Their walk through the forest felt wearying, at least for the knights, that is.

  Every step was heavy, dragged down by grief and exhaustion. The adrenaline had faded, leaving only aching limbs and wounds that burned with each movement. Their bodies felt leaden, their minds distant, still haunted by the sight of their fallen comrades. It felt less like a march and more like a procession to the execution block.

  And in a way, it was.

  Because every step forward was made under the cold, unblinking watch of the elf walking behind them—his gaze a weight buried between their shoulders. A silent reminder that they were not guests.

  They were prisoners.

  The mercenaries, however, were enjoying their time as a leisure walk in the garden after the afternoon tea. They kicked stones along the path, exchanged jokes, laughed. One of them slung an arm over another’s shoulder, chuckling, something about the pies, the mead they’d stolen, the pretty girl they’d seen in the village. Lighthearted. Carefree.

  As if there weren’t fresh corpses cooling in the dirt behind them.

  As if this entire day had been nothing more than entertainment.

  Caelus' fingers never uncurled, knuckles aching under the gauntlet. He kept walking.

  There was nothing else he could do.

  The path twisted, the trees growing denser, darker, their branches stretching overhead like skeletal hands. The templars walked in silence, the weight of their failure pressing against their shoulders.

  The mercenaries, still entertained, still careless, showed no signs of urgency.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, the forest began to thin.

  The air shifted.

  The thick press of trees broke apart, revealing a clearing bathed in twilight, nestled against the base of a jagged rock face.

  Underwhelming.

  A scattering of few dozen tents, half-hidden beneath overhangs and nestled between boulders. A firepit smoldering at the center, embers glowing faintly against the dusk.

  No fortress. No banners. No throne.

  Just a place where men sat, rested, sharpened their blades. One could mistake it for a hunter’s camp with ease.

  Not a soul in sight.

  For a moment, Caelus did not understand.

  This? This was the stronghold of the man they sought?

  And then he saw Him.

  Seated at the fire. His presence commanded the space without effort, without intention. Even from a distance, he was undeniable.

  A figure draped in dark fabric and old scars. The fire’s glow flickered over him in pieces—light catching on the edge of a smirk, the sharp line of his jaw, the careless ease of his posture.

  Lazy, yet impossibly sharp.

  Pointy ears.

  An elf?

  His frame too broad, too solid…

  A half breed perhaps. Just like the glaive wielding one.

  But something about him felt—other.

  Not a king on a throne. But something worse. Something older. Something primal.

  Slowly, he lifted his gaze. And Caelus felt it like a blade pressed to his throat all over again. Something in his gut twisted. Not fear. Not exactly. Just the sudden, jarring certainty that he was standing before something untamed… and amused by his weakness.

  The fire crackled, embers shifting.

  The knights stood frozen, bruised, bloody, their weapons useless at their sides. The mercenaries who escorted them to the camp barely spared them a glance, spreading through the space, leaving the templars one-on-one with a predator.

  Their misery—none of their concern.

  The Mercenary King let the silence sit. Let them feel it like a bunch of children standing stiff under the gaze of their teacher. For a second, something ugly sparkled in his eyes. Something bloodthirsty, crueler than common barbarism, older than men and empires. Gone at the next blink.

  Then—a slow exhale. A smirk. A spark of mischief flickering in his eyes.

  “So, these are the suicides who followed Varg into the forest…” A soft chuckle.

  It rippled through the camp, picked up by others—low laughter, murmured entertainment, the kind that stung more than steel.

  He leaned back slightly, lazy but sharp, gaze flicking between them like they were something caught between his teeth. Studying. “I see my men left a few of you breathing. How very generous.”

  His voice was a low rumbling purr, entirely too gleeful.

  “Don’t tell me you really thought you can walk out of Blightreach alive?”

  The templars stiffened.

  A threat?

  The Mercenary King hummed, tilting his head, his finders drummed lightly against his knee, deliberate.

  “I thought the Church trained their dogs better than… this?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  The fire popped, sending a flicker of light across his scars. His expression shifted. Something colder. Sharper.

  “So, tell me—which one of you thought this was a good idea?”

  The knights said nothing, eyes glued to the ground.

  All except one.

