Alaric Vaelmont

The night had descended upon Vaelmont Castle like a dark veil. Outside, a violent storm raged, hurling rain against the towering windows while the wind howled through the narrow crevices of the ancient stone walls. Thunder rumbled across the distant mountains, and occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the night sky, bathing the castle in a cold, ghostly light for a few fleeting seconds. The long corridors lay nearly deserted. Only the muffled clinking of armor, the hurried whispers of servants, and the creaking of heavy doors betrayed the fact that anyone was still awake at such an hour.

In the highest wing of the castle, behind a tall door made of dark oak, Prince Alaric Vaelmont lay in his bedchamber.

Under ordinary circumstances, the room was a reflection of his power. Dark wood, heavy black velvet curtains, intricate ornaments of muted gold, and the crest of House Vaelmont hanging above the fireplace. A long desk stood near the windows, covered with carefully arranged documents and an unfolded map of the kingdom. Several swords rested in ornate scabbards along the wall, each polished and maintained with the same meticulous precision Alaric demanded of everything under his control.

But tonight, little of that order remained.

A silver goblet lay shattered beside the fireplace. Bowls of murky water had been abandoned on the floor, surrounded by bloodied cloths and discarded bandages that had been hastily removed when it became apparent that they were doing little to stop the bleeding. The sharp, metallic scent of blood hung heavily in the air, mingling with the smell of scorched herbs, hot water, and smoke from the fireplace. On a small table beside the bed, a servant had arranged various ointments, linen bandages, and glass vials filled with herbal tinctures. So far, none of them had made much difference.

The enormous four-poster bed stood at the far end of the chamber, partially concealed behind its drawn-back curtains. The dark blankets lay in disarray, and the pale sheets beneath Alaric were stained with blood. Firelight flickered across his face, casting restless shadows over his sharp features and emphasizing the unnatural pallor of his skin.

Alaric lay motionless among the pillows.

His nearly black hair, usually falling across his forehead in a careless yet strangely deliberate manner, clung damply to his temples. A few strands had fallen across his face, but he lacked the strength to brush them away. His lips were dry and slightly parted, his breathing shallow and uneven. Beneath his closed eyelids, his eyes moved restlessly, as though even his exhausted mind was incapable of finding peace.

He had been gravely wounded.

The injuries he had sustained were far worse than he had initially been willing to admit. A deep gash stretched across his left side, just beneath his ribs. Another wound near his shoulder had soaked through his dark shirt before the garment had been cut away from his body. Several bloody cuts marked his upper arm, while a particularly troubling injury below his collarbone had refused to close despite every attempt to treat it.

Every breath hurt. Whenever his chest rose, the skin around his wounds tightened, and his body responded with an involuntary shudder. Even the slightest movement seemed to unleash another wave of pain, forcing his muscles to tense and his fingers to curl into the bedsheets.

Yet it was not the wounds alone that made his condition so dangerous.

The fever had begun to consume him.

At first, it had been little more than a faint warmth beneath his skin. Alaric had ignored it, just as he had ignored the dizziness and the growing weakness in his limbs. He had refused to lie down while there were still orders to be given, insisting that his injuries merely needed tending. A few stitches. A clean bandage. Perhaps something to dull the pain. After that, he would rise again.

That was what he had said.

As though his body were merely waiting for his permission to continue functioning.

Now his skin burned while an icy chill crept deep into his bones. Sweat glistened across his forehead and gathered along his neck. The blankets had been pulled over his shoulders and removed several times, for he alternated between shivering violently and feeling as though the heat beneath his skin might suffocate him. His breathing came in uneven bursts, and every so often, a faint, hoarse sound escaped his throat, barely recognizable as a groan.

Alaric hated it.

He hated the weakness that kept him confined to his bed. He hated the sensation of losing control over his own body. And more than anything, he hated the fact that he could no longer trust his own mind to remain clear.

His thoughts drifted in fragmented, disjointed pieces. For a moment, the sound of rain against the windows became the clash of swords. In the next, he heard voices that had long since fallen silent. Shadows shifted at the edge of his vision, and whenever he opened his eyes, they blurred into dark shapes moving between the furniture.

Once, he had attempted to sit up.

He had barely managed to lift his shoulders from the pillows before a sharp, searing pain tore through his side. His hand had reached for the bedpost, but his fingers had been too weak to hold on. He had collapsed back against the pillows, his teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw ached, and fixed the servant who had rushed to his aid with a look that, under different circumstances, would have been enough to silence a seasoned soldier.

"Not a word about this."

His voice had been hoarse, but the command had been unmistakable.

The servant had bowed his head and obeyed.

Yet the order had done nothing to change the fact that the prince might be closer to death than he was willing to acknowledge.

