, another moment, another price to be paid.

  By the time Nolan gasped his first full breath of relief, the Mercenary King’s body was a ruined mess.

  Caelus stood frozen, armor heavy, heart heavier. His legs felt unsteady. His throat burned with the taste of copper that wasn’t his.

  He didn’t remember breathing during the healing.

  Maybe he hadn’t.

  And yet, instead of acknowledging his own state, Sol simply looked down at the now-healed man, shoulders sagged, breath shallow. “You good, Thorn?”

  Nolan’s mouth trembled. He managed a dazed nod.

  “Then get some rest.”

  Varg was already at his side, scooping Nolan up with Anders’ help, the two of them easing him away toward the healer’s tent.

  But Sol didn’t follow.

  He stood, swaying slightly. His mouth was parted as if he was trying to taste the pain before it spoke again as Dal turned on him like a vulture spotting fresh meat.

  “You absolute glowing bastard,” Dalimor hissed as he yanked open the buckles on Sol’s blood-drenched leathers. “You’re still standing?”

  “I killed today,” Sol rasped, voice shredded, eyes glazing.

  “How fortunate.” The Pale Elf scoffed. “Then we’ll just stop the bleeding—”

  Cael blinked.

  Killed? For healing?

  The tavern guard.

  Was that... just fuel?

  He didn’t have time to process it. Ysilla stormed into view, trailing ash and smoke. She took one look at Sol’s ruined form and didn’t bother with greetings.

  Her hands flared bright, red and hungry.

  She grabbed the worst wounds she saw—didn’t hesitate—and pressed her flaming palm straight into the open gash.

  The sound that tore from Sol’s throat…

  It was suffering.

  A real scream. No charm. No smugness.

  Just raw, involuntary agony. One he’d accidentally let past his lips.

  He doubled over, knees almost buckling, a guttural cry ripped from the gut of a creature who usually laughed through his own pain.

  The whole camp stopped dead still.

  Caelus felt it.

  The scream carved something open in him.

  So… he did feel pain.

  Real pain.

  Dalimor winced. Anders jolted, clasping his hands over his mouth.

  Even Varg paused mid-step, shoulders tightening.

  But Ysilla?

  She stayed stone-faced. Only her hands trembled faintly—out of rage, not regret.

  When she pulled her palm back, the wound was blackened. Charred. Not bleeding.

  “There.” Her voice clipped, precise. “You’re not leaking anymore.”

  She wiped her palm on a bloodstained rag like it was just a chore and turned on her heel before anyone could thank her.

  Not one word. Just warpath footsteps into the smoke again.

  But the width of her eyes betrayed just how shaken she was.

  And Sol, ever the picture of poise, turned back toward the tent, took a step, lifted a shaking hand. “Alright. I’m gonna go lay—”

  He didn’t finish.

  He collapsed.

  Cael caught a breath. Dal caught the elf.

  With effort.

  Cradled him like a dropped relic, and hissed, “Of course you’d wait ‘til after the theatrics.”

  He looked up, saw Caelus paralyzed in place. “Would you help instead of gawking?”

  The knight jolted into motion, hurrying to take one of Sol’s arms. The body was cold. Cold like marble. Not the chill of someone who just overexerted, not even the deadly cool of the blood loss—unnatural cold. Something that had been emptied and sealed shut.

  They got him into the tent.

  Laid him down carefully. Dalimor covered him in a rough-spun blanket, working quickly.

  The tent was quiet again.

  The Pale Elf leaned over Sol’s still form, fingers pressed gently to his temple. Sweat beaded at his brow, magic still simmering faint beneath his skin. He looked tired, but alert.

  Caelus stood nearby, stiff with adrenaline that hadn’t found a place to land.

  The fire outside cracked with the sound of bones settling. Distant voices stirred—but none dared come close.

  At last, his voice broke the silence, too sharp to be casual. “What the bloody Rot was that?”

  Dal didn’t glance up. His voice came soft, as if he was already tired of explaining.

  “They don’t teach you anything in the church, do they?” The healer sighed, but there was no insult in his voice. “Magic comes at the cost. All of it. You don’t just wave your hands and heal a gut wound for free. You either pay with yourself, or with something else.”

  He wiped his hands off, expression vacant. “The body feeds the body. The soul’s just collateral.”

  Cael frowned, chin lifting into something defensive. Because even the concept of it was challenging. “That’s not an answer.”

  Dal sighed, tying off one of the wrappings. “It is. You’re just not listening.”

  A pause.

