Silas's hand trembled violently as he fumbled for the knife sheath at his waist. His eyes remained fixed on Alistair with a mixture of horror and desperate hope. Logic told him that a prisoner who had just been tortured couldn't possibly save him. Yet, the aura radiating from Julian's eyes—no, this man before him was not Julian—left Silas paralyzed.
"T-this knife?" Silas drew a short but sharp meat-cleaver blade. "You want to cut into my neck with this? Here?"
Alistair glanced toward the open iron bars. "I need light. And clean water. Immediately."
Silas swallowed hard; the pain in his neck was now throbbing in sync with his heartbeat. "Follow me. To the guardroom at the end of the corridor. There's a table and an oil lamp there."
Alistair stepped out of his cell with a slight limp, yet his back was straight. The original Julian might have crawled, but Alistair Thorne never bowed to physical pain. They reached a small, cramped room smelling of tobacco smoke and stale ale. In the center sat a rough oak table.
"Lie down," Alistair commanded curtly.
"But—"
"Lie down, Silas! If that abscess ruptures while you're standing, you'll be dead before your head hits the floor," Alistair barked. His authoritative tone made the large jailer obey instantly, flattening himself onto the table.
Alistair took the oil lamp and brought it close to Silas's neck. He examined the lump once more. Critical. The skin over the abscess had thinned, appearing transparent and a dark, bruised purple.
"Listen," Alistair locked eyes with Silas. "I have no anesthesia. This will feel like your neck is being burned alive. If you move even an inch, this blade will sever your carotid artery, and you will die instantly. Understood?"
Silas gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. "Just do it... please."
Alistair took the knife. He heated the tip over the oil lamp's flame until it glowed red—the only method of sterilization available to him. He then tore a strip from the cleanest part of his remaining clothes to wipe the sweat from his own brow.
"Stay still."
With a movement that was incredibly fluid yet certain, Alistair began to slice into the skin of Silas's neck.
"ARGHHHH!" Silas let out a muffled groan, his body convulsing.
"Be still! Or you die!" Alistair pinned Silas's shoulder down with his healthy left hand, while his right—the hand he had just sutured himself—worked with chilling precision.
Though his hand shook from the lingering trauma, the moment the blade touched skin, Alistair's surgical instincts took over completely. The speed of his hands was extraordinary. There were no wasted movements. Every incision was calculated to avoid vital nerves.
A yellowish-green fluid mixed with thick blood began to spray from the incision. A foul stench immediately filled the room.
"Hold on," Alistair whispered. He used a small, sharpened wooden splinter as a makeshift retractor to widen the wound, allowing him to reach the deepest pocket of the infection.
Silas panted heavily, tears leaking from the corners of his tightly shut eyes. He could feel Alistair's hands moving rapidly inside the flesh of his neck. It wasn't the crude hacking of a butcher, but a rhythmic, highly organized dance.
"I'm draining the pus now. It's going to sting intensely," Alistair flushed the area with the remaining water from a pitcher on the table.
Several minutes passed that felt like hours to Silas. Alistair worked with total focus, ignoring the pain in his own back which had begun to bleed again. He used threads from the cloth to ligate the small ruptured vessels so Silas wouldn't bleed out.
"Done," Alistair said finally. He wiped the blood from his hands.
Silas opened his eyes, gasping for air. The crushing pressure that had been strangling his neck was suddenly gone, replaced by a much milder soreness. He felt his neck, which was now wrapped in clean cloth.
"I... I'm alive?" Silas sat up slowly, looking at Alistair with a gaze bordering on worship. "How is this possible? Even the court physicians never moved that fast."
"It's not magic, Silas. It's anatomy," Alistair leaned against a chair, his face drenched in sweat. "If you care for that wound properly, you'll survive. Now, keep your promise. I need—"
Alistair's sentence was cut short by a loud thud from the main gate of Ironspire Prison. The sound of many armed men's footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.
"Jailer Silas! Where are you?!" a harsh, authoritative voice shouted.
Silas's face turned ghostly pale. "That's Captain Vane. Baron Cedric's personal guard."
"Damn it," Alistair cursed. "Is it dawn already?"
The guardroom door was kicked open. Five soldiers in full silver armor stormed in, led by a sturdily built man with a thick mustache. In his hand, he carried a parchment roll with a red wax seal bearing the Halloway family crest.
"Silas! Why is this prisoner not in his cell?!" Captain Vane unsheathed his sword, pointing it at Alistair. "And what happened to your neck?"
Silas stood awkwardly, trying to block their view of Alistair. "Captain, there's... a medical emergency. This prisoner—"
"I don't care about your medical problems!" Vane snapped. He threw the parchment onto the table. "Baron Cedric cannot wait until noon. He has ordered the execution to be moved forward. Take Julian Vance to the back square right now. If he can't walk, drag his corpse!"
Alistair looked Captain Vane in the eye calmly, while his brain whirred, searching for an exit.
"Captain," Alistair spoke up, his voice steady despite the sword being only inches from his throat. "If you take me out now, you will be killing the only person who knows why Baron Cedric always wears gloves, even during dinner."
Vane frowned, his sword-hand wavering slightly. "What do you mean, rat?"
Captain Vane signaled his men to seize Alistair, but Alistair only offered a thin smile. "Tell the Baron, if he kills me today, the secret of the 'silver scales' creeping up his arm will become a public announcement in the town square by tomorrow morning."
Just then, the sound of more expensive boots echoed from outside. Baron Cedric himself appeared in the doorway, his face twisted with malice. "Take him out! Now!"