Later, the last of the bound men screeched as Killeon and Sol swung him through the air like an overstuffed sack of grain between them.

  “One, two—” Sol counted, utterly monotone.

  “THREE!” Killeon bellowed, clearly enjoying himself too much.

  And they hurled the screaming guard bodily through the broken threshold of a half-collapsed house, the man landing with a crash of splintered wood and a very undignified yelp. A loose beam clattered to the floor beside him.

  A second later, the door slammed shut. Varg, grinning like a maniac, had kicked it with both feet and casually slid the broken latch back into place.

  Cries erupted immediately from inside.

  “YOU CAN’T LEAVE US LIKE THIS—!”

  “WAIT, PLEASE—WAIT—!”

  “SOMEONE HELP—!”

  Anders was doubled over nearby, clinging to Nolan’s arm and laughing so hard he looked close to tears. “Did you see his face—! I swear I saw his soul leave his body mid-air!”

  Nolan, barely upright, snorted. “Ten out of ten. Pure artistry. We are getting so cursed!”

  “A risk I’m willing to take,” the mage wheezed.

  Sol, brushing blood and dust from his sleeves as if it was crumbs from a table, glanced over his shoulder as they resumed walking. “Too kind, honestly. They deserved worse.”

  Caelus—dead silent through the entire spectacle—just stood there. Mouth open. Brain failing. Still staring at the shack.

  THAT was the Mercenary King?

  This felt less like righteous justice and more like watching a theater troupe possessed by demons.

  That was—

  He didn’t know what it was.

  He opened his mouth to say something. Nothing came out.

  Not even a prayer. Not even a curse.

  He followed them anyway.

  The village darkened as they moved deeper.

  Not because of the time of day—the sun still hung above the roofs as a watchful eye—but because the further they walked, the more the world itself seemed to decay.

  At first, it was the silence. The kind of silence that rotted beneath the skin—too still, too unnatural.

  Then came the faces.

  A child, peering from the second floor of a half-collapsed inn. Pale. Eyes stretched wide, unblinking, like glass. She didn’t move when the party passed. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

  More followed. Faces in windows. In doorways. Heads cocked slightly askew, eyes too empty.

  Some stared without thought, but others—

  Others whispered.

  Words with no shape. Mouthed phrases, fragments of prayer or secrets too awful to say aloud. One woman stood barefoot in the dirt, nightgown soaked in filth, repeating “Don’t let him in. Don’t let him in. Don’t let him in.”

  To no one.

  “Void take me,” Nolan muttered. “I told you they weren’t right.”

  “They’re not here,” Killeon said softly, eyes narrowing. “Their bodies, yes. But their minds are…”

  “Elsewhere,” Sol finished. His voice dropped low, unreadable.

  Anders knelt by one of the doorposts. Ran a finger along a carved symbol.

  “What’s that?” Caelus asked, already tensing.

  “A ward,” Anders replied absentmindedly, palm hovering over it a breath longer. “Sort of. Crude. Improvised. Probably meant to keep something out—or in.”

  Varg spat in the dirt. “Hasn’t worked.”

  The air shifted again as the street narrowed, becoming more forest than road. Trees crept close now, reclaiming land that the village had long abandoned. The stones under their boots were cracked. Moss swallowed the walls of collapsed homes. The deeper they went, the colder it became—despite the sunlight.

  An old house. Alone at the forest’s edge. Its door hung wide open like a mouth mid-scream.

  Something was wrong with it.

  Solferen paused first, eyes narrowing. The others stopped behind him, weapons close, senses sharp.

  “Don’t like that one,” Nolan muttered, tilting his head in that odd animalistic way. Defensive. “Gives me the itches.”

  Sol didn’t respond. He simply stepped inside. Caelus reached a hand out instinctively—but the elf was already gone.

  There was no noise. Not a footstep. Not even breath.

  Just for a moment.

  “BACK OFF!” The scream exploded from within, ragged and raw.

  The party surged forward—but Sol reappeared in the doorway a beat later. Unharmed. Impressed.

  Behind him, in the gloom of the house, was a man—what was left of a man—crouched over a pile of corpses. Rotting. Twisted. Limbs torn and rearranged as if he’d tried to make them into something. A circle? A shape?

  He snarled, teeth yellowed, eyes bloodshot.

  “MINE!” He screeched. “MY CORPSE. I WARNED YOU. HE SAID NOT TO SHARE.”