  And because Caelus had no rebuttal, he did the stupidest thing any self-respecting knight could do under pressure. He pushed the issue even further.

  “Why are you not healing him?” He inquired.

  Dal’s expression twisted into something halfway between frustration and grim amusement.

  “As I said...” he shrugged, eyebrows lifting, “I didn’t have enough.”

  Cael’s eyes dropped to Sol’s body.

  The wounds were raw. Blackened. Ugly.

  Dalimor uncorked a vial, began pouring something into a small mortar.

  “And besides, it’d be a waste. He’ll regenerate. Sooner or later.” He paused, grinding the mix slowly with a stone pestle. “Hopefully.”

  That word hit Cael harder than expected. He grimaced, somewhere between bewildered and terrified. “You don’t even know?”

  The elf finally looked up. His expression was unreadable.

  “With this one?” He exhaled through his nose, mildly amused. “There’s no guide. No manual. You just learn the signs and pray it works the next time.”

  His voice was light, almost sarcastic. “But hey— He’s already healing. So this time it worked.”

  Cael lowered himself to sit, slowly, hands on his knees.

  He watched Sol, watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint shimmer of dried blood and charred flesh flaking at the edges of his wounds.

  “Then... when he said he killed—”

  Dal grimaced.

  “Ugh. That’s not... the same.” He waved a hand vaguely. “It’s, um… personal. Don’t ask about that unless you’re ready for a very long, very unpleasant answer.”

  Before Cael could press, Anders pushed into the tent, a fresh bucket of warm water in hand. His face was pale, mouth drawn. He moved with surprising grace—quiet, serious, as if the air in the room had informed him of how sacred it now was.

  He knelt beside Sol, arms hovering uselessly in the air—unsure where to touch, what would help, what would hurt.

  The water obeyed Anders' call, drifting in gentle streams around his outstretched hand. It moved softer than usual. Even the magic knew better than to disturb what remained.

  It kissed the elf’s torn skin with reverent grace, washing away the remnants of battle—fleshshifter blood, thick and dark, mingled now with Sol’s own.

  Within seconds, the water turned red.

  Not rust-red. Not the pink haze of diluted injury.

  Crimson.

  Alive and damning.

  Something sacred had been spilled too freely.

  He carried the bucket out and tossed it into Ysilla’s fire, watching it hiss and spit as it devoured the contamination. Then, in again, with another bucket. Same process. Same grave silence. He moved to Nolan next.

  Inside the tent, Cael sat in silence. His eyes stayed fixed on Solferen, mouth tight with thought.

  Somewhere outside, boots scraped over gravel. A snort from a spooked horse. Someone whispered a prayer—not to Aurenos. To nothing at all.

  The elf stirred faintly, caught in the grip of fevered sleep, jaw clenched like he was still fighting.

  Caelus didn’t even know what to ask first. There were too many questions. Too many broken pieces—and not a single one fit into the image he’d been taught.

  Dal noticed.

  “Ask him yourself.” He offered, quietly. Not unkind.

  A pause. Then, a soft sigh.

  “It’s not my right to tell you.”

  He leaned forward again, inspecting the scorched ruin of a shoulder. His tone dropped, almost absentminded.

  “My guess... he’ll be back on his feet in four days. Maybe less. Ysilla scorched him good before he could bleed out.”

  His thumb traced the edge of a wound, touch almost worshipful under the cold professional examination.

  “Shouldn’t take as long as that neck thing, anyway.” Dal’s gaze pointedly stared in the opposite direction.

  A distant snap—someone chopping wood. The echo cracked too loud in Cael’s skull. He jolted up without meaning to. His legs moved before the thought finished forming.

  He didn’t hear the rest.

  He didn’t go to the fire.

  Didn’t check on the rest of the group.

  He went straight to bed, though he didn’t sleep. He carried more questions than he’d walked into Dal’s tent with.

  And not one of them had a safe answer.

  His thoughts raced.

  If Sol gains power by killing…

  Then why doesn’t he abuse it?

  Why isn’t he on a throne already?

  Why hasn’t he torn the tower to the ground?

  Why hasn’t he killed him, for that matter?

  He could.

  He could. Cael had seen what he could do.

  He could be unstoppable.

  A god.

  Or something worse.

  And yet he—

  He bled himself dry. Quietly. Without complaint. As if it meant nothing.

  Cael pressed his palm to his chest. His lips were raw. His pulse fluttered beneath it like wings trapped in a jar. Nothing made sense.

  Not Sol’s restraint.

  Not his sacrifice.

  Not the way he bled like it was a ritual. Like he wanted to.