It had been a month since Soren was assigned to the northern border for the beast subjugation mission. Aside from one near-death encounter that still lingered at the back of his mind, his days ended the same way they began quietly, exhaustingly, and without praise.
From morning until night, he worked in the healer's quarters, tending to the wounded who arrived almost every hour. Deep gashes from beasts, frostbitten limbs and fractured bones were treated by Soren with steady hands and quiet focus. But while his work was constant, so was the treatment he received.
He endured the cold indifference of the other healers, who saw him as nothing more than a bothersome commoner in their domain. Even some knights sneered at the idea of receiving care from someone of his status, turning their heads away or outright refusing treatment until another healer became available.
The bullying was subtle at times such as ignored greetings and missing supplies he clearly placed moments ago but just as often it was not subtle at all. Orders barked at him as if he were a servant, mockery thrown at his back when they believed he was out of hearing range.
Soren simply kept his head down and worked.
Yet, not every day was miserable. Little by little, he began forming acquaintances.
Unexpected ones.
They are those knights who once glared at him with hostility found themselves returning to his cot more and more. They saw the sincerity in his voice, the precision in his touch, the way his healing felt warmer and more comforting than the others. Even those who once refused to be treated by him eventually returned with awkward coughs and muttered excuses with their pride too weak to outweigh the pain of their injuries.
Soon, they sought him out willingly.
They still acted gruff, pretending they came to him only because everyone else was busy, but Soren noticed the change. The softened gazes, the mumbled thanks, the way they trusted him to patch them up after a tough mission.
His days were still hard.
He was still bullied.
He was still overlooked.
But at least now, in the harsh cold of the northern border, a few people had begun to see him for who he truly was.
"Please rest for at least three days, and make sure to take the medicine I gave you three times a day," Soren instructed patiently as he stepped back. "It will help you regain your strength."
The knight, already tugging his long sleeve back over his freshly healed arm, scoffed and rolled his eyes.
"Hah. Do you think I'm that stupid? You've told me that a hundred times already." Soren only offered him a faint, almost shy smile just the slightest curve of his lips.
For a moment, the knight froze, face flushing unexpectedly. He had been one of the men who openly disrespected Soren during the first few days, most memorably by showing his bulge in Soren's direction, unbothered and arrogant but ever since they knew how sincere Soren was, the knight's attitude toward him had shifted entirely.
"Right," Soren continued softly. "Anyway, if you still feel any discomfort, come back to me. My healing mends external wounds, but your inner injuries need time. Please be careful. Then… I shall take my leave." He reached toward the satchel resting on the table, but before his fingers could touch it, a hand caught his wrist gently.
"Uh… uhm…" Soren paused but he didn't react much, only lifting his eyes to meet the knight's face before glancing down at the hand holding his wrist.
"Do you need something?" he asked.
The knight flinched, almost as if burned, and quickly released him, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment.
"U-uh, I… actually have something to say." He gulped. "Please listen, because I'm only going to say it once."
Soren blinked but nodded. "Alright."
The knight inhaled, cheeks burning. "Do y-you happen to remember when we first met?"
"Of course," Soren replied without hesitation, expression unchanging. "Who could forget someone who casually showed their private part?"
The knight turned an even deeper shade of red, practically covering his face with both hands.
"Y-yeah, okay—fair. I deserved that." He groaned softly. "I just… wanted to say I'm really sorry about that. I was a fool back then. I didn't know any better and… I was too rude to you. I'm sorry."
He cleared his throat, stepping back in embarrassment.
"Well… that's it. Yeah. Then, I—I'll leave first…"
He turned as if to flee the scene entirely and mumbled a curse with shoulders tense from mortification.
After taking in the knight's awkward but sincere apology, Soren adjusted the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and quietly stepped out of the tent. The cold wind brushed against his face, but before he could take even three steps, someone blocked his way.
A tall figure in pristine robes and one of the noble healers named Arctelle. He crossed his arms, chin raised as if the mere sight of Soren offended him. "And where do you think you're going?" he demanded.
Soren halted without expression. "I was summoned by His Grace Davenmore. So, could you please stand aside?"
Arctelle scoffed loudly. "Hah. We've been working our asses off healing those wretches in the other tents while you're casually having a little date here? How shameless."
"I don't know what you're talking about, sir," Soren replied flatly.
"Oh, come on," Arctelle clicked his tongue, stepping closer. "Stop pretending to be stupid. You clearly know what I'm talking about."
Soren kept silent, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
Arctelle leaned in with a nasty smirk. "Did you really think no one would notice? Those bastards keep lining up to be healed by you of all people? Hah. Please. Who would believe it's because of skill?" He swept his gaze up and down Soren mockingly. "You're probably giving them extra services besides healing, yes?"
Hearing that, Soren stiffened that Arctelle noticed and pushed harder.
"What?" he jeered. "Did you wiggle your hips for them while you patched up their wounds? Is that how you got them all wagging their tails behind you?"
A few passing knights turned their heads, pretending not to hear but clearly listening.
"Not only are you a filthy rat from the slums, but now you're acting like a dog in heat?" Arctelle sneered, his voice rising. "Gods, you're embarrassing all of us! What if those knights end up catching diseases because they put their sticks into your oop…" He covered his mouth in fake innocence. "Oh my. Even I can't say it without gagging."
A slow, cold silence fell.
Soren didn't raise his voice, didn't lash out and didn't even frown but something in his expression shifted, barely visible like ice cracking beneath snow.
Soren had been insulted his entire life so words like Arctelle's rolled off him easily. After all, he'd heard far worse from people with far more power but still… this was below the belt, even for noble healers.
'Hmm… what am I supposed to do?Explain myself? For what? They'll never even believe me. Who would take the side of a commoner anyway?'
He exhaled quietly, wearier than upset like a sigh that came from habit rather than emotion but that single sigh seemed to ignite Arctelle's fury.
"You—!" Arctelle's face twisted. Without warning, he swung his hand and slapped Soren across the face with enough force to make him stagger back a step.
"How dare you act so bored while I'm talking to you?" Arctelle snarled, voice dripping with self-importance. "Do you even know who I am?"
Soren's cheek stung sharply, the skin burning in the icy wind though he didn't feel it. Still, he didn't lash out. He simply blinked, slowly, and turned his head back toward Arctelle, ready to give a restrained answer, but he never got the chance.
A voice cut through the tense air that's deep, steady, and undeniably authoritative.
"What's happening here?"