The knock on Soren’s bedroom door came just after the sun had risen. The sound wasn’t loud, but it seemed almost methodic. He looked at the door with tired and half-closed eyes, before he was met with another knock, firmer this time.

  Soren stirred slightly, ribs protesting the movement as light filtered in through the thin curtains. The celebration from the night before was gone, yet he knew tonight would be no different. Though for now, Celta had settled into its morning rhythm of distant cart wheels, muted conversations drifting from the street below, and the faint clang of a smith beginning work.

  Another knock, firmer than the last, though still not loud.

  He pushed himself upright slowly, jaw tightening as something pulled sharply along his side. The bandages around his ribs were stiff from dried blood, and his body still released a warm soreness every time he moved a muscle. He was alone in the house, the others having left earlier that morning.

  Jorge had mentioned something about visiting some old warrior friends with Faris and getting breakfast, while Elise talked about a bookstore near the eastern market, and Remi decided to join her.

  He hadn’t really paid much attention, considering the events of the day before. He rolled his shoulders back lazily before crossing the room and opening the door softly.

  A young woman stood there with a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. Her brown hair was pulled loosely back, though some strands had fallen and framed her face. Darker brown eyes assessed him immediately.

  Soren stared back at her with tired eyes and messy hair.

  “You’re upright,” she said, eyes taking in his form.

  Her voice was even, almost academic, but there was a gentleness to her tone.

  “I can stand, I’m not crippled or anything,” Soren replied.

  She stepped past him without waiting for his permission, a faint scent of dried herbs following her inside. She looked young, perhaps a few years older than him, but there was something steadier in her posture, in the way she held herself. A composure that didn’t match her age.

  “I’m Lysa Wilson,” she added, setting her satchel gently on the small desk near the window. “I was assigned to monitor your recovery, Soren Taylor.”

  He closed the door with a soft click, before turning to face her.

  “Remi already treated me, and a few other healers came by yesterday after the fight.”

  “Yes. They performed basic healing magic in order to stabilize your body.” She knelt and began unpacking items, including glass vials, folded linen, and a small ceramic jar. “That does not undo fractured cartilage.”

  He watched her as she handled the items, choosing not to respond. She was probably right, after all.

  She gestured toward the bed. “Sit.”

  He looked at her for a moment before nodding, lowering himself onto the bed carefully.

  She stepped between his knees and began unwrapping the bandages around his torso without asking. Her fingers were warm, and the way she worked was precise. The air in front of him shimmered slightly as pale green light gathered faintly around her palms.

  “You stayed conscious through direct rib impacts,” she said softly, studying the bruising that had deepened overnight into violent shades of violet and black. “And a cranial strike.”

  “I’ve taken worse.”

  “That is quite unlikely.”

  Her palm pressed gently into his side, the green-coloured mana absorbing into his skin. Heat followed, but it felt focused, seeping inward in deliberate pulses.

  He didn’t flinch as she continued her work. She noticed, her eyes having flickered to his face every now and then to note any reaction he may have had.

  “You should have blacked out at least once during your duel.”

  “I didn’t, and I couldn’t afford to either…”

  “Your conviction does not make it any less strange.”

  A silence formed between them after that, broken only by the distant call of vendors opening stalls. She rewrapped the bandages, tighter than they had been previously.

  “I need to replenish a few supplies,” she said finally, standing up. “Your internal bleeding hasn’t worsened, but you’ll need to take care of yourself with a few remedies during the next few days, and I don’t have everything I need to leave you with.”

  He looked up at her in slight surprise. “You… want me to come with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That seems unnecessary, I wouldn’t really be able to help you in any way.”

  “You walking is necessary. Your circulation in your lower body is poor, and if you collapse in an alley, I’d prefer to be present.”

  There was no sarcasm in her tone, which caused him to look at her with a blank stare, a hint of disbelief in his eyes.

  He exhaled quietly and stood up as she left the room, getting dressed as he muttered to himself softly.

  —

  Celta in the morning was softer than its nights, though the city was still alive as ever.

  Stalls lined down the streets in uneven rows, baskets of fruits and bread filled the air with alluring and warm scents, while musicians tuned their instruments lazily on corners. Children laughed as they darted between adults, weaving through legs without apology.

  Soren walked carefully alongside Lysa, holding his side every now and then when a sharp pain would seep from his ribs. Every step he took reminded him of the brutal beating he had endured the previous night.

  A few heads turned to face him as they made their way through the streets, though not many.

  A butcher paused mid-cut, squinting at him like he was on the edge of recognition. Two apprentice swordsmen whispered to each other as they passed the pair.

  “That’s him.”

  “The one from yesterday?”

  Soren didn’t care enough to look at them. Lysa did, however. She glanced at them as they passed, then looked at Soren. There was a slight limp in his step, almost unnoticeable, but not to her.