A young servant named Edric stood beside the bed, having scarcely dared to move farther than a few steps away from his master for hours. His hands had grown raw from repeatedly washing cloths, and exhaustion had carved deep shadows beneath his eyes. He had tried to tend Alaric's wounds, place cool compresses against his forehead, and coax water between his lips whenever the prince had been conscious enough to drink.

But the wounds would not close properly.

The ordinary ointments seemed to have little effect, and despite the cold cloths, Alaric's fever continued to rise. More than once, Edric had watched his master's breathing grow so shallow that, for several dreadful seconds, he had feared it would stop altogether. Each time, he had believed Alaric would finally slip into unconsciousness and never awaken again.

And each time, Alaric had fought his way back.

Not out of hope. Nor even from a desire to live that he would likely never have admitted to himself. It was something deeper, more stubborn. A refusal to yield to fate while he still possessed enough strength to resist it.

But even his iron will could not replace the blood he had lost. It could not close an open wound or force the fever from his body.

"Your Highness?"

Edric's voice was cautious, barely more than a whisper. He stepped closer to the bed and leaned forward slightly.

"Can you hear me?"

Alaric's eyelids twitched.

A moment passed before his grey-green eyes opened a fraction. His gaze, usually so cold and piercing, was clouded by fever, yet a remnant of the ruthless severity that had made him feared throughout the court remained. He stared at the servant as though even acknowledging his presence required more effort than he could afford.

"How long..." His voice broke.

He swallowed with difficulty and tried again.

"How long have I been lying here?"

"Several hours, Your Highness."

Alaric closed his eyes. His brow furrowed as though he were attempting to put the passing hours into order, but his thoughts slipped away from him. He could remember only fragments of the journey back to the castle. The hands that had held him upright. The taste of blood in his mouth. The furious voices of his men as he had ordered them to tend to the survivors before finally losing consciousness himself.

His fingers shifted restlessly against the sheets.

"The healer," he murmured at last.

Edric froze for a brief moment.

"Your Highness?"

"You sent someone."

It was not a question. Even in his weakened state, Alaric left no room for uncertainty about the answer he expected.

"Yes, Your Highness." Edric lowered his gaze. "I sent a rider into the city. He was instructed to find her and bring her here without delay."

"Her?"

"Yes, Your Highness. The healer the court has spoken of. The one said to mend wounds that ordinary physicians cannot close."

Alaric's eyes opened again. Despite the fever, his gaze sharpened for a fleeting moment.

"I trust you did not simply summon some village woman with a collection of herbs and call her a healer."

"No, Your Highness."

Edric hesitated before continuing.

"I sought the finest healer in the entire kingdom."

Alaric released a shaky breath. A painful cough suddenly shook his body, and his side tensed in response. He pressed his hand against the bandage, but when he drew it away, his fingers were stained with fresh blood once more.

Edric went pale.

"Your Highness, you must remain still! The wound has begun bleeding again."

"Then make it stop."

The words were little more than a rough whisper, yet the cold authority behind them remained unmistakable.

"Your Highness, I am doing everything I can."

"Then do more."

Edric lowered his head. Under different circumstances, he might have apologized for his inability to do better. But he knew Alaric was not speaking out of cruelty. The prince was suffering, and pain was something Alaric neither understood nor tolerated when he could not control it.

Edric changed the bandage as carefully as possible. Even so, Alaric's body jerked when the linen brushed against the open wound. His hand shot forward and closed around the servant's wrist.

The grip was surprisingly strong.

"Careful," Alaric ground out between clenched teeth.

"Forgive me, Your Highness."

For a moment, Alaric's fingers remained locked around his wrist. Then even that small effort seemed to exhaust him. His grip loosened, and his arm fell back onto the mattress.

Edric adjusted the blankets and stepped away. He did not want his master to see how deeply the sight of him unsettled him. Alaric Vaelmont, the man before whom even experienced commanders weighed every word, lay helpless among bloodstained sheets. His skin burned with fever, his lips had lost nearly all their color, and every breath sounded as though he had to fight for it.

Edric had heard stories about the healer he had sent for.

They said she could channel magic through her hands, compelling injured flesh to mend itself. She had supposedly broken a curse that was slowly killing a child, restored a soldier who had been moments away from death, and closed wounds that even the most accomplished physicians had declared fatal. Some called her a miracle. Others feared her abilities, whispering that all healing magic demanded a price.

Edric did not know which of those stories were true.

But he knew Alaric needed something beyond ordinary treatment.

He needed magic.

And he needed someone skilled enough to wield it without losing the prince in the process.

Another roll of thunder shook the night. Alaric turned his head against the pillow, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. His muscles trembled beneath the blankets, and a quