The Burning Day.

  Aurenos’ victory over the false sun. A grand spectacle to remind the masses that magic, heresy, and defiance would be burned away by sacred fire.

  He had been there. He had witnessed it.

  The capital had been alive with fervor that day. Streets packed with thousands—nobles, villagers, elves, orcs, foreign visitors. A grand procession winding its way to the final fire.

  And with it?

  The witch.

  Ysilla.

  Was it her doing then?

  He was there to oversee the execution. To ensure order. Everything had gone smoothly until—

  A stir in the crowd.

  Nothing unusual. A small scuffle, perhaps. A shove, a raised voice. Not uncommon during grand celebrations. He moved toward it, steady, practiced. This was routine.

  A laughter—high, unbroken, rising above the crackling fire. It was already lit, flames dancing high, devouring the pyre. Ysilla stood in it like it belonged to her. Small, wild-haired, untouched by the flames licking hungrily at her feet.

  She was laughing.

  Motion abandoned Caelus. Faith had nothing to say.

  His gaze locked onto hers—black eyes burning, unwavering, locked onto him like a predator watching prey.

  Suddenly, a pillar of fire erupted, sending a cloud of ash billowing into the air, severing the connection between them.

  A shrill, piercing cry split the night as a bird of fire burst from the flames, wings unfurling wide.

  But before it could rise—it vanished. Swallowed by the sky.

  A wave of heat struck him, forcing him to raise an arm in defense.

  And when he opened his eyes…

  Nothing.

  No fire. No body. Only ash.

  Around him the chaos broke loose.

  The screams. Panic spread through the crowd like wildfire. The ones closest to the pyre ran.

  But the unrest in the square—that was different.

  It had worsened. Significantly.

  At first, it had been pushing, shoving, desperate hands trying to reach something—or someone. A woman’s scream rang from the center of the frenzy—desperate, frantic.

  Caelus couldn’t understand the words.

  But they did.

  And just like that they were at each other’s throats. Biting. Clawing. Choking.

  People backed away. Fled.

  They didn’t care. They only cared about getting to her. Ripping each other apart on their way.

  Caelus forced his way into the fray, pushing them apart.

  They didn’t even acknowledge him. Their eyes glazed, wide, pupils blown so dark their irises were gone.

  Lost. Consumed by something he did not understand.

  Through the chaos, through the tangled mass of limbs he saw her.

  A woman. Shrouded in rich fabric. Two figures—cloaked and hooded—pushing through the madness, shielding her, leading her away.

  By the time the guards arrived they were gone.

  The fight was broken up, the injured dragged away, their screams endless.

  It took days for them to come back to themselves.

  Possessed. That was the only word for it.

  Raving, desperate, half-mad. Some tried to end their own lives.

  They couldn’t live without her. They needed to see her again.

  One day it just passed. Similar to a fever breaking, leaving them dazed, without a memory of what had occurred.

  The Pope declared it a demonic affliction. A witch’s trick to escape death.

  That same day—

  Lady Rovena Dorevain was declared missing.

  Caelus blinked.

  She glided right next to him.

  Walking freely among criminals. Draped in jewels and silks, untouched by exile, her posture still perfect, still noble. Unshaken.

  It didn’t make sense.

  He thought back to that night. The noblewoman being hurried away. Hidden. Protected.

  Was it her?

  Had she been taken in the chaos? Kidnapped? Rescued?

  Had they come for her?

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  He chose his words carefully. “My lady… per chance… were you taken?”

  She laughed—light, unbothered. “Taken? If you call it that, then thank the gods I was.”

  There was something else beneath her voice. A sadness she tried to keep hidden.

  Caelus stiffened. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the rest.

  She took a slow breath, weighing her words. “I made a mistake. One that nearly cost me my life. They saved me that day.”

  A mistake? What kind of mistake would lead a noblewoman to seek refuge among these people?

  “I made a deal,” she admitted. “A deal with something you would call a demon.”

  Caelus' breath hitched.

  She spoke so calmly.

  “Brokenhearted. Rejected by the one I had fallen for. I was young, desperate, and I wished to become… irresistible.” A rueful sigh. Disappointment tinged her voice—not with regret, but with inevitability.

  “And irresistible I became.”

  Caelus said nothing, but the unease settled deep in his chest. He expected madness. Witchcraft. Not heartbreak. Not something so familiar.

  Rovena lifted a delicate hand, gesturing at her face.

  “This mask you see me wearing, Sir Moraine, is the only thing protecting everyone in this camp from going mad with mania.” A bitter laugh escaped her.

  “Now, when my eyes meet another’s, they become… consumed. Overcome. Obsessed. Completely. Willing to do anything, go through anything, just to have me.”

  Obsessed. Bewitched…

  The people that night—the ones tearing at each other’s throats—

  That was her.

  Lady Rovena continued, voice quieter now.

  “The first time it happened I was still at my manor. My maid—the woman who had raised me—attacked me out of nowhere. Screaming something about ‘reuniting in death’…”

  Caelus pictured her—knife in hand, face twisted with devotion. It made his skin crawl. It made his heart lurch.

  He could still remember the eyes—wide, black, desperate.

  Not hers. Theirs.

  “Thankfully, my guard was faster.” Her lips pressed into a thin line.

  The words hung.

  “Then it was the doctor my father called to examine me. He was imprisoned before he could act.”

  Caelus felt his stomach turn.

  How many had fallen to this madness?

