The Substitute Healer (BL)-Chapter 27: “W–wait… what…?”

With the blissful days in the North, blissful only because the chaos had finally quieted—Soren found himself with something he hadn’t had in weeks: a moment to breathe.

Even though there were still plenty of beasts roaming the snowy woods, the number of injured knights being brought into the healer’s tent had noticeably decreased. Most days now brought only a few with minor wounds or fatigue, nothing compared to the constant stream of bloodied soldiers he had been tending before.

Because of that, Soren finally had time for himself.

When his shift ended, he slipped back into his own tent, exhaling deeply as the flap closed behind him these past few days. The cold air inside nipped at his cheeks, but it felt almost comforting after hours spent around the heat of lamps and bodies. He tugged off his gloves and sat on his small cot, letting his shoulders relax.

It was then that he remembered the letter tucked carefully into his inner coat pocket since morning, the one he hadn’t had the chance to read.

Elias’ letter.

Soren pulled it out gently, running his thumb along the edge before unfolding it. The handwriting was immediately familiar as if Elias had written it while talking out loud, thoughts spilling faster than the pen could follow.

Then, Soren felt a faint warmth in his chest as he began to read.

Dear Soren,

’How are you? Are you doing well? Are you eating well? I hope you won’t push yourself too hard and that you take a breather whenever you can. I know you don’t usually let other people’s discouraging words get to you, but I also know you’re still affected by them, even if you pretend not to be. Because of that, please always remember that I’m here as your friend, always by your side. Please take care of yourself.’

Soren paused for a moment, staring at the words. Elias was always like this. Always seeing through him no matter how much he hid behind a calm smile.

The corners of Soren’s lips lifted slightly before he continued.

’Anyway, I hope you have someone there to rely on and share your burden. I really wish I could come with you, you know. I miss you so much, but don’t worry about me. I’m doing fine here, and I promise I’m not letting them get on top of me.’

A quiet breath escaped Soren, half relief and ache. He could imagine Elias stubbornly puffing his cheeks, insisting he wasn’t being bullied, even though he clearly was.

’Some of the people here are kind and treat me well, while some are... bad. But we can’t really avoid that, can we? And, let me tell you this! I’m actually doing some works in the slums and sometimes visit an orphanage. It was really fulfilling! Anyway, I’m still doing my hobby with the flowers and it’s really refreshing. How about you? I hope you can send me a reply, though. Take care always!

Your friend, Elias.’

When he reached the end, Soren let the letter slowly lower onto his lap. Then the tent had grown quiet around him that the only sound was the distant howl of wind sweeping across the northern plains.

He also felt a tight, warm sensation in his chest that time.

He missed Elias.

More than he’d allowed himself to admit.

Gently, Soren refolded the letter, smoothing the creases with careful fingers, and tucked it safely back into his inner coat as if it were something fragile. His expression softened, and for the first time that day, he allowed himself a small, genuine smile.

"...I’ll send a reply soon," he murmured under his breath.

The cold felt a little less sharp after that.

After reading Elias’ letter, Soren folded it carefully and tucked it away before heading back to work as usual. The rest of the afternoon carried its familiar rhythm such as checking bandages, organizing herbs, and speaking casually with the other healers and nurses who had gradually warmed up to him.

Everyone except the noble healers, of course, who still carried that thin, sharp hostility in their eyes whenever he passed by. Soren never engaged to them proactively and he simply pretended not to notice.

"Anyway, are you going to see His Grace now?" one of the nurses asked, nudging him lightly with her elbow as they cleared the tent. With no wounded knights at the moment, the space felt strangely open, quiet except for the soft clinking of tools being cleaned.

"Uhm, yes. I was told to see His Grace after lunch," Soren replied as he crouched down to pick up the used bandages scattered on the ground, with his gloves rustling with each movement.

The other nurse on the other hand leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Right, I heard none of the n–noble healers managed to ease His Grace’s stomachache. What do you think happened?" She glanced around nervously, especially toward the third nurse who was organizing the trash bin.

