Chapter 27: A Study in Northern Anatomy

The morning hit Cherion like a blow.

Snap.

The velvet curtains were yanked aside with such unnecessary violence that the rings shrieked against the metal rod.

"Rise and shine, Sir Cherion. The sun has been up for nearly an hour."

Soren’s voice was like a fresh apple and just as tart. Cherion groaned into the depths of his pillow, his hair sticking out in every conceivable direction. He looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backward, and frankly, he felt worse.

"Can I... just... sleep for, like, two more hours?" Cherion mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Soren raised an eyebrow. "Please rise, My Lord. I shall prepare your bath." Without another word, he gave Cherion a pointed look and started to walk away.

Cherion groaned so loudly it sounded like a wounded beast. He slumped back against the mattress, flopping into the exact wrong angle, hair sticking up like he’d wrestled a small porcupine. Ugh. Why is it morning already? he thought. I swear I just closed my eyes, and now it’s somehow... still early.

He buried his face in the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the world would magically stop existing. Nope. Soren’s footsteps echoed faintly down there, like he was both daring Cherion to protest and fully confident he wouldn’t.

His brain was a thick soup of fuzzy library memories, the book’s smell, the twisted letters, and the lingering warmth of a large hand on his waist.

Gentleman. The word floated through his mind as he blinked away the crust of sleep. Zarius had actually walked him back. No carrying him like a sack of potatoes or bride, thank God. Just a normal walk beside him in the dark hallways.

Breakfast was the same. As Cherion sat alone again at the dining table, methodically moving his spoon, his mind began to sift through the data he’d gathered so far.

The basics were finally clicking. Magic expressed itself through the Veins, White, Grey, and Black, set at birth. Those whose borned with White Vein, his category, usually ended up as healers, herbalists, or minor mages who could make a scratch vanish if you gave them enough time.

But Cherion knew better. He wasn’t just a "scratches and bruises" kind of healer. According to the original "author" of this twisted story, his ability was rare so he was sure he could do much more than that. But because it drew on the user’s own energy, overdoing it led to what people called mana depletion.

I need to practice, he mused, tapping his spoon against the rim of his bowl.

So, after breakfast, following the distant clash-clang of steel against steel, Cherion wandered passed by the kitchens and the stables, his feet tracing the sound until he reached the edge of the great training grounds.

Cherion paused. He tilted his head, letting the thought roll around. Yes. Yes, that could actually work. Maybe. Hopefully. If he did it just right... no, no, it would work. He had to make it work.

He rubbed his hands together like a kid who’d just found the perfect loophole in the rules of a game. Okay, Cherion, don’t screw this up.

Cherion’s steps were light, almost buoyant, as he walked again. He felt the kind of grin creeping onto his face that only came with the thrill of an idea that might actually work. His fingers twitched, ready to orchestrate something brilliant.

But then... he stopped dead in his tracks.

The smile didn’t just fade. It fell off completely, along with every ounce of his carefully curated confidence.

It was suddenly hot. Not just "oh, the sun is out" hot, but a shimmering wall of heat that seemed to defy the Northern climate.

Well... the cause?

The cause was currently swinging a sword while glistening with sweat.

Cherion’s breath hitched. A good portion of the Valtrane soldiers had apparently decided that shirts were an unnecessary hindrance to their morning drills. Dozens of men, broad-shouldered, scarred, and built with the kind of rugged, functional muscle that only comes from surviving a literal frozen hell, were sparring in the center of the ring.

The steam rose off their skin in thick plumes, mingling with the air. The scars on their backs told stories of beast-hunts and border wars, and the way those muscles moved with every strike was... well, it was a lot for a humble normal boy like him to take in at once. Even the ones who had kept their shirts on were filling them out in ways that felt borderline illegal.

Ulala, Cherion thought, his eyes widening. The North really doesn’t skip leg day. Or arm day. Or any day.

"I’m a doctor," he whispered to himself, trying to regain his professional composure. "This isn’t me checking them out. This is... research. Anatomy. Yes, I’m studying..."

He took a step forward. Oh, nice shoulders. Very... healthy. And wow, those muscles... are positively impressive from a purely medical standpoint. He gulped, his throat suddenly dry.

Cherion was so captivated by the "clinical study" of the man’s lower back that he completely failed to notice a massive shadow stretched across the stone, swallowing Cherion’s smaller frame.

"Do you like what you see?"

"Who wouldn’t?" Cherion answered spontaneously, his brain still stuck on the sword-swinging soldier’s biceps.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Cherion’s soul nearly left his body. He froze, his eyes bugging out as the words he’d just uttered echoed in his own ears. Slowly, he turned his head.

Zarius was standing there. His arms were folded across his broad chest, his dark cloak billowing slightly in the wind. He looked like a god of war who had just found a stray kitten in his armory. His red eyes were narrowed, tracking the flush that was currently spreading from Cherion’s neck all the way to the tips of his ears.

"I hope," Zarius rumbled, taking a slow step forward that forced Cherion back against the pillar, "that ogling my soldiers wasn’t one of your many hobbies, little Omega."