  “I tried to contain it. I stopped leaving my manor. I veiled my face. I refused visitors. I thought I could control it.” She exhaled sharply. “And then… I made yet another mistake.” Her fingers traced the delicate edges of her mask, as if seeking comfort in its presence.

  “I went to the celebration. Just like every year. I was careful. Thick veil, hat, gloves. I thought it would be fine.”

  Caelus already knew how this story ended.

  “The unrest in the crowd started it. My guard stepped forward—attracted some attention. And then…” She stopped, her steps faltering.

  Didn’t need to finish. He had seen it himself, after all.

  The wind. The veil. The stares. The frenzy.

  “They saved me, you know. Dragged me out of there before I could even understand what was happening.” Rovena smiled—a real smile this time, kind and fond, almost amused.

  “And they didn’t even hesitate! Like it was just a normal Tuesday for them!” She laughed softly, shaking his head as though she still couldn’t believe it.

  Caelus, however, could believe that.

  They had likely seen worse. They had likely wanted her for themselves.

  A dangerous weapon of their own.

  His voice was steady, deliberate. “My lady, I am incredibly sorry for what you have endured, but these people are not to be trusted. They are using you.”

  She tilted her head, curious.

  He took a step closer, lowering his voice as if speaking to a fragile thing. “Come with me. The Church can—”

  A giggle. She waved a delicate hand as though he had just told the most ridiculous joke. “Oh, but I did! Solferen even escorted me himself!”

  The air left his lungs.

  Her voice dropped into something quieter. “But I’m sure you’ve heard what happened in Caldrith Vale’s Temple of Light.”

  A massacre.

  One of the worst he had ever seen. Not a single place untouched by blood.

  The memory hit like a hammer. Blood across the marble floor, an altar defiled. He remembered the stench—burnt cloth and flesh, a holy place reduced to rot.

  The Pope had blamed runaway mages. Blood magic. But no evidence was ever found.

  “There is no place for me in your world anymore, Sir Moraine.” Her voice was final. “None but this.”

  His throat tightened. He wanted to argue. Wanted to offer something better. But the words caught like thorns in his mouth.

  “They even made this for me.” Rovena touched her mask with gentle reverence. “It’s enchanted. Do you have any idea how expensive that is?”

  A playful smile graced her lips.

  And then she stepped past him without waiting for the response, into the camp.

  Caelus watched as the same heathens who mocked him, insulted him at every opportunity, turned to her with admiration.

  Their faces softened. Their grins widened. Their eyes followed her every move. Some extended their arms, offering her a hand to aid her with steep hill.

  She was not their captive. She was one of them.

  And they loved her.

  Caelus could only stand and watch it like some strange, twisted play. The world had tilted again. The things he’d been taught to fear—the witch, the heretic, the beast—had all looked at her with reverence. And she had smiled. He couldn’t tell anymore who was holy and who was damned.

  The night had creeped into the camp, bringing laughter, music and ale with it. Caelus moved through the crowd with all the haste he could manage, head down, jaw tight.

  He ignored the shoving. Ignored the women reaching for his arm, murmuring invitations to their heathen rituals. Ignored the fresh wave of taunts, the words sharp as daggers, thrown at his back like a game they all delighted in.

  Straight to the cavern. Straight to the tent.

  He didn’t care. He didn’t want to see them. He didn’t want to hear them. He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted for the morning to come, for everything to make sense again.

  And yet—

  A plate sat waiting for him on the table. A portion of tonight’s dinner. Left for him, untouched.

  Somehow it made it all worse.

  Kindness, from monsters, tasted like poison. Or mercy. He didn’t know which made his hands shake more.

  Sleep claimed him in the armor he hadn’t bothered to remove, blade within reach, jaw still locked with tension.

  Caelus wasn’t sure what woke him.

  Something featherlight brushed across his nose. Then again, across his cheek. He twitched, scrunching his face, trying to swat it away without waking. But it didn’t stop. It danced along his jaw, then over his closed eyelids.

  A strand of hair?

  His brain stirred reluctantly, foggy from exhaustion, just beginning to reassemble reality when a voice shattered it all.

  “You’re almost tolerable when you’re knocked out cold, Sleeping Beauty.”

  Caelus’ eyes flew open—

  And Solferen was right there. Leaning over him.

  And, for the love of all that is holy, his obnoxiously long hair was still swaying like a curtain between them, brushing Caelus’ face as if it had every right.

  “WHAT IN AURENOS NAME IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” Caelus shouted, shooting up from his bedroll like he’d been electrocuted.

  Sol, unfazed, took a casual step back, unbothered. “What? I used to sleep here, y’know. It's a nice tent.”

  Cael’s face burned. Not from the touch, but from how long it took him to react.

  He could have been in danger.

  “So that gives you the right to just invade my privacy?!” He barked, eyes wild, heart still slamming against his ribs from the scare.

  Solferen raised a brow, grin stretching wider. “Aye, it’s my camp. I am welcome everywhere.”

  And with that, the menace turned on his heel, sauntering toward the flap like this was the most normal morning interaction in the world.

  “Now grab your breakfast, loverboy—we’re heading out to chase your little cult.”

  He took one meaningful look at his armor. “Looks like you are ready to move out otherwise.”

  Gone.

  Just like that.

  Leaving Caelus to sit there, disheveled, furious, half-awake and still tasting humiliation as ash in his mouth.

  Unacceptable.

  He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before pushing himself upright. His muscles ached, his head heavy.

  His skin crawled. He could still feel it—like spider-silk dragging across his jaw. The intimacy of it made his stomach twist.

  He hated this place.

  He hated this man.

  He hated that breakfast was actually smelling good.