  Sol just blinked. Raised an eyebrow.

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  And, without a hint of mockery, murmured, “Alright. Keep your corpses. I don’t think I’ll need them… for now.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Like it was a perfectly sensible request.

  Caelus stood, a grimace of disgust on his face clear as day.

  He hadn’t even drawn his weapon.

  Because there was no enemy. Not one he could fight. Not one he could even understand.

  What was that?

  What kind of man—no, what kind of thing—walks into that horror and doesn’t flinch?

  Caelus could feel his heart slamming against his ribs. His stomach churned.

  He was a Knight of the Church. Trained for combat. Trained to stare into the abyss.

  But that? That had been wrong.

  And Sol? Sol hadn’t even blinked.

  Just smiled and walked on.

  Like something far worse than madness was waiting deeper in the trees—and that man screaming over corpses was merely a symptom.

  Not the cause.

  The forest shivered under the breeze, leaves glimmering under the rays of merciless sun like reflection on water. It felt warmer as they neared the ruins. Calmer. Just barely.

  Stone teeth jutted out from the hillside—crumbling remnants of an old watchtower, strangled by ivy and years of disuse. But now, smoke curled faintly from behind the walls, and the scent of sweat, grease, and badly tended fire pits drifted through the trees.

  Varg vanished into the foliage before anyone spoke. The air didn’t shift—he was simply gone.

  Minutes passed.

  Then a shape dropped from above, light as shadow.

  Varg landed in a crouch beside them, teeth flashing.

  “No hostages,” he said quietly. “Just a camp. Ten of them. Relaxed. Playing dice. Drinking.”

  Sol stretched like a cat rousing from a nap. “Perfect.”

  He moved without a word. Varg followed, and the two scaled the ruin as if it was built for them. Quiet. Lethal. Laughing under their breath like children about to cause trouble.

  Anders stood beside Caelus, arms crossed.

  “I’m not wasting magic on this,” he muttered. “This ain’t a battle. It’s pest control.”

  Caelus didn’t respond.

  He was busy watching.

  Above, two figures dropped from the crumbled second story like feral goblins descending from the heavens.

  Sol hit the ground with a whoop, chakrams singing. One flew before his feet even touched earth—slicing a man’s leg open, sending him crashing into the fire pit with a scream. Varg landed quieter, already flipping a dagger into the nearest man’s throat before he had time to cry out.

  Chaos.

  The front doors crashed inward.

  Killeon and Nolan stormed in with the force of a charging bull. One wielded a hammer. The other, a glaive. The first man they hit went airborne.

  Caelus blinked.

  It was over before it began.

  The bandits barely got to their feet. Some tried to run—arrows stopped them. Some reached for weapons—Nolan’s hammer stopped them harder. The rest simply froze, wide-eyed, caught in a blur of movement they couldn’t follow.

  A few lay unconscious. Two more writhed, pinned beneath boot and blade. Others just gone.

  “Bind ’em,” Sol said, nodding toward Cael and Anders.

  Caelus obeyed. His hands moved mechanically—looping rope, tying firm knots—but his mind wasn’t on the bindings.

  He watched them.

  All of them.

  How they moved. How they functioned. Efficient. Brutal. Effortless. It wasn’t just skill. A unity that made them more than mercenaries. More than criminals.

  Monsters, yes. But with a rhythm.

  And god help him, it was captivating.

  He should’ve been appalled.

  But all he could think about was the coldness from earlier. The silence.

  And how the Sol before him now—sharp, bright, dangerous—was easier to handle than the quiet one from this morning.

  Suddenly, a twitch.

  One of the bound bandits shifted—not in fear or discomfort, but intent.

  Caelus caught the movement just a second too late.

  The man twisted violently against his bindings, shoulder snapping out of place with a sickening crunch as he lunged. From inside his boot, he pulled a jagged chiv—filthy, rust-stained, but sharp enough—and drove it upward toward his own neck with terrifying precision.

  But Anders moved faster.

  There was no incantation, no build-up.

  Just a sudden, whip-crack flick of his hand and a gust of snapping cold.

  The shard didn’t make it halfway.

  A slick sheen of frost exploded up the man’s arm, freezing muscle and tendon into brittle ice. The chiv clattered to the ground, useless. His forearm—twisted mid-motion—blackened from the sudden, violent burst of magic. The skin cracked. The fingers curled unnaturally.

  The man screamed.

