Vance
He was born screaming.
Not in pain—in fury. The midwife said he came into the world with fists clenched and lungs blazing, as if already angry at having to share it. His father took one look at the red-faced, squalling infant and laughed.
"That one's got fire in him."
He had no idea.
---
Vance's family was old nobility, but the kind of old that meant more pride than money. Their estate had crumbling walls and empty coffers and a name that still opened doors, if you pushed hard enough.
His father spent his days drinking and remembering better times. His mother spent hers pretending everything was fine. His older brother—the heir—spent his preparing to inherit nothing.
Vance spent his fighting.
Not strategically. Not wisely. Just... fighting. Anyone who looked at him wrong. Anyone who insulted his family's name. Anyone who needed taking down a peg. He lost as often as he won, but he never stopped throwing himself into the fray.
"Boy's got no sense," the servants whispered.
He heard them. Didn't care.
---
At fourteen, he nearly killed someone.
A merchant's son, three years older, who'd made a joke about Vance's mother. Vance didn't remember the joke—just the red haze, the satisfying crunch of bone, the merchant's son crumpling at his feet.
The boy lived. Barely.
Vance's father beat him for it—not for the violence, but for the scandal. "You'll ruin us! You'll destroy everything our family has left!"
Vance stared at him with those blazing eyes. "What family? What left? There's nothing here but ghosts and debts."
He left that night. Didn't look back.
---
Mercenary work suited him.
The pay was terrible. The danger was constant. The company was rough. But no one cared about his family name. No one expected him to be anything other than what he was: a fighter with more courage than sense.
He made friends. Lost friends. Made enemies. Killed enemies. Lived hard and fast and loud, filling the emptiness with noise.
It worked. For a while.
---
He met Dorn in a tavern brawl.
The giant was on the opposite side—some dispute about payment, about territory, about nothing that mattered. Vance saw him across the room, a mountain of a man holding off three attackers with casual ease.
Interesting.
They fought for three minutes. Vance landed exactly one blow—a lucky shot that bounced off Dorn's shoulder. Dorn didn't land any, but only because Vance was too fast to catch.
When the real target—the slaver they'd both been after—tried to slip away mid-fight, they stopped instinctively. Looked at each other. Nodded.
Together, they caught him.
"That was fun," Vance said, breathing hard. "We should do it again."
Dorn considered. "You fight good."
"You block good. We're a team."
Dorn nodded. And just like that, Vance had his first real friend.
---
The Academy was a mistake.
He knew it going in. His family's name got him in, but nothing else—no training, no connections, no real chance. He was outclassed, outmatched, out-everything.
Then he met Roy.
The plant mage. The support class. The guy who talked to trees and made the impossible look easy. Vance should have dismissed him—should have done exactly what he did at first, mocking and sneering and pretending superiority.
But Roy didn't react. Didn't flinch. Just looked at him with those strange, patient eyes and said, "Truce. For the dungeon."
Something in Vance's chest shifted.
---
Party 147 changed him.
Not overnight. Not dramatically. Just... slowly. Day by day, fight by fight, near-death experience by near-death experience.
Dorn taught him that strength wasn't just about hitting hard. Mira taught him that silence could be louder than screams. Elara taught him that healing took more courage than hurting. And Roy—Roy taught him that being the center of attention wasn't the same as being the center of anything that mattered.
"You don't have to be the hero," Roy said once, after a battle Vance had nearly gotten them all killed in. "You just have to be here. With us. That's enough."
Vance didn't know how to respond to that. So he just nodded and tried to be better.
---
The battle in the northern passes nearly killed him.
He fought for hours—maybe days; time blurred. His sword arm screamed. His flames flickered. His vision swam with exhaustion. But every time he thought about falling, about giving up, about letting the darkness take him, he looked at his party.
Dorn, bleeding but unbroken, shield still raised. Mira, a shadow among shadows, never stopping. Elara, healing wounds faster than they could be made. Roy, at the center of it all, feeding the garden, holding the line.
And the refugees behind them. The people who'd trusted them. The lives they'd sworn to protect.
Vance kept fighting.
---
Twenty years later, he was a hero.
Not the kind in stories—the real kind. The kind who'd earned every scar, every memory, every ghost. His family's name meant something again, but not because of old pride or crumbling estates. Because of him.
He visited Dorn's mountain often, sitting beneath the memorial, talking to the giant who'd been his first real friend.
"You were right, you know," he said one day, years after Dorn's passing. "We were a good team. The best."
The wind whispered through the carving. Vance liked to think it was Dorn, answering.
---
He died in a stupid fight.
A raid, a skirmish, nothing special. Some bandits who'd targeted a village under his protection. He could have let others handle it. Should have let others handle it.
But that wasn't who he was.
The blade took him in the side, slipped between his ribs. He fell, gasping, watching the sky spin above him. In his last moments, he thought of his party—his family.
Roy's quiet strength. Dorn's steady presence. Mira's silent watch. Elara's gentle hands.
Tell them I fought well, he thought to whoever might be listening. Tell them I was here. With them. That was enough.
The sky went dark.
The flame finally rested.
---
Bonus Chapter End
Author's Note: This chapter explores Vance's journey from arrogant noble to devoted friend, highlighting his growth, his bonds with his party, and the quiet dignity of a life lived in service of others.