The Empire of Elarion trembled under a curse for thousands of years. In the northern forests, the wraithfang beasts howled through the mist with their serrated fangs glinting in the dim moonlight. Rivers ran black where blight serpents writhed beneath poisoned currents, and somewhere beyond the mountains, the frost revenants stalked the frozen plains with their hollow eyes burning with hatred.
It was a world in which death was patient, and monsters were born from the sins of men.
Among humanity, healers were rarer still.
True healers, those blessed by Mirath, were like a candle flickering against a storm. Their power was not simply a talent but was a gift of life itself, granted only to those whose mana burned bright enough to resist Khaeren's corruption. Most could barely mend a wound without exhausting themselves and only a handful could heal without faltering. Few were born with high mana capable of halting the creeping rot that tainted the lands.
Soren had lived twenty-two years without ever feeling the blessing that was said to be his. The power had been there since birth, latent, potentbut it had never felt like a gift. He knew too well that such abilities were never free, and that power always demanded a price.
For him, that price had been written in sorrow.
Healers were rare in the Empire of Elarion, and those born with high mana were rarer still. The few who bore the divine spark could mend flesh, soothe disease, even push back the creeping touch of Khaeren's curse. Yet Soren had only discovered his ability in the most tragic of ways:
the moment his mother had died.
He was too late.
The memory haunted him still. Her final breath, the stillness of her chest, and the bitter, crushing realization that he had been given the ability to heal others, but not in time to save the one person he loved most.
That was the curse of his life.
To hold a power that could save others, yet be powerless when it mattered most. Every wound he had healed since had carried a shadow of that day, every life he saved a reminder of the one he couldn't.
Soren had learned to live with it, though he carried the sorrow quietly, like a stone in his chest. The world knew him as a healer, a rare one at that, but inside, he was still the boy who had failed his mother. A boy who understood more than most that the divine spark came with responsibility, and that sometimes even the greatest power was powerless against fate.
After the meeting concluded, it was decided that a banquet would be held the following day as a warm, boisterous welcome for the military unit. The hall buzzed with excitement with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine mingling with the faint tang of steel from the soldiers' armor.
Candles also flickered along the long tables, casting dancing shadows across faces eager to celebrate, if only briefly.
Everyone was free to drink to their heart's content, for the time for indulgence was fleeting.
After the eventful day, the soldiers of Duke Alaric's unit, his twin brothers, and even the youngest prince would finally march to face the beasts that had been corralled, or at least held at bay, by the imperial army. The air of triumph was tempered with an unspoken tension as beyond the borders, monsters stirred with their shadows creeping across forests, rivers, and frozen wastelands.
Glasses clinked, laughter rang out, and wine flowed freely, but for those who knew the cost of battle, the celebration was thin comfort. Soren, sitting quietly at the edge of the hall, observed the revelry with detached curiosity.
He had healed countless soldiers before, patched wounds, mended broken limbs but he could not heal the fear that danced in their eyes, nor the dread that whispered of what awaited beyond the walls of the empire.
Even as the music swelled and voices cheered, Soren felt the weight of his own limitations pressing down on him. The banquet was a momentary shield, a brief pause before the storm, and he knew that soon, all pretenses of safety would fall away.
And when that moment came, no wine, no laughter, no celebratory cheer would protect them from the creatures that awaited in the shadows.
Also, as someone who hadn't been to a fancy banquet before, Soren spent his time alone on the terrace with a glass of wine when the door suddenly opened. When he turned around, it was the Duke of Davenmore.
"What are you doing here?" Alaric asked plainly, looking at Soren, who didn't even have a coat on despite how cold the weather was.
"Greetings, Your Grace. I'm not a fan of gatherings like this, that's why I stayed here."
"Hah, of course. How would you even know a banquet as fancy as this? You're just a commoner…" the Duke smirked but Soren didn't even feel bothered, as this was what nobles usually said to him whenever they had the chance. Some nobles even went so far as to humiliate him by putting their hands on him.
Lyric, Sylas, and Cael, on the other hand, spent the evening in their own ways, indulging in the freedoms that a banquet offered.
Lyric had disappeared into one of the private chambers with the muffled sounds of laughter and soft moans drifting from behind the heavy wooden door. He was lost in the moment, tangled with a woman who had clearly caught his eye, paying no attention to the world beyond their small, candlelit sanctuary.
For once, Lyric allowed himself to forget the looming threat of monsters and the strict discipline of his Duke brother, Alaric and his clingy twin, Sylas.
Meanwhile, Sylas moved like a predator among the nobles, weaving through the banquet hall with a smooth charm. His words were flirtatious, teasing, and calculated, drawing laughter and attention without ever appearing arrogant. Women leaned closer, captivated, while men watched cautiously, either impressed or wary of his easy confidence.
Even amid the revelry, Sylas's eyes were sharp, scanning, always aware of every movement in the hall.
Cael, in contrast, seemed to attract chaos wherever he went. At his table, he was surrounded by admirers of both genders, all eager for his attention. He laughed freely, drank deeply, and leaned back as though the grand hall existed solely for his amusement. Yet beneath his carefree demeanor, there was an alertness when he noticed every whisper, lingering gaze and every subtle nuance.
Even while playing, Cael's awareness of danger never faltered.
Though the Northern Palace Fortress was built to impress and intimidate, with towering walls and flickering torchlight casting long shadows across stone corridors, the three of them transformed the banquet into their own stage.
Charm, cunning, and allure moved through the hall in waves, drawing attention and asserting their presence. Outside the warmth and laughter, the cold northern wind whispered reminders of the coming battle. For all their games and indulgence, they knew that soon, the fortress would be no sanctuary at all.
In the meantime, a knight was stripped naked by his fellow knights at the outer camp known as Frostwatch Outpost. His body was bent, his pants down, and he was being pushed into the table that held the documents.
"Hic! Ugh!" He begged, "Hngh, p-please stop," but all he could hear was ridicule and laughter as the guy thrusted inside of him.
"Ugh, hngh! So good. It feels so good." The man thrusting his cock in and out of the knight's entrance lifted his head and groaned in pleasure. He even cum inside of him, which caused the man on the table to tremble and shudder as he felt the cum drip out of his entrance.
Even despite his will, his feet shook with an ecstasy that made him feel more humiliated than he already knew.
After having their way with him, the men left him there inside as they marched back to the front line.
"Damn it. I hope they die in there, assholes," he mumbled as he wiped himself clean and stepped out of the tent, limping.