The Substitute Healer (BL)-Chapter 29: “Hngh… mm…”

"It’ll be a little boring if this one dies, okay?" Cael’s voice had been light, almost indulgent. "Let me have my fun for now, will you, Duke? I’ll hand him to you once I grow tired of him. You know me, I get bored of things quickly..."

Recalling that, Lyric wished the words would fade but they didn’t.

So, he paced restlessly inside his own tent with fingers pressed to his chin and boots sinking softly into the worn ground as his thoughts circled back to the same image over and over again.

Cael, standing amidst blood and broken screams, utterly untouched by the violence around him. And then without urgency and care, he lifts Soren’s unconscious body from the torture tent as if he were nothing more than an object temporarily misplaced.

Then Lyric swallowed, his chest tightening.

Soren’s body had gone frighteningly limp after being strangled enough that it had been easy to assume that he was already dead. Dark bruises had begun to stain his throat with his fingers curling weakly even as consciousness slipped away and remembering it now stirred a dull ache inside Lyric, something close to sympathy, though he knew sympathy alone had never saved anyone here.

Especially not those who caught the prince’s eye.

Cael’s interest was not mercy.

Despite what happened, he understood why Alaric had been so merciless that day.

Why his brother had turned away while Soren was dragged to the brink, why he hadn’t intervened when Soren was being strangled to death because Soren was the reason the attack had happened, the single thread that unraveled everything.

The place where their former healer had died was meant to remain untouched, preserved in silence and memory, something sacred amid all the bloodshed.

For Alaric, that place wasn’t merely ground stained with death. It was grief and loss. And grief, when pressed too hard, became cruelty.

Lyric knew his brother hadn’t truly meant to condemn Soren. He had simply been caught in a moment where the past roared louder than reason. And Lyric, standing there, had felt unbearably small. Because even as his heart twisted at the sight of Soren’s broken body, even as something inside him recoiled...

He couldn’t bring himself to disagree with Alaric either.

What hurt the most wasn’t the violence itself but the certainty beneath it all.

That Soren’s suffering hadn’t ended when Cael intervened. It had merely changed hands. And now, somewhere beyond the canvas walls of the tent, Soren’s life hung suspended not because anyone wished to save it, but because someone had decided it was still useful.

Or entertaining.

Thinking that, Lyric closed his eyes with a quiet weight settling in his chest.

Sometimes, he thought, surviving was the cruelest fate of all.

Meanwhile, Soren lay within Cael’s territory once more and this time not on bloodied ground, but upon the prince’s own bed.

The contrast was cruel.

This time, his body had been washed clean already of dried blood and sweat and every trace of the torture tent stripped away as if it had never happened. Fresh clothes clung loosely to him, fabric far finer than anything he had worn before that even Cael’s personal fur blanket had been draped over Soren’s unconscious form, tucked close as though to ward off an invisible chill.

No one else was ever allowed here.

On the other hand, Cael just stood at the bedside, arms loosely crossed with gaze lingering with unhidden interest. Then his eyes traced the rise and fall of Soren’s chest as well as the faint discoloration still blooming around his throat.

Proof of how close he had come to slipping away. Proof, too, of how long he had endured without begging.

"How interesting," Cael murmured with smirk curling slowly into his face. "You could’ve asked for help."

He then reached out, tapping the back of his fingers lightly against Soren’s cheek like an idle, possessive gesture, as if confirming that what lay before him was real and still breathing. His touch lingered longer than necessary then when there’s a strand of Soren’s red hair fell messily across his face, Cael brushed it aside without thinking, fingers moving with an intimacy that surprised even himself.

"But instead," he continued softly, "you chose to endure. Even while losing your breath."

His smirk sharpened.

"To cling to consciousness like that... on the brink of death." Cael leaned closer, lowering his voice as though Soren could hear him anyway. "You really are something."

There was a pause. "I wonder how much more you’ll endure for me."

The thought pleased him.

"I think I’ll keep you," Cael added lightly, almost fondly. "At least for now."

His gaze then darkened with satisfaction settling in his chest as he straightened while Soren remained unconscious, unaware that survival had brought him somewhere far more dangerous than the torture tent ever had.

Because this time, he hadn’t been spared.

He had been chosen.

"Hngh... mm..."