  The Mercenary King rose, stepping away from the flame with the grace of a feline. His approach was slow, unhurried, a swagger woven into each step—controlled, measured, inescapable.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  His eyes never wavered from Caelus’ frozen stare. “Must be you, then.”

  Caelus straightened instinctively, spine taut, breath shallow. His training tried to assert itself—but the weight in the air felt heavier than any battlefield.

  He drew a deep breath, bracing himself. A conversation with a creature like this would be harder than a swordfight.

  And far more dangerous.

  “My name is Caelus Mor—”

  “Ah, yes!” The elf’s voice rang with delight. “The Popes most loyal dog himself!”

  He let the name linger before adding like an afterthought—

  “Caelus Moraine!”

  His name, once spoken with pride, reverence, even fear, now smeared in ridicule—an insult stretched into a smirk.

  It hit Caelus like a slap. He didn’t let it show. Not fully.

  But the elf’s eyes brightened, savoring the reaction. A slow smile curled his lips.

  Caelus swallowed his irritation. “We have been sent here to—”

  “What, not even a ‘Thank you’ for the ones who saved your sorry asses? One would expect more gratitude from people thanking the sky for the food on their table every day!” The elf cut in, voice sharp with amusement.

  The knights shifted behind Caelus, uneasy.

  Murmured words of gratitude rose from behind him. Caelus ignored them.

  “An order was given—” He tried to continue. Just to be cut off again.

  “I figured.”

  “We have been sent to retrieve—”

  “Me? I gathered, templar.”

  “The Church required your—”

  “Oh! The Church! What an honor!” The elf’s hand flew to his heart, if he even had one—a grand, exaggerated gesture, dripping in theatrics.

  Every word dripped with venomous performance. Caelus felt it crawl under his skin, shame threading through his ribs like wire. His fingers ached for the hilt of his sword.

  How infuriating. The sheer arrogance of this man!

  He was testing Caelus, savoring his patience like he fed on rage alone.

  An abomination.

  The knight clenched his teeth so hard they creaked. The beast’s long ears twitched in response, just a little.

  He heard it!

  And it’s just the reaction he wanted.

  The Mercenary King smiled like a well-fed predator, pulling back just a fraction.

  “You know what, whatever.” He exhaled, already stepping back toward the fire, lazy and unbothered. “This can wait till morning.”

  He waved them off with his hand, seemingly content.

  “What?” Caelus breathed out. “You are going to make us wait through the whole night?!”

  The beast arched a brow, looking over his shoulder. "You have different plans?"

  “Yes! You come with us, we go to the Ch—"

  “Did the thing hit you too hard over the head, commander? Theres more where that came from.” He mused, enjoying it thoroughly.

  “Surely you don’t want to drag your precious squad through the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night?” He paused for a second, his gaze glazed over the wounded remnants of Caelus’ squad, evaluating.

  Then, almost offhandedly—

  “Or what was left of it, anyways.”

  Caelus’ mouth fell open, scandalized beyond belief. He felt his blood boil.

  But the conversation was over.

  Not because Cael had nothing more to say. But because he had decided it was.

  The Mercenary King turned, walking away without another look, his focus already elsewhere.

  That helpless fury—new and raw—settled behind Caelus’ sternum like a lit coal. There was no victory here. Just survival. It didn’t stop him from staring daggers at the elf’s back.

  The templars stood frozen, rigid as statues, cheeks burning hot. Not just from exhaustion, or the wounds still fresh on their bodies—

  But from humiliation. Like youngsters scolded in front of a crowd. They stood there—useless, dismissed, waiting for further instruction.

  Not prisoners. Not guests. Something in between.

  The mercenaries moved around them, going about their business, few entertained glances thrown at the sorry bunch along the way. Someone threw more wood onto the fire, embers cracking upward. Another laughed at a half-heard joke, nudging a companion in the ribs.

  A few of them eyed the knights with mild curiosity—but no concern.

  No one acknowledged them.

  Because they were not a threat.

  Caelus could feel the weight of it—the unspoken dismissal, the complete lack of fear. His fists curled at his sides, rage simmering beneath his skin.

  How dare they.

  He had spent his life being feared, being obeyed—

  And here he was, standing like a fool, surrounded by heathens, waiting like a captive for permission to move.

  His men were no better.