  “You’re favoring your right side,” she said softly.

  “It hurts less.”

  “That will create an imbalance.”

  He didn’t respond to her, trying instead to correct his stride.

  They reached a wooden stall lined with dried herbs and glass jars on shelves and tables. Lysa spoke quietly with the vendor, selecting bundles and pointing to specific jars with familiarity. Soren waited off to the side, leaning against a wall to ease some of the strain.

  A cart wheel struck a stone too hard nearby, and a sharp crack echoed in the surrounding area.

  His body reacted before he could think, shoulders tensing as his hand tightened slightly.

  Lysa’s eyes shifted to him, concern flashing across her features for a moment.

  He relaxed a second later, relaxing his fist as if nothing had happened.

  She said nothing as she turned back to face the stall, though the brief moment hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  They resumed walking not long after as Lysa carried her satchel, which was now filled with herbs and mixtures.

  Near the center of the district, a little girl tripped and scraped her knee against the ground. She burst into startled tears as she held her leg, swaying softly.

  Soren’s eyes widened, but before he had fully processed it, Lysa was already kneeling at the girl’s side.

  “It’s alright,” she murmured softly, brushing the dirt gently from the shallow cut.

  Warm green light gathered in her palm once again, as the torn skin pulled together gradually, redness fading slowly until it was completely gone, as if it had never been.

  The girl sniffled as she wiped her tears away, then blinked at her knee in confusion.

  “It’s gone.”

  Lysa smiled faintly as she fixed a strand of the little girl’s hair. “Try not to race in the street next time, especially when it’s as crowded as it is this morning.”

  She stood as the child ran back toward her mother, who offered a smile and a small wave of thanks..

  Soren had not moved. His gaze lingered on her hands, which had just healed the little girl’s wound with little to no effort.

  “You’re staring at me,” she said curiously, adjusting the satchel strap on her shoulder.

  “You acted so quickly, to help that girl. You make it look so easy.”

  “I appreciate that but believe me, it’s not nearly as easy to perform, let alone hold, as it seems.”

  He nodded once, trying to make sense of her words. He didn’t really understand mana that well, or at all. Someone like Remi would be able to grasp these concepts a lot easier than he would.

  She led them up toward the outer wall eventually, where fewer people wandered. The climb up the steps was slow, and he masked the strain as best he could.

  A soft breeze moved across the higher levels of the city, carrying the scent of the sea faintly in the distance. Celta stretched below them in layered rooftops, banners fluttering lazily, and smoke curling upward from morning hearths.

  He rested his arms against the stone railing as his eyes roamed over the capital.

  “When you fought Brek… you weren’t fighting to win,” she said.

  Her words weren’t accusatory, rather they came across as a simple observation.

  He shook his head lightly, eyes never leaving the city as he spoke. “Of course I was fighting to win.”

  “No.”

  He turned his head to look at her, but her eyes were steady. “You fought to avoid losing. Those two are not the same.”

  Silence lingered between them before he let out a sigh.

  “I couldn’t lose,” he replied simply.

  That was true. But not completely.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She studied him a moment longer, as if trying to determine where the rest of the answer lived, or what it may contain.

  “You, a boy, endured damage most people would retreat from.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, it did.”

  She paused for a moment, turning to look at the city as well.

  “If the cost had been higher,” she continued quietly, “would that have changed anything?”

  The wind brushed past them again, blowing strands of their hair softly.

  His jaw tightened slightly at her question..

  No.

  It would not have changed anything.

  Yet something inside him resisted the shape of the question, or perhaps it was the question itself. It was a flicker, small and unwelcome.

  He suppressed it, shaking his head again.

  “No,” he said, with certainty in his tone.

  She watched his face carefully, studying his expression.

  He believed it. Or at least he wanted to.

  Her gaze moved back toward the city below.

  “That,” she said softly, almost to herself, “is what concerns me.”

  They stood there a moment longer before turning back toward the district, the sounds of the still-waking city growing beneath them.

  They descended from the wall slowly, while the streets had grown warmer now, the late morning sun stretching across stone and tile. Vendors called out toward passersby louder, and the smell of baked bread from earlier had thickened in the air. Somewhere nearby, wind chimes clinked gently against one another as they made their way through the city once again.

  Soren walked a step behind Lysa, quieter than before. They turned a corner that led to a narrower lane lined with small storefronts, wooden signs hanging overhead.

  One sign caught his eye immediately.

  “Genuine Eirlandian Tea – Imported Fresh.”

  He stopped walking.

  It wasn’t dramatic, or sudden enough for anyone else to notice. But his foot had stalled mid-step, his breath thinning as his eyes widened.

  “This… this is—”

  “You’re limping more,” Lysa said lightly, glancing back at him.

  Then she saw his face. “Are you alright?”