Soren stirred weakly with his head rolling from side to side that the pillow was sinking beneath him with each restless movement. His brows knit together as if caught between waking and slipping back under, unaware of where he was or whose space he occupied. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

Seeing that, Cael sat down on the edge of the bed making the mattress dipped. When Soren shifted again, Cael reached out, fingers closing around his chin to still him. The grip wasn’t rough, but it was firm. He then tilted Soren’s face upward, forcing him into the light,

and into his view.

"So restless," Cael murmured, amusement curling at the edges of his voice.

Then he leaned closer, close enough to feel Soren’s breath ghost against his lips with a smirk tugged at his mouth as he lowered his head and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss against Soren’s mouth, lingering just long enough to make it unmistakable, then just long enough more to make it his.

Luckily, Soren didn’t respond.

Or just he couldn’t.

After a minute, the prince pulled back slightly, eyes dark with interest and thumb still resting beneath Soren’s jaw as if unwilling to let go.

’I wonder what face you’ll make if you wake up and realize this happened,’ he thought, clearly pleased by the idea. ’If you knew how close you are to me now.’

He released Soren at last, though his gaze remained fixed on him, possessive and intent.

"Sleep," Cael said softly, as if it were an order.

And Soren, still unconscious, did—

unaware that even in rest, he was no longer untouched.

As the hours passed, whispers began to travel through the encampment.

What started as hushed murmurs among the servants soon reached the knights, spreading far enough that even Kent, Louie, and Justin, who were still engaged in the subjugation, had heard of it. The story was always the same that the prince had taken an unusual fondness toward Soren.

That for the past few days, Cael’s attention had lingered on him. And not only that, there were also rumors involving Lyric, his name spoken alongside Soren’s as if their association alone meant something.

Gossip, once loosed, grew teeth.

Many of the knights who had once crossed paths with Soren felt a quiet relief upon hearing it. Even Melissa, Hector, and others who owed their lives to his steady hands and unwavering devotion to healing found themselves grateful while some are even hopeful.

If the prince truly favored him, then perhaps Soren would finally be safe. Perhaps the man who had pulled so many of them back from the brink of death would not be so easily discarded himself.

But they did not understand that favor was not the same as protection.

As the rumors spread, another change took place. Eyes and thoughts began to linger on Soren with renewed interest. Knights, nurses, healers, and even nobles started to take note of his name, his skills, and his sudden relevance that made the conversations shift.

Calculations were made quietly behind polite smiles.

Some even wondered how close he truly was to the prince while others thought of what leverage such a connection might bring.

And in the space between gratitude and ambition, Soren ceased to be merely a healer.

He became someone worth possessing.

"Hah, goodness. How shameless of him," Arctelle scoffed, planting his boot against the bed where a wounded knight lay. "Did that commoner really think a noble especially His Highness would ever waste a single ounce of genuine care on him?"

The tent was tense where Arctelle and Irlian loomed over two grimacing knights while two nurses shuffled nervously, clutching herbs and bandages as if afraid to breathe too loudly.

"Delusional, all of it," Irlian added, his voice dripping with contempt. "Anyone who spreads the rumor that His Highness or even Young Lord Davenmore favors that wretch is an utter fool. Absolute idiots."

Caelius, on the other side of the camp, busied himself elsewhere, leaving the nurses to hesitate in their duties. One, her hands trembling, finally spoke. "E-excuse me, sir... could y-you... heal his wound this time?"

Arctelle’s frown deepened as he glared at the knight, rubbing his own shoulder with exaggerated annoyance. "Hah! Do you think my mana grows on trees? Look around! There are herbs, bandages, everything you need is right here! Use it, and stop whining like a child. His wound isn’t even that serious."

The nurse’s lips quivered as she pressed on, desperate. "B-but... it’s already beginning to get infected, sir..."

Arctelle’s irritation snapped into fury so he stepped forward, slapping her hand away with a sharp crack. "Insolent! How dare you talk back to me! Do you think you know better than me?"

Irlian smirked, crossing his arms, clearly enjoying the nurse’s frozen terror. "Honestly, you lot are hopeless," he drawled. "It’s amusing watching you pretend you matter here. You’re lucky we even glance at your mistakes."

The wounded knights exchanged tense, silent looks, too afraid to speak, as the nurses shrank back when someone entered that made Arctelle and Irlian looked at each other in surprised.

"What’s happening here?"