"Next! Co on, keep the line moving, don’t be shy!"
Cherion’s voice cracked slightly, a sharp, authoritative ring that felt entirely too big for his lungs. He punctuated the command with a brisk clap of his hands, his sleeves rolled past his elbows to reveal forearms dusted with a fine layer of herbal powder and a suspicious splash of sothing purple. The dical tent was... a lot. Imagine stepping into a sauna that slls like your grandma’s flower shop got hit by a welding accident. Iron, lavender, mint gone rogue, and so mysterious hint of "probably dead stuff." It was the kind of sll that made you question all your life choices... and your nose.
Next to him, Reiner was basically a ninja, gliding around the tent and tossing pre-cut bandages like he’d been born to do this. No one had to ask, he just did it. anwhile, Cherion was hovering over so poor knight, poking and prodding a cut that honestly looked like soone had tried to slice bread with a hamr. Chaos everywhere, but sohow it felt... organized?
Stitch, pull, knot. Don’t use the light yet. Save it.
That was the mantra playing on a loop in his skull. While his healing power was a literal godsend, he wasn’t about to blow his entire spiritual load on a dozen cuts and bruises. Priorities, people.
He’d spent way too much ti on the "slow way", slathering weird green smush on cuts, forcing bitter magic juice down knights’ throats, and sewing them up like a dieval grandma with commitnt issues because what if, heaven forbid, a real ergency rolled through those canvas flaps and he was left running on empty? The thought made his stomach do a nervous little jig.
Naturally, because his brain refused to stay on task, his internal monologue began a very serious, very heated debate. I wonder if Zarius likes the ’ethereal saint’ look or if I should lean into this ’gritty, hardworking commoner’ vibe? He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a basin of water. It wasn’t promising. His hair had beco a sentient nest of static and humidity, and he was fairly certain he currently slled like a confusing mixture of high-end lavender and raw, unaged beef.
Very rugged. Very attractive, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow with a ssy sleeve. I’m a professional. A healer of the people. I am definitely not wondering if Zarius is currently being hit on by so frost-breathing monstrosity out there. Then again, Zarius probably didn’t need worrying about. He was probably out there looking like those ridiculously handso protagonists in the novels and manhwas Cherion used to skim, all flowing hair, glowing swords, and looking way too intense for anyone’s good.
The thought was interrupted by a roar from outside. Not a monster roar, but a human one. Cheers.
"The Duke’s back!" soone yelled.
Cherion’s heart decided to try out for the Olympic gymnastics team. He’d been staring at that tent flap for the better part of three hours, a fact he was desperately trying to hide from Reiner. In a sudden, undignified panic to look "busy," he reached for a jar of antiseptic ointnt and promptly fumbled it.
"Crap...!"
He perford a frantic, leg-tangled scramble, catching the jar inches before it hit the dirt, but losing every ounce of his remaining dignity in the process. He stood up, smoothing his tunic with trembling hands. He needed to see him. He needed to make sure Zarius was whole. Last night was... strange. He hadn’t fed the man any healing energy, yet they had fallen asleep with their fingers hopelessly tangled together like two earbuds in a pocket.
He stepped out into the cold air, his eyes searching the crowd. He found the Duke almost imdiately. Zarius was a pillar of dark steel in the center of the camp, looking every bit the god of war he was rumored to be. But he wasn’t alone.
There was a woman. A tall, terrifyingly beautiful woman with hair like a raven’s wing and a spear that looked like it could pierce the sun. She wasn’t just standing near Zarius, she was practically fused to his side, her arm hooked through his with a familiarity that scread "I belong here."
She’s tall, Cherion’s internal voice hissed, shifting into full-blown crisis mode. Why is she so tall? Is that a legal requirent in the North? Am I too short?She looks like she could crush a boulder between her thighs, and I still have to use a towel to get the grip I need to open a jar of pickles.
The annoyance hit him like soone had dumped a backpack full of bricks on his chest. He felt small. He felt like a stray cat watching a lioness reclaim her throne.
