After a few days, Soren was given a uniform befitting his position within the military unit that would be traveling to the northern border. The fabric was sturdy, dark, and practical, designed for both combat and long marches. He then ran his fingers over the smooth stitching, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders.
Elias, on the other hand, was offered the chance to stay behind, but only if he made himself useful in the Healing Wing, a section of the estate dedicated to medical care, a sanctuary for the sick and wounded. Elias's gentle eyes softened as he thought of the endless patients he could help there, yet a hint of worry crossed his face.
Soren noticed immediately so he stepped closer, brushing a hand lightly over Elias's shoulder. "You'll do well there," he said quietly, trying to keep his voice steady.
Elias smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "And you… don't get reckless, alright? Promise me."
Soren's lips curved into a faint smile. "I'll be fine," he said, though the unspoken truth hung heavy between them as everyone knows that the north was dangerous, and Soren's life would be constantly at risk.
For a long moment, they simply stood there as the air thick with unspoken words. Finally, Soren reached out and gently grasped Elias's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Go save lives here, Elias. And I'll… do my part there."
Elias nodded, gripping Soren's hand back for a moment longer before letting go. Both knew that this separation was necessary, but neither could shake the unease lingering in their hearts as Soren prepared to leave for the border.
After three days, the Duke, the twins, and Prince Cael mounted their horses, ready to march toward the northern border. Soren rode a few paces behind them, silent and composed, never daring to question why he wasn't allowed to ride beside them but their cold treatment didn't surprise him as it was something he had long grown used to.
Before his father's death, Soren had known nothing but violence. His father, believing that a son who could not feel pain was a curse, took it as divine permission to beat him relentlessly again and again under the delusion that it would make things right.
When the villagers discovered Soren's condition, they branded their family as cursed and drove them out. From then on, they wandered endlessly from one village to another, never welcomed, never at peace.
Soren's mother had been his only light, the one who held him when the world turned its back but even that light was stolen when she was cut down by a sword, accused of witchcraft for giving birth to a child who could not feel pain.
From that day on, Soren's misery deepened. He was taken, sold, and abused—physically, emotionally, and sexually until even the will to live began to fade. There were countless nights he wanted to end it all, yet every time he tried, his mother's last words echoed in his mind like a whisper in the dark:
Even when the world had given him nothing but suffering, those words clung to him like a lifeline. They were a fragile spark of hope that refused to be snuffed out. A reminder that even he, a boy born to pain, could bring light to others.
"Hey, commoner. You're the new healer, right?" one of the knights called out, his tone mocking.
They had stopped after two days of travel to rest and pitch tents while Soren sat under the shade of a large oak, five knights approached him, grinning like they'd found a new plaything.
"Yes. How may I help you?" Soren stood up quietly, meeting their eyes.
"Hah, look at him. He's got guts, staring at us like that."
The others snickered, circling closer.
One of them smirked and tapped his chest where his armor had a small dent. "I'm hurt. Heal me, will you?"
"Of course. Where is your wound?" Soren replied, stepping closer, but the man didn't move to show an injury.
Hearing that, everyone laughed. The guy who claimed he was hurt stood in front of Soren, unbuckled his pants, and showed his bulge.
"Here. Heal me, but not with your healing magic. Use your hole instead." Soren couldn't help but frown slightly as the others kept laughing. The knight held his bulge and pointed it at Soren, looking at his private part.
"Now, what? Pull down your pants and turn around. You said you're a healer, so you'll only heal me if you turn around and bend over. Stop being dumb. You know what I mean."
Before the knight could take another step, a stern voice cut through the air.
"What's going on here?" It was one of the Duke's captains that made the knights froze while the one with his pants open quickly buckled them again with stiff face.
"Just a joke, sir," one muttered.
The captain's glare didn't soften. "Enough. You lay a hand on the Duke's healer again, and I'll make sure you regret it. Move."
"All right, Captain. Then, we'll be on our way." The knights grumbled but eventually dispersed, throwing one last glance at Soren before leaving.
The captain lingered, his eyes softening a little. "You all right, boy?"
Soren nodded lightly. "Yes, sir. It's not a big deal."
"Good but if they bother you again, you come straight to me, understood? Now, the Duke's looking for you. You'll find him in the tent with the Empire's flag on top. Head there right away."