  He blinked once, twice, before nodding.

  “…Yeah.”

  His voice came out steadier than he felt. She looked at him for a second, following his gaze to the sign.

  “You want to sit here?” she asked, curiosity in her tone.

  He nodded, following her inside.

  The shop was small and warm, filled with wooden tables and shelves of ceramic jars labeled in careful handwriting. Steam drifted lazily from behind the counter where a young elf waitress moved between kettles.

  They walked over to a table by the window, a bell chiming softly as the door shut behind them.

  The waitress came over swiftly and introduced herself, before asking them for their orders.

  “Two cups of the Eirlandian blend,” Lysa said without hesitation.

  Soren glanced at her in surprise.

  “You’ve had it before?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Eirlandian tea is truly remarkable. I find it much better than the tea that’s served in most establishments in the city.”

  He nodded, and a silence settled between them as they waited. Outside, a grey cat leapt lightly onto the windowsill and sat there, tail wrapped around its paws, staring in like it owned the place.

  The waitress returned not long after with two steaming cups and set them down gently.

  “Enjoy,” she said with a shy smile.

  “Thank you,” Lysa replied, offering her a smile.

  They both lifted their cups.

  Soren inhaled first.

  The scent hit him like something physical. It was floral. It was warm.

  It was… familiar.

  His chest tightened briefly as he stared at the cup. They sipped from their tea, and Soren felt an inexplicable warmth flow into his body. It seemed to soothe his pain more than any remedy or magic had done.

  It tasted like home.

  He set the cup down carefully, as Lysa watched him over the rim of hers.

  “How are you doing, Soren?” she asked.

  He frowned slightly at her unexpected question.

  “You already assessed me earlier.”

  “I’m not talking about physically.”

  He stilled, looking at her in confusion.

  She lowered her cup. “Part of my assignment is ensuring your body recovers, that much is correct. The other part is ensuring your mind remains intact.”

  “It’s only been one fight so far,” he said lightly. “There’s no reason to worry.”

  “That doesn’t seem to be the case.”

  He frowned again faintly. “What does that mean?”

  She studied him quietly before answering.

  “For someone barely a young man, you seem quite distant.”

  Her fingers traced the rim of her cup idly. “As though you are not fully present at times.”

  He looked down at the table, staring at his tea.

  “…I have a few other things on my mind.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  She let her answer linger before continuing

  “Why did you hesitate earlier, outside this shop?”

  His fingers tightened slightly around the ceramic, before looking toward the window. The cat hopped down and slipped through the slightly opened window, landing softly on the interior sill before curling up.

  He watched it for a moment as it bathed in the morning sun. The waitress passed by again, glancing at them curiously before returning to the counter.

  Soren drew in a slow breath.

  Then he decided.

  “I’m from Eirland.”

  Lysa’s eyes widened faintly, clearly not expecting the sudden revelation.

  “You are?”

  He nodded, still looking at his tea.

  “Then why are you in Lavon? Is it simply for the tournament, or is there more?”

  He didn’t speak, the silence stretching long enough that it caused her to shift slightly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “If I’ve upset you, you don’t have to—”

  “It’s not that.”

  He shook his head lightly.

  “I wouldn’t be here by choice.”

  Her expression softened as she looked at him.

  “Then why are you here, Soren?”

  He still stared at the tea in his cup, swirling it gently.

  “Something bad happened to my family.”

  The words felt strange leaving his mouth, as if they weren’t meant to be shared.

  “I don’t fully understand it, either. One moment I was home, after it happened. The next… I woke up here. In Lavon.”

  Her brows drew together, confusion flickering in her eyes.

  “I don’t know how it happened… I really don’t,” he continued quietly. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  He swallowed heavily before the next words left his mouth.

  “But my mother is still there.”

  His voice thinned involuntarily.

  “She’s in danger. If she’s even alive at all.”

  Silence took control over the table. Outside, the street noise carried on, indifferent.

  Lysa’s eyes softened.

  “I understand now,” she said gently.

  He looked up at her, caught off guard slightly as he met her gaze.

  “I understand why you fought the way you did.”

  His jaw tightened without meaning to.

  “This… is your way of getting home, isn’t it?”

  He went very still for a moment, looking somewhere past her.

  Then nodded once.

  “…Yeah.”

  She leaned back slightly, a hint of understanding crossing her face.

  “That’s a noble cause,” she said sincerely. “Truly. The bond between a son and his mother is a precious thing.”

  His eyes widened a fraction, before nodding again half-heartedly as he lowered his head.

  “…Yeah,” he echoed.

  She watched him for another moment, looking at him with soft yet calculating eyes.

  “Soren, if this is truly your intention,” she continued carefully, “then why do you carry so much self-loathing?”

  His eyes widened fully at that moment.

  “What…?”

