The Substitute Healer (BL) Chapter 21: “Why would I take the side of someone so lowly?”

"Hah, as soone of lowly birth, staying here is too fancy for you. Why did His Grace even allow you to be here? I really can’t understand His Grace sotis."

The disdain in the man’s voice was loud enough for half the room to hear. The pestle in a nearby apprentice’s hand even paused mid-grind but Elias didn’t flinch.

Instead, he tilted his head with that easy, outgoing smile he wore like armor. "Right... who can even understand soone as noble as His Grace?" he mused lightly, then his smile sharpened. "Oh my, are you perhaps questioning His Grace’s decision of letting stay here?"

A few nearby servants choked on their own breaths. Soone dropped a jar with the soft clink echoed through the dical room.

Unlike Soren who would simply stay put and shut down the argunt because he found bickering a waste of ti, Elias was not a pushover. If he was in the right, he would fight back and burn the ground beneath anyone who tried to humiliate him.

The servant carrying a bowl of herbs flinched, glancing around nervously. Whispers were already spreading like wildfire across the room. Gathered healers, apprentices, and assistants exchanged looks, half-amused while half are anticipating disaster.

They were inside the main dical chamber, the place where first-aid dicines were mixed, herbs were dried and stored, poultices prepared, and the sharp scent of crushed mint and bitter wormwood clung to the air. Rows of shelves towered above them, stacked with jars of powders and bundles of dried roots.

The room was always busy, always noisy... but right now, the atmosphere tightened, attention magnetized to the confrontation.

The noble-born healer clicked his tongue, irritated that Elias wasn’t cowering like expected. "Don’t twist my words," he hissed under his breath. But his volu betrayed him especially with everyone who could hear. "I’m simply saying t-that this place is ant for proper healers."

Elias raised a brow, bright and mocking. "Then you should take it up with His Grace. After all, he is the one who deed fit to stay here."

Then there cos more whispers.

Soone muttered, "Did he just...?"

Another answered, "He did. He absolutely did."

The noble healer’s face reddened in a shade that rivaled ripe berries.

Then, Elias leaned closer just a fraction, voice dropping to a pleasant lilt that did nothing to hide the sting. "Unless... you think you know better than His Grace?"

The man stiffened, caught between pride and the very real fear of being accused of insubordination. Elias didn’t move, simply watched him with bright, unwavering eyes, a person with the confidence and sharpness of soone who refused to live bowed.

The servant with the bowl of herbs nearly trembled, clearly wanting to slip away but trapped by the unfolding tension.

And still, Elias smiled.

Because he knew he had won the mont the man opened his mouth.

All his life, mockery had been a constant companion. Elias had never lived in a place where he wasn’t sneered at or looked down upon, so handling sothing like this... well, it was as easy as slicing a cake. Insults slid off him the way water slipped off oil.

He had learned long ago that reacting too much only fed their amusent.

But this ti was different.

The man he provoked wasn’t an ordinary apprentice healer or another insecure commoner trying to feel superior. He was a noble, one of diocre standing, yes, but still a noble. And nobles, even the lowest of them, wielded power sharp enough to wound soone like Elias. If that man wanted revenge, Elias knew he wouldn’t hesitate to strike where it hurt the most.

"Are you sure that’s a wise move? You clearly agitated him this ti..." a voice piped up beside him.

Elias glanced sideways.

There, a woman was rinsing bundles of herbs in the sink next to where he stood. Steam from the warm water misted the edges of her sleeves, and she peeked at him with concern knitted between her brows.

Elias continued organizing the boxes of dried herbs stacked near the basin such as feverleaf, frostvine and powdered thistle root. "I know it wasn’t a wise move," he admitted with a small, sheepish smile, "but surely it’s enough for him not to bother for a while."

He turned toward her more fully, then let his eyes wander around the room where other healers bent over mortars, apprentices sorting bandages and assistants carrying jars. The chatter had returned, but the atmosphere remained cautious and watchful as well.

"I don’t know about that," the woman murmured, lowering her voice. "Yes, he was clearly targeting you for personal reasons, but at the end of the day, you really should watch your temper. He’s still a noble, after all."

She paused as if realizing she might be overstepping, then bit her lip. "Oh, sorry if I’m being nosy. I just... I’m worried about you."

Elias blinked, caught off guard.

"You know," she continued, rinsing another set of herbs, "this place wasn’t as lively as it is now before you ca. So, I was quite pleased when you started working here. And not just , almost all of us think the sa way." Her lips curved softly. "Especially after knowing that a close friend of yours even had the chance to be brought by His Grace to the northern border."