Cherion retreated back into the shade of the tent. He needed a distraction before he did sothing stupid. He grabbed the nearest patient, a young, talkative knight with a superficial scratch on his arm.
Wait... Why do I care? He shouldn’t be bothered by a tall, spear-wielding Valkyrie-god-woman hanging off Zarius’s arm. Maybe people here just lacked personal space? Maybe they all shared body heat like penguins?
"So," the knight chirped, blissfully unaware he was walking into a minefield. "Did you see her, My Lord? The one with the Duke? Absolutely divine. Her spear-work out there? They say it was like a ’dance of death’ alongside His Grace. A perfect match, really."
A dance of death? Cherion’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached. How poetic. Truly. I hope she enjoys the ’dance of the overly-tight bandage.’
He was so caught up in his dark, petty daydream that his hands began to move with a frantic rhythm.
In a fit of purely accidental-on-purpose distraction, Cherion’s fingers twitched. He gripped the linen roll and gave it a sharp, possessive yank, putting his entire weight into the final knot as if he were trying to choke a literal snake.
Thwack.
"GAH! My Lord! My arm!"
The knight let out a yelp that sounded remarkably like a stepped-on flute.
"Oh! Oh gods, I’m so sorry!" He apologized frantically, his hands hovering uselessly over the poor man’s arm.
He was still stamring apologies when the tent flap was pulled back. The sunlight flooded in, silhouetting the very man he wanted to see and the one woman he definitely didn’t. Zarius stepped inside, looking rugged and quite pleased with himself. Marielle trailed behind him like a smug, gorgeous shadow, her hand still resting on his arm.
Cherion’s personality did a complete 180-degree flip. He snapped into "Extre Professionalism." It was his final defense. He dropped into a bow so deep and formal he was essentially addressing Zarius’s mud-caked boots.
"Your Grace," he said, trying to sound fancy and in control. "I trust everything went smoothly. If you’ll excuse , I have patients who actually require my attention."
He couldn’t even glance again. Not while that woman was hugging Zarius’s arm like a monkey on a branch. It was indecent. It was rude. Didn’t she know he had a fiancé? Did Zarius just not ntion it?
Marielle circled him then, her boots clicking softly on the hard-packed earth. She moved like a wolf eyeing a particularly confused rabbit.
"So," she drawled, her voice a husky rasp that set Cherion’s nerves on edge. "This is the little thing you’ve been hiding, Duke Valtrane? He’s a bit... delicate, isn’t he? Quite dainty. Does he always talk to your toes, or is he just shy?"
Cherion’s ego took the hit and imdiately declared war. He straightened up, his eyes sparking with a fire that usually only appeared when soone insulted his ethics. He looked at Zarius, then at the woman, his gaze lingering on the arm she was still clutching.
Unbelievable. The nerve. The utter lack of manners.
He was ready. He had a whole comntary prepared. He was going to put her in her place.
But instead of speaking, Cherion reached out. Before his brain could veto the move, his hands shot out and pried Zarius’s arm from Marielle’s grip like so overdramatic referee breaking up a fight nobody asked him to stop
Marielle froze, a sharp, dangerous smile spreading across her lips. Cherion could see the anger marks, those little popping veins, appearing on her forehead. But he didn’t back down. He stood his ground, chin tilted high, ignoring the way his heart was thundering against his ribs.
I’m the fiancé, he thought fiercely. There’s no way anyone’s gonna treat like this.
The silence in the tent was heavy enough to suffocate a horse. Zarius looked between them, his expression a confusing mix of bewildernt and sothing that looked suspiciously like a smirk.
Finally, the woman broke the silence. She let out a short, sharp laugh that echoed off the canvas walls.
"Well," she said, looking at Zarius. "It seems your fiancé is quite the jealous type, Brother."
Cherion froze. The world stopped spinning.
"...Brother?"
The word hung in the air like a death sentence. Cherion’s hand, which was still gripping Marielle’s arm, suddenly felt very heavy and very, very stupid.
"Wait," Cherion whispered, his face turning a shade of white that shouldn’t be biologically possible. "YOU HAVE A SISTER?!"
User Comments
0 comments from readers