The Substitute Healer (BL)-Chapter 63: “you’re Soren, huh?

While Gideon remained in the Northern fortress while waiting for Lyric who had been tasked with escorting him to the encampment and Arctelle, on the other hand was already on his way back home.

He sat stiffly inside the carriage with anger simmering beneath his carefully proper appearance.

Though he was dressed as a noble should be, imperial knights rode on either side along with their silent presence making it clear he was not being escorted out of respect.

To them, he was a problem to be contained.

Realizing his place, Arctelle gnawed at his nails with his thoughts spiraling along each passing moment.

"How did everything go so wrong?" he muttered darkly. "That rat should have died when I had the chance. Why does he always survive? Why does he keep standing in my way?"

As the carriage rolled closer to his estate, a heavy unease settled in his chest.

Azric Solven, his father would be waiting and already deciding on his punishment and that thought made Arctelle’s stomach twist along with his anger mixing with dread as the wheels carried him toward whatever judgment awaited him.

Azric, despite being nothing more than a baron, was endlessly ambitious.

He would bow, flatter, and even grovel before higher nobles if it meant gaining favor or advantage. Pride was something his father willingly set aside whenever it served his interests but that was precisely where Arctelle differed from him.

Arctelle’s principles had never aligned with such humiliation.

In his own mind, he stood above others.

Even as the heir of a mere baronial house, he had never truly bowed to anyone.

He did not need to.

When Azric relied on submission, Arctelle relied on charm while carefully chosen words, calculated smiles, and an instinct for manipulation. That was how he survived in noble society thrived.

Time and again, he had twisted situations to his advantage while earning sympathy from other nobles even when he was at fault.

Lies came easily to him, and he told them with such confidence that no one ever questioned his version of events. And even on the rare occasions when suspicion arose, he was never the one to face the consequences.

There was always a scapegoat.

Someone else to blame and someone else to fall.

That was how things had always been.

Or at least, that was how things were supposed to be.

Arctelle had known he was a prodigy in healing magic ever since he was a child.

His talent revealed itself early, sharp and undeniable, and it was the very reason Azric became relentlessly strict with him while demanding perfection not only in his studies, but in his etiquette, his posture, and the way he carried himself before others.

From a young age, Arctelle was recognized as a gifted healer, praised for both his ability and his natural charm.

Nobles and commoners alike spoke of him with admiration, and their attention only reinforced what he already believed about himself.

Seeing the way people looked at him and the way they listened when he spoke, Arctelle came to a simple conclusion that he was meant to stand above others.

From then on, he made it his goal to outshine everyone around him, no matter the cost.

Yet for all his talent and recognition, there was one thing he and his family sorely lacked, status and wealth. Praise alone could not elevate a baron’s house while knowledge and ability, no matter how exceptional, meant little without money and power to back them.

He understood it clearly then.

Being a prodigy was not enough.

If he truly wanted to rise, he could not aim for fame alone. He had to secure wealth as well and with it, the influence that would finally place him where he believed he belonged.

Unfortunately, Soren entered the picture.

Arctelle knew it almost immediately that Soren’s ability alone was enough to eclipse his own.

The realization struck him like a trap snapping shut while leaving him cornered with no path to escape the truth. No matter how hard Arctelle pushed himself, Soren’s raw talent threatened to place him permanently in the shadows.

But what irritated Arctelle even more was not just Soren’s skill, but the way he carried himself.

Soren was timid, almost pathetic in Arctelle’s eyes while seemingly unaware of his own brilliance. He bowed his head, spoke softly, and acted as though his talent were nothing special at all.

To Arctelle, it felt like an insult.

Here was someone who possessed everything Arctelle had fought and schemed for, yet treated it carelessly, as if it held no value. While Arctelle clawed his way toward the top with effort and ambition, Soren stood there effortlessly, dragging him down simply by existing.

As if that were not enough, Arctelle was forced to endure something even more humiliating.

As a noble by birth, hearing the knights around the encampment openly compare him to Soren was unbearable. Each careless remark and whispered conversation made it painfully clear that he was slowly losing his light.

To Arctelle, the comparison itself was an insult.

A noble being weighed against a mere commoner should never have happened in the first place. And yet, every time gossip reached his ears, it was Soren’s abilities that were praised more highly than his own.

Even the Davenmores were slowly opening up to Soren, welcoming him in ways Arctelle had never managed to achieve despite all his effort.

Doors that remained firmly closed to him seemed to open naturally for Soren, as though he belonged there from the start.

What stung the most was that Arctelle found himself doing the unthinkable like lowering his head and acting humble while forcing polite smiles just to earn a glance from Lyric or Sylas. The very things he despised, the things his father would do without shame, had become necessary for him to survive.

At some moments.

And with every bow, his resentment only grew deeper.

"Die. Die. Die. Why won’t he fucking die?" Arctelle muttered under his breath with the words slipping out sharper than he intended.

Unfortunately, they did not go unheard. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

One of the knights riding alongside the carriage cast a brief glance toward the curtained window with his expression tightening as he continued guiding his horse forward.

"Hey, why don’t we take a break first?"

At the sound of the voice, Arctelle finally stopped chewing at his nails.

He then turned sharply toward the source with narrowing eyes. The speaker was the knight riding on the left side of the carriage with tone casual despite the tension hanging in the air.

Only then did Arctelle fully register the situation he was in.

A knight rode on each side of the carriage, positioned deliberately left and right while watching him closely, ready to act should he attempt anything foolish.

"Oh, that’s fine by me. We can just resume later on," another knight replied easily.

Then laughter followed, completely out of place that the sound carried through the cold air, and with each chuckle, Arctelle’s irritation sharpened into something uglier.

’These damn imperial dogs,’ he seethed. ’How dare they laugh while I’m reduced to this? Shameless. They’re nothing but lapdogs of the imperial family, yet they act as if the world bends around them.’

The anger became unbearable.

With a sudden motion, Arctelle slammed the carriage door open and stepped out. "You!" he shouted, voice cutting through the laughter. "How dare you keep resting and delay my arrival to the capital? Do you even know who I am?"

He pointed wildly with finger jabbing at every imperial knight within sight.

Despite the fine winter robes he wore, Arctelle looked far from dignified.

His face was pale, his eyes sharp and restless, his appearance gaunt and disheveled from stress and rage.

For a brief moment, the knights hesitated while feeling uncertain whether they should bow to a noble or laugh at a man unraveling before them.

But they chose laughter anyway.

The knights’ laughter then came with mocking glances and quiet snickers. Their eyes roamed over him and enjoying his obvious anger.

"Young master, don’t be like that," one said smoothly. "The horses are tired and cold so we need to let them rest."

Hearing that, some knights laughed outright while others just smirked silently, staring at him from head to toe.

"How dare you! Do you think I don’t know you’re mocking me?" Arctelle shouted, his fury rising.

The knight only shrugged and looked away, ignoring him completely. "If that’s how you see it, young master... what can we do about it?"

Arctelle’s chest tightened.

They weren’t just defying him but daring him while treating his authority like a joke. And worst of all, they didn’t even care if he noticed.

Meanwhile, back at the encampment, Gideon finally arrived.

He then moved straight through the bustling camp, eyes searching until they landed on Soren.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Soren in a sudden, deliberate embrace.

"So," Gideon said with voice low and teasing, "you’re Soren, huh? You’re quite a pretty young man, aren’t you?"

His gaze lingered on Soren, sharp and assessing, as if testing him. Around them, the camp continued its activity, but it felt distant as everything else faded in the intensity of the moment.