Alaric Davenmore hadn't always been the cold, merciless man he was now. Once, he was kind and full of warmth just like his parents, the former Duke and Duchess of Davenmore. They were good people who treated even their servants as part of the family. When the twins, Lyric and Sylas, were born, the household overflowed with joy and harmony, but everything changed on the day of Alaric's debut into society.
That night, tragedy struck when a trusted servant, someone closer to their parents than to their own children betrayed them. The servant, their beloved nanny and a commoner treated as a friend, stabbed the duke and duchess to death. Together with a few conspirators, she stole family jewels and set the estate on fire. The flames nearly consumed the twins as well, and though the three brothers survived, their lives were never the same again.
At just thirteen, Alaric inherited the title of duke. He took on the role of protector, raising his brothers with strict discipline and teaching them never to trust commoners again. To him, kindness toward those of lower birth had led to his family's destruction.
The bitterness only deepened months later when during a beast stampede, their healer who was five years older than Alaric and like an older brother to all three was killed when a commoner sacrificed him to save himself.
Losing another person, they cared about to betrayal sealed their hatred.
From that moment on, the Davenmore brothers shut their hearts completely. Whether good or bad, kind or cruel, to them all commoners were the same. They are untrustworthy, selfish, and dangerous.
"O-oh, sorry. Are you alright?" the prince asked quickly, his hands still resting on Soren's hips to steady him when Soren had almost fallen when they accidentally bumped into each other outside the tent.
"My apologies, Your Highness. Were you perhaps looking for His Grace?" Soren asked, stepping back awkwardly with his cheeks slightly flushed. Cael, the young prince, shook his head, his throat tightening as he gulped nervously and glanced around the tent.
"Oh, no… I was actually looking for you," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Me?" Soren blinked in surprise before quickly composing himself. "Are you injured, Your Highness? If so, please have a seat. I'll heal your wound right away. Don't worry, no physical contact is needed. I just need to place my palm above the injured area."
Cael nodded and followed his lead. "Alright. Then, please take care of me," he said softly as he removed his outer robe, revealing a shallow cut on his hand, still streaked with a bit of dried blood.
Soren extended his palm over the wound, focusing his mana until a faint golden glow radiated from his hand with the air around them warming slightly. As Soren concentrated, his expression softened as calm and sincere. He didn't even notice how Cael's gaze lingered on him, the prince's eyes tracing the gentle lines of his face and the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed out a quiet chant.
When the light faded so Cael quickly looked away, pretending to adjust his sleeve.
"You're healed now, Your Highness," Soren said with a polite bow. "If you're ever hurt again, please don't hesitate to call for me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll take my leave. Have a wonderful day, Your Highness."
As he turned to go, Cael's eyes followed him briefly, an unreadable expression crossing his face, something between admiration and curiosity before he finally whispered to himself. "What a shame. I wanted to talk to him more. Well, there's still a next time so let's not rush things…"
After lunch, Soren returned to his duties, moving quietly through the rows of injured soldiers. The air was heavy with the scent of blood and herbs, and the groans of the wounded filled the medical tent. As he lifted a cloth to check another patient, his movements faltered as those three men were back.
The same ones who had almost assaulted him a week ago.
This time, they looked far worse than before. Their armor was torn, their faces bloodied and bruised, and one of them had a deep gash running down his arm. Soren froze for a heartbeat, unsure whether it was pity or anger that tightened his chest.
He had also heard from others that Captain Theron had punished them after that incident, locking them in the camp prison for hours. Soren never knew how the captain found out, nor did he try to ask. He simply chose to forget.
At least, he tried to.
Now, seeing them again in such a state, he swallowed hard and forced himself to move. "Lie still," he said quietly, kneeling beside them. "You're injured badly."
One of the men glanced at him, shame flickering in his eyes before he looked away and none of them spoke.
Soren's hands glowed faintly as he began healing their wounds, the familiar warmth of mana spreading through the air but he didn't say anything else, not even when one of them winced or muttered in pain.
To Soren, this wasn't forgiveness.
It was simply what he was there to do. Heal the wounded, no matter who they were but deep down, as he worked in silence, he couldn't help thinking how cruelly fate had brought them back to him like this.
When night fell, Soren returned to the small room assigned to him at the front of the healer's chamber, a space meant for the camp's healers. Being the only male healer, he was given the corner room, cramped and bare. A single window let in the moonlight, barely illuminating the simple bed on the floor, a tiny table, and a lone chair. The mattress was thin and uncomfortable, more suited for a servant than anyone of his skill but Soren didn't have the energy to argue.
This wasn't new to him.
Life had never offered comfort or luxury, and he had long since learned to endure. Only when Elias was around had he felt even a flicker of happiness. Though not bound by blood, Elias shared his burdens, making him feel less alone in a world that constantly looked down on him.
Now, standing on his own, Soren accepted the quiet truth that he would do what he had to do, no matter how small or ungrateful the task, and bear whatever hardships came with it.
His life had always been like this.
And, somehow, he knew—
it always would be.