Soren.

Elias stilled for a heartbeat, fingers resting on a wooden lid with a quiet pride ward his chest, even though Soren himself would have scoffed at the idea.

"You might not know it," she said in a lowered tone, "but only those with exceptional skills get chosen to accompany His Grace. So, knowing that soone close to you was selected? For us commoners, it made us... proud."

Elias felt his throat tighten in surprise. He had expected gossip, envy, maybe even resentnt but pride?

She looked at him more earnestly now. "But still, next ti, please don’t let your temper get the best of you, okay? We don’t want to see you get into trouble."

Elias exhaled, shoulders dropping as the sharp edges inside him softened. "Alright," he whispered, offering a small smile that was much more genuine this ti. "I’ll be careful."

The woman nodded approvingly, returning to her herbs.

And for the first ti in a long while, Elias realized that even in places full of scorn and hierarchy... there were still people who quietly stood on his side.

When noon arrived, the dical hall buzzed with movent as several apprentices and commoner healers were summoned. Elias wiped his hands on a clean cloth before joining the group being briefed.

They were inford that the day after tomorrow, all summoned healers would accompany a delegation from the temple for their monthly rounds of service in several outlying areas. It was an honor where one usually reserved for those considered reliable and skilled enough to represent the healers’ division externally.

Elias blinked when his na was ntioned.

He never expected that.

Then, there’s a ripple of murmurs passed among the gathered workers, so surprised while others pleased. A few looked smug clearly predicting trouble for Elias later but most simply looked supportive.

For Elias, it felt like a quiet breath of validation.

He then bowed in acknowledgnt before returning to his tasks, unaware of how drastically his path was about to twist.

’Soren, I must inform you about this. I must send you a letter as soon as possible. I hope you’re doing well over there and are eating and resting well. I’m so excited to share this news with you.’ Elias was grinning from ear to ear.

anwhile, back on the northern border—

The rumbling of wheels, the creaking of wood, and the distant wintery howl of the wind filled the carriage as it made its slow journey back to their camp.

"How are you feeling, brother?" Lyric asked first, his gaze flicking toward Alaric.

"I’m fine. Don’t worry about ," Alaric replied, voice cold and clipped. His eyes remained fixed outside the window, legs crossed elegantly and posture relaxed yet strained, as if even sitting hurt his pride.

Lyric and Sylas shared a glance. Then their eyes shifted to Cael, who sat beside Alaric, leaning back with an unreadable expression.

Outside, riding ahead on horseback, was Soren as he had been kicked out earlier, punished for disobeying orders. Snow clung to the edges of his coat, and every gallop sent up flakes like scattered shards of light.

"Right, that commoner healed you after all," Sylas muttered under his breath.

Alaric’s sharp glare shot toward him instantly while Sylas shut his mouth and looked away.

"Don’t even think of talking about that rat," Alaric snapped. "How dare he disobey my order."

Cael stretched a little. "But if he didn’t, you’d surely be bedridden now, Duke."

Alaric slowly turned his head toward him. "Are you perhaps taking his side, Your Highness?"

"Of course not," Cael smirked, gaze narrowing with mock amusent. "Why would I take the side of soone so lowly?"

"That’s what I thought." Alaric’s jaw clenched, fingers drumming once against his arm. "He’s skilled, I’ll admit that. But he’s bold. Too bold. He clearly doesn’t know his place."

Then, Cael let out a quiet hum, eyes fluttering shut. "Are you perhaps... worried that he might get hurt instead?"

"Hah." Alaric scoffed. "I wouldn’t care if soone like him died. Worried? How laughable."

He almost mumbled the last part, but Cael still heard it. And for a brief mont, Cael’s smirk faded because he rembered very clearly how, during the battle, Soren ran to Alaric first.

Not to him.

And it irritated him more than he cared to admit.

"Right," Cael said, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the thought. "Let’s stop talking about nonsense now. Our visit here still doesn’t sit right with . Many knew this day was important to us. So how could such a coincidence happen?"

He leaned back, crossing his arms, eyes shutting as though in rest.

Lyric straightened. "We should investigate this matter, Your Highness. And brother—ah, Your Grace."

Sylas nodded silently beside him.

"I agree," Alaric said, eyes narrowing at the mory. "Start the investigation as soon as we arrive."

His teeth gritted, his anger simring beneath his calm facade. The fact that beasts appeared today of all days during their sacred visit, their ceremonial arrival... was an insult.

And Alaric Davenmore did not tolerate insults.

Back in the tent,

"My Lord, they’re heading back..." a figure reported.