  She looked down at the table briefly before meeting his gaze again.

  “I don’t know what happened, and forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn. But I can tell by your character… you are not someone who would willingly abandon your family.”

  Her voice was soft, steady. “You should not blame yourself.”

  He went quiet. Then his fists clenched beneath the table.

  “You’re wrong.”

  The words came soft yet strained, like fury and sorrow held back.

  She blinked slightly.

  “You’re wrong,” he repeated, his voice sharper now.

  He leaned forward slightly, voice cracking despite the growing aggression in it.

  “I’m the reason my father is dead. I’m the reason she isn’t safe.”

  His breathing grew rapidly, uneven.

  “My strength wasn’t enough.”

  The words tumbled out faster now, like water that had burst through a barely held together dam.

  “She’s a kind woman. She doesn’t deserve what happened to us.”

  His eyes burned with hate.

  “If I could switch places with her—” His voice broke. “Or with my father— I would.”

  The last word shattered in his throat, almost inaudible.

  He covered his face with his hands.

  His shoulders trembled.

  “Too slow.”

  “Too late.”

  “Weak.”

  A soft touch pressed against his hand.

  He froze, his body tensing completely.

  “Please,” Lysa said gently. “Look at me.”

  He hesitated for a long while, his breath trembling. Then slowly, he lowered his hands, as a tear ran down his cheek.

  She reached forward and wiped it away with her thumb. His breath caught in his chest as she smiled at him.

  She was warm.

  Radiant.

  “I am so sorry that happened to you,” she said softly. “It is far too much for someone your age.”

  Her hands moved to cradle his face gently.

  “If I had a son even half as determined and loving as you… I would be the proudest mother in the world.”

  More tears fell freely now, his barriers collapsing quietly.

  “So I believe,” she continued, voice unwavering, “that your mother is proud of you. Even now.”

  The silence that followed felt sacred.

  The elf waitress approached their table slowly, hesitating.

  “Is… everything alright?”

  Lysa glanced at her and nodded gently. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Soren wiped his eyes quickly, nodding as well. He reached into his pocket with some difficulty, his ribs still aching. He placed two gold coins on the table.

  Then another five.

  The waitress’s eyes widened as she glanced . “I—I can’t accept this.”

  “Please,” he said quietly.

  She hesitated, then nodded gratefully. “Thank you, kind sir! Please come back soon!”

  He managed a small smile. “I will.”

  Lysa watched the exchange, something soft flickering in her expression.

  —

  They walked back toward the eastern district, the sun having climbed higher now. The city felt brighter than usual.

  Outside the house, she offered him the satchel filled with folded bandages, herbs, and small jars.

  “You can apply these yourself between visits. As long as you follow my instructions, you should be okay.”

  He took it from her and nodded, holding it loosely at his side.

  There was a pause that lasted a few moments.

  “I need to report back to Lady Serana,” she added, almost hesitantly.

  He nodded again.

  “Thank you, Soren. I enjoyed our day together,” she said, her voice warm as she offered a faint smile.

  She turned around to leave, taking a few steps down the path leading away from the porch.

  “Lysa.”

  She stopped mid-stride and looked back. He crossed the distance in two steps, and wrapped his arms around her tightly.

  “Thank you,” he whispered into her shoulder. “Thank you so much.”

  She stiffened in surprise, her eyes widening. He was taller, and her head pressed lightly against his chest.

  Then she relaxed, wrapping her arms around him gently.

  “It was my pleasure.”

  They pulled apart, before she looked at him carefully.

  “I have always been good at judging character,” she said softly. “So please, Soren… stay the kind young man you truly are. Under everything. Despite everything.”

  His breath caught, before he clenched his fists and gave her a steady nod.

  “I promise,” he said, his voice genuine and filled with an uncharacteristic warmth.

  She smiled, and glanced towards the nearby buildings.

  “I’ll be returning to the Valenne estate now. I hope to see you do great things in the future, Soren Taylor.”

  He nodded again.

  She walked down the path, and turned around a last time, waving lightly.

  He hesitated for a second, then waved back, before she disappeared around the corner.

  He stood there in the sunlight for a long moment, looking at the satchel in his hand then at the spot where she stood moments ago.

  He let out a sigh, long and relieved, before he went inside.

  The house was quiet. He placed the satchel on a table and sat on the couch, staring at nothing.

  Later, the door burst open, Jorge carrying roasted skewers, Elise with a small stack of books, Faris holding a carved wooden trinket, and Remi with a bundle of wrapped pastries.

  They stopped when they saw him on the couch, offering a few curious looks amongst themselves and to him.

  “How was your day?” Remi asked in a warm tone, as she placed her pastries down.

  Soren glanced at them. He hesitated.

  Then, he smiled softly.

  “It was great.”

  And for once…

  It wasn’t entirely a lie.