"Ugh, help me! My arm, my arm!" The soldier thrashed on the cot, fingers clawing at the shredded flesh where his limb barely hung by a strip of skin. Blood also soaked the blankets beneath him, pooling black-red under the dim lantern light.
"Heuk—!" A knight lurched to his side and vomited a mouthful of blood, the thick metallic stench splattering across the floor. His armor had been peeled off earlier, revealing a hole torn straight through his abdomen. From stomach to back, the wound gaped open with his organs trembling in every shallow breath.
"Damn it, my leg! Gods, my leg's gone!" Another man slammed his fist against the bedframe with his severed thigh still spurting thin streams of blood despite the tight bandages. The stump throbbed violently, bone fragments visible within the mangled muscle.
"My necklace, please!" A trembling hand reached forward with his fingertips smeared with dirt and blood. "Please, someone—my wife's necklace! I dropped it somewhere. Oh God, help me please!" His voice cracked into a sob, lips trembling and teeth chattering uncontrollably.
"My eyes! Oh God, I can't see! I can't see anymore!" A young soldier clawed at his own face, blood dripping between his fingers where his eyes once were slashed open.
Earlier, their agony had swallowed the camp with their screams echoing from every direction, tents trembling under the weight of chaos. The canvas walls had shivered with the sound of bones snapping as limbs were set, the wet squelch of infected wounds being cleaned, the frantic gasps of men clinging to life.
The scent of iron, sweat, and rotting flesh hung thick in the air, settling in Soren's lungs like poison.
But now…
After hours and hours of blood-soaked work, Soren heard something else.
A few groans softened to relieved sighs; some men lay motionless and finally sleeping after their bodies were forced closed by healing spells. Others also murmured prayers of gratitude, their voices trembling with disbelief.
And of course, the nobles who are privileged even on the edge of death complained.
"I can't believe I was healed by a commoner," one sneered despite the fresh skin stitched over what had moments ago been a mortal wound. "Disgraceful."
Their whining was pitiful but compared to the screams, compared to the blood and compared to the hell this tent had been only moments ago—
Soren found the complaints almost peaceful.
"How ungrateful," the knight with the stomach wound muttered. His newly healed skin was still raw and red, dried blood clinging to his side. Even breathing hurt, but he still glared at the two noble knights. "At least show some thanks to this young man. It's the middle of the night and no noble healer stays this late. You're alive because he decided to help."
Soren gave an awkward smile with his hands still stained with dried blood. He then glanced at the nobles, then at the three knights trying to speak up for him.
"Tsk. Fine. Thanks. Happy now?" One noble clicked his tongue and lay down, using his arms as a pillow like he owned the place. "It's your job anyway. Why make a fuss?"
The other noble didn't even speak and just quietly lay down, face stiff with pride but the common knights looked at Soren with genuine gratitude.
"Thank you so much, young man," the wounded knight said, exhaling shakily. "But… how are you still awake? It's almost two in the morning. Everyone else left hours ago."
Another knight nodded. "We heard you only arrived today. You're still working? You're really something."
"Oh, how can we repay you?" the third added. "You saved our lives."
Soren quickly shook his head. "It's my job," he said softly. "I just want to help. I can't slack off and I have to prove I'm worth being here." He smiled a little. "But thank you, truly and you're welcome."
He then stepped back after saying his piece, gathering his things.
"Please rest. I'll head to the next tent."
The lantern light flickered over his tired face as he walked away, toward more wounded waiting for him.
The next day, Soren had slept only two hours after tending to the wounded from all five tents when a knight under Alaric's command fetched him first thing after he woke inside the fifth tent.
Upon arriving at the Davenmore grand tent, its household flag fluttering proudly above, Alaric greeted him with a noticeably cold demeanor. The twins stood there, fully dressed in fur coats and black robes that complemented their black hair and piercing blue eyes. Cael, of course, was already there as well, clad in his white fur coat that matched his silver hair and striking red eyes.
Alaric, seated across from Soren with documents spread before him, had been staring at him for some time.
"Hmm… have you no sense of etiquette? How dare you look at us with such confidence without offering a proper greeting? Even a dog knows how to wag its tail first before approaching its master, yes?" Alaric's voice was cold, sharp that made Cael smirked at the remark, and the twins snickered quietly.
"O-oh, my apologies. Greetings, Your Grace, and to My Lords. Also, greetings, Your Highness." Soren immediately bowed with Cael just waved his hand dismissively, signaling that it was enough, while the twins continued their snickering. Alaric's expression remained unchanged, unreadable as ever.
"Hah, forget about it. I summoned you because there's someone that I want you to attend to. My men couldn't transport him here due to the danger. He's in shock, barely conscious, and his lower body was reportedly crushed to the bone. With your abilities, surely you can heal him, yes?"
"I will do my utmost, Your Grace," Soren replied earnestly.
"Good. Then we must depart."
'Hah… I don't really know how to tell if my body's tired or not. Sometimes my vision gets a little groggy, so maybe I am… but I have no choice in this. I'll just have to accompany them. They said it's not too far, and I'll be fine. I just need to do what I can. Besides, there will be noble healers attending to the wounded here. I don't have much to worry about…'
Soren's mind replayed these thoughts as he rode, Gaspar, the vice-captain of the Davenmore knights, holding the reins.
"Are you okay, sir? Let me know if you feel uncomfortable. Just say the word, and your wish is my command," Gaspar said cheerfully, even smiling.
Gaspar Arod bore a scar running from his left cheek down to his neck. His broad shoulders, muscular frame, and slightly tanned skin marked him as a formidable presence, yet his easygoing demeanor and warm smile made him instantly approachable. Even in a brief encounter, anyone could tell he was kind. Coming from a Baron family, he was well-born, but that never stopped him from connecting with ordinary people.
"Ah, oh no. I'm fine, sir Arod. And please, don't be too formal with me. I'm just a commoner so you can just call me Soren," he said, turning his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Gaspar.
"Alright, understood. Then please, call me Gaspar. I want you to feel comfortable. Sure, my family's noble, but I'm closer to common folk than you might think. My family's a Baron family, so really, the only difference is… well, blah blah blah…" Gaspar rambled on, clearly enjoying the conversation.
Soren smiled faintly, listening to Gaspar's easy chatter making the rhythm of the ride making everything feel manageable. He truly believed it would be alright—
until…
He was now lying on the ground with his spine broken, the world spinning violently around him after
he falls from the cliff.