The nurse sorting the garbage chimed in with a sigh. "Well, I heard they’re still investigating it." She paused, then suddenly perked up as another thought hit her. "Oh! By the way, Soren, have you talked to Sir Davenmore? I m-mean, one of the twins?" She shuffled the trash aside and turned toward him fully. "I heard it was him who actually carried you back to your tent. A knight mentioned it during rounds. Just gossip, but... still."

Soren blinked, momentarily thrown off. "Well... I haven’t yet. I’m not even sure if it was the young Lord. Are they sure about it?"

The two nurses exchanged a look before both shrugged.

"We’re not sure," the first nurse admitted. "But one of the knights even say that he really did saw him."

Soren lowered his gaze again to the bandages in his hands, not sure how to feel about that. He didn’t recall much from that day because he was drunk and someone like a noble twin Davenmore carrying him?

It felt unlikely.

’So... I didn’t sleepwalk? But one of the twins? Which one? As far as I know, both of them are hostile toward me. They won’t even accept my healing because I’m a commoner. So, what are they talking about? I really doubt it. I should just ask Kent, Louie, or Justin. It’s probably one of them instead.’ Soren mulled over the thought, brows slightly furrowed.

But the way the nurses watched him made warmth crawl up his neck despite the cold northern air.

"...I see," he murmured, forcing his focus back to his work even as his heart gave one confused, quiet thump.

"Either way," the nurse said lightly, linking arms with her friend, "you should go. His Grace is waiting."

And with that, all eyes subtly lingered on Soren as he straightened up and whether from curiosity, amusement, or concern, he couldn’t tell. But he exhaled, brushed off his gloves, and prepared himself to meet the Duke named Alaric.

Unfortunately, when Soren reached the location he had been summoned to, the sight that greeted him made his breath hitch.

Inside the secluded tent lay a man sprawled on the ground, unconscious and drenched in blood. Crimson pooled beneath his head, still seeping from a deep wound, and both of his hands remained pinned to the floor which each are pierced through with a knife.

His skin was pale, lips barely parted along with the rise and fall of his chest so faint it was almost impossible to see.

Across from the dying man stood Alaric, Cael, and the twins—Lyric and Sylas who are watching with the ease of men discussing the weather rather than observing someone on the brink of death.

"Greetings, Your Majesty, Your Highness, and young lords..." Soren murmured, gripping his satchel tightly as he bowed. The nobles on the other hand only smirked while being unfazed, as if the bleeding body before them was nothing more than an inconvenience.

"Hmm. You’re late. But it doesn’t matter. Just heal him," Alaric ordered, voice cold and flat. His eyes slid to Soren with even more indifference than usual, as though he were addressing a servant rather than the healer he himself had summoned.

"B-but I was told that it’s ab—"

"Do I have to repeat myself, or what?" Alaric cut in sharply, stepping toward Soren with slow, deliberate strides.

When he stopped in front of him, he looked down as if he were deciding whether or not Soren was worth killing on the spot. Behind him, Cael and the twins simply watched, their expressions entertained as though the scene unfolding was nothing more than a show.

’What is this...? So, it’s not about the stomachache?’ Soren wondered silently, forcing his breath to steady as he lowered his gaze.

"I understand, Your Grace. I crossed the line just now. Please forgive me."

"Right. Then know your place," Alaric replied without hesitation. "And keep your questions to yourself unless you want to get beaten to death."

With that, he turned his back on Soren, returning to the chairs where Cael and the twins were waiting while each of them is still observing Soren with varying degrees of curiosity and amusement.

When Soren knelt beside the wounded man and placed his hand over the blood-soaked skin to begin healing, he froze. His breath caught in his throat, eyes widening in pure shock as the familiar features came into focus beneath all the blood and dirt.

"W–wait... what...?" His voice cracked almost silently.

Then, he leaned in closer, heart pounding, and the realization hit him like a punch.

"W-what are you doing here?" Soren whispered, barely able to form the words.