"Yes, sir. Thank you," Soren replied, bowing slightly before making his way toward the Duke's tent.
As night deepened, so did the cold, seeping through their armor until even the metal felt like ice against their skin. The march to the north was relentless with snowstorms howled without mercy, and the wraithfang beasts prowled in the white void beyond their campfires.
They were shadowy, wolf-like creatures with no eyes and gaping maws lined with serrated fangs, hunting in packs and feeding on fear. Their growls echoed through the wind, distorted like human screams twisted by pain.
After being summoned by the Duke, Soren was briefed on their battle formation. As the unit's healer, his safety was deemed crucial to their success.
"Tch. How low we've fallen protecting a commoner," Lyric muttered, yawning as if bored by the thought. No one in the tent even bothered to disagree, not even Duke Alarin or Prince Cael. Soren, accustomed to scorn, simply stood silent but with his head held high.
"It must be your lucky day, commoner," Sylas sneered. "You should feel honored that three from House Davenmore are protecting a nobody like you. And not only that, His Highness himself is here, one of the empire's finest."
Soren bowed slightly, his tone calm and steady. "I appreciate the honor, truly. I will do my best to assist you in the north. I will not let you down."
The tent fell quiet as the Duke finally exhaled, rubbing his temple before meeting Soren's eyes.
"See that you don't. Remember, if you put yourself in danger, you endanger everyone. Prove your worth. If you can't even do that, then we don't need you. You're dismissed."
Soren bowed again and left the tent with the weight of their words pressing against his chest like the freezing wind outside. Their journey continued northward, where they faced not only the wraithfangs but also the wendrisks. It's thin, pale creatures with elongated limbs and white, leathery skin that melted into the snow. They mimicked human voices, whispering through the storm to lure the living into the blizzard's grasp.
"Keep your guard up and get the wounded to safety! Sylas, on your back!" the Duke commanded with his voice cutting through the chaos. Steel clashed against bone as they fought the wendrisks, the pale monsters shrieking against the storm.
In the corner of the battlefield, Soren knelt beside the injured with his hands glowing a faint yellow light as he worked to mend wounds.
"Damn it, fuck! It hurts! My hand, fuck!" a knight cursed beside him, writhing in pain.
Soren recognized him instantly. He was the same man who had shamelessly showed his bulge to him days before. Still, he kept his tone even.
"Relax. I can't heal you properly if you keep moving."
"Shut up, commoner! Don't tell me what to do! You're just a filthy..." The knight's words were cut off when he kicked Soren square in the ribs, sending him back slightly.
Soren steadied himself, exhaling through the sting not from pain, but from patience.
"I'm not finished healing you yet," he said quietly, meeting the knight's furious glare. "But maybe I should tend to someone more deserving instead of wasting time on the ungrateful."
The knight froze, still clutching his bleeding hand. "W-what did you say?" he stammered, disbelief flashing in his eyes as Soren stood, calm and unyielding amid the chaos.
"W-wait, hey! I'm still hurt, you know! F-fine! Come on, I'm sorry, okay? Damn it! Heal me!" the knight shouted, stumbling toward Soren.
Soren was already tending to another wounded soldier when the man grabbed his wrist.
"Are you finally calming down?" Soren asked, his voice calm but his expression weary.
The knight scowled, clearly irritated but desperate. "Damn it! Yes, okay? Just heal me already before that bastard bleeds out!"
Soren sighed quietly and placed his hand over the man's wound where a faint golden glow spread beneath his palm, knitting torn flesh back together. Within minutes, the knight's pain faded, and without another word, he rushed back into the battle.
The battle raged for another forty minutes before the last wendrisk fell. Soren, still kneeling among the injured, continued to heal without pause with his focus unbroken even as exhaustion began to settle across the camp.
But then...
"W-what the hell? Y-your stomach...!" Sylas's voice cracked through the air, drawing everyone's attention. "You idiot, your left side is open!"
Soren blinked and looked down. There, just beneath his ribs, blood pulsed steadily from a small hole, a wound he hadn't even noticed. The color drained from Sylas's face as he stared, while Soren only pressed his hand lightly against it, watching his own blood stain his fingers.