  Some shifted, glancing at one another as though unsure what to do. Some kept their heads bowed, still dazed from the fight, too exhausted to care.

  They waited.

  And waited.

  The beast, meanwhile, had already moved on. He exchanged a few casual words with the camp—

  Something about a supply run. A stolen flask. The food rationing.

  Nothing urgent.

  Nothing that should have mattered more than them.

  And yet, it did.

  Caelus’ breathed slow and controlled. His jaw tight. It was unbearable.

  Then—finally. Mercy.

  The elf broke the silence. Acknowledged them with the enthusiasm of a dying rock.

  “You’ll sleep here.” A motion of his hand, careless, pointing in the direction of one of the tents. A simple gesture. The decision made for them.

  Caelus felt it—a breath of relief against the back of his neck, his men bowing their heads in gratitude, murmuring words of appreciation.

  Traitors.

  To thank a creature who just mortified them so.

  That was beneath him.

  Yet the men practically ran towards the tent—anything to sit down, to be off their feet, to breathe without a sword at their throats.

  The tent was tolerable, big enough to fit all of them, cleaner than what it should be in a vagabond camp in the middle of nowhere.

  Mismatched carpets. A bedroll sprawled on the ground, hay packed as neatly as possible beneath. A particularly thick log of wood, probably serving as a makeshift table, its surface suspiciously too smooth. A candle holder, a few blankets rolled up and pressed against the log. A weapon rack, not neatly placed, but within arm’s reach.

  No signs of belonging. No marks of ownership, nor personal keepsakes or small touches of comfort. No symbols of faith of any sort.

  Nothing to tell them who had last slept here. Nothing to tell them if they had ever left.

  To a templar’s eye, it was unnatural.

  To Cael’s, it was something worse.

  The knights settled, relaxing, a bit too much for someone in a place that wants them gone. Some peeled off their armor, inspecting the bruises and cuts left from the confrontation with the thing in the forest.

  A pathetic display of submission. Could have as well bared their throats to the blade of that glaive.

  And yet, he could not say anything to them.

  They were not to blame for his own mistakes. And as such, he will pay the price in vigilance, letting them rest through the night.

  While he would not.

  Caelus sat outside the tent, fingers curled tight around the hilt of his sword. He would not let himself relax. Not here. Not in the middle of the wolf’s den.

  Steps attracted his attention. Soft, measured. The grip on his sword tightened.

  THUD.

  A sack, overstuffed, worn at the edges. Dropped unceremoniously.

  Then came the clang of metal, the splash of liquid, and a muttered curse.

  “For fuck’s sake, Anders, could you carry one damn thing without nearly dropping it?” An already familiar voice, hushed, but annoyed.

  The glaive wielding one.

  “You gave me the stew!” Another voice protested, also familiar. The mage.

  “You wanted the stew!” The first one hissed.

  Caelus turned sharply.

  Outside the tent the giant stood, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. At his feet—a pile of blankets, extra bedrolls, a bucket of water, a handful of clean rags.

  Beside him, Anders set down a steaming pot of something that actually smelled edible. He tossed a flask onto the pile, its contents sloshing inside.

  “Drink, food, bandages.” The giant’s voice was flat and disinterested. He looked over the men inside once, like a butcher eyeing half-dead livestock.

  “You need it.” His tone made it clear—this wasn’t kindness. It was practicality.

  No one wanted to deal with half-dead templars slowing things down.

  A second mercenary stepped from behind the two. A red-haired woman—amused and utterly unconcerned—scoffed, tossing a handful of extra rags onto the pile. “So, what, we’re keeping them like strays now?”

  Someone behind her laughed.

  Caelus felt his jaw tick.

  But his men—Light help them—were already moving.

  Blankets were snatched first, then the bread, then the flask.

  Caelus watched it happen.

  Watched his men bow their heads, whisper thanks to a group of heathens before reaching for a bowl.

  The bucket of water was dragged inside, and the templars did not care how it got there. They were too tired, too hungry, too broken to turn away mercy, even one laced with mockery.

  Caelus, however, did care.

  He remained still, hands clenched at his sides, as the mountain of a man turned without another word, already walking away.

  Because this—this wasn’t a gift. It was just another reminder of who had power here.

  And it wasn’t them.