  A guttural, gurgling cry that ended in a gasp as pain overtook him.

  Anders didn’t flinch. He just cocked his head like someone observing a dropped plate, cringing.

  “Oops,” he said dryly, shaking the chill from his fingers. “That’ll kill him in a few days. Maybe less.”

  Solferen was already crouching beside the man, expression unreadable.

  “You only try to die that fast,” he murmured, “when you’re more scared of your employer than your executioner.”

  The man hissed, eyes wild with agony, but his lips clamped shut.

  Sol leaned in—casual, gentle even. One gloved hand rested lightly on the man’s chest.

  “Come now. You’re in no shape to keep secrets. Just nod once. Tell me—was it a church contract?”

  No response.

  “Mercenaries?” Sol’s voice stayed low, almost soft. “A noble house? Or someone wearing their mask?”

  The bandit’s eyes flicked to the frozen limb. Then to Anders. Then back to Sol.

  Still no answer.

  Sol’s mouth curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s fine. I’m a patient man.”

  “Lies,” Anders muttered behind him. “I’ve seen you break a plate because soup took too long.”

  Solferen ignored him.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small bone coin with a red string tied through its center, and dangled it in front of the bandit’s face.

  The man flinched.

  Hard.

  “Ohhh,” Sol whispered, eyes lighting up. “That’s interesting.”

  Caelus stepped closer, eyeing the coin with suspicion.

  “Dead man’s marker,” Sol replied without waiting for the question. “Used by underground sects to ensure loyalty. If you speak, you die a slow painful death. If you survive after failing your mission, they make you wish you hadn’t.”

  “Why would anyone agree to that?” Cael muttered.

  Sol finally looked up at him, slow and measured.

  “Because some people think death is preferable to what waits on the other side of failure.”

  He stood, flipping the coin once before tucking it away. “We’ll get nothing else from this one. Not here.”

  Then, over his shoulder, “Killi, take him back. Rovena has ways.”

  Killeon nodded. He moved forward, grabbed the man by the collar like a sack of refuse, and began dragging him back to village, towards Bastard.

  “And the rest?” Nolan asked, hands on his hips.

  Sol turned, surveying the groaning heap of semi-conscious bandits strewn across the ruined camp.

  “Leave them. If they’re lucky, they’ll bleed out. If not…” He shrugged. “Let the shadows decide.”

  They moved through the remnants of the bandit camp, boots crunching over ash, broken glass, and the faint remains of campfire. Tents had been collapsed or half-abandoned. Ropes dangled uselessly from beams. Everything here spoke of hurried movements—of a group expecting not to stay long.

  Anders, humming to himself, kicked open a crate with the heel of his boot. It split with a groan. Just spoiled grain. Another. Nothing but blankets. But when he pried open the last one—an empty wine cask stuffed beneath a torn tarp—his expression changed.

  “Oi,” he called, holding something up between two fingers. “Your High Demonliness. Got a present for you.”

  Sol approached, eyes narrowing. Anders passed him the sealed envelope. Waxy, well-pressed. Definitely not bandit-made. The seal had been broken once and resealed—a rush job.

  Sol cracked it open with one finger, eyes flicking rapidly over the lines scrawled inside.

  A silence followed. Too long.

  He didn’t hand the note to anyone.

  Just read it once more, slower. Then folded it and tucked it into his leathers without a word.

  Caelus frowned. “What did it say?”

  Sol didn’t look up. His voice was cold—stripped of sarcasm.

  “Make the witnesses disappear. The guards will not intervene.”

  The party fell still.

  Even Nolan’s grin faded. Varg muttered a curse under his breath.

  “That’s not bandit talk,” Anders said grimly. “That’s someone with authority.”

  Sol nodded once, sharp. “A cover-up. Coordinated. Someone has money... and enough power to keep local guards from lifting a finger.”

  He finally met their eyes.

  “They knew Dawnmere was compromised.”

  “Think it’s the Church?” Nolan asked, his eyes darted to Cael, then back to Sol. The accusation made the knight stiffen.

  “Too soon to say,” Sol replied, turning away. “But whoever it is, they didn’t want survivors.”

  A gust of wind swept through the camp, stirring ash and parchment alike. The dying sun lit the crumbling stone walls in molten gold—then, as it dipped, turned them the color of dried blood.

  Long shadows stretched behind them as they walked out, one by one.

  Behind them, the bandits whimpered in the dust.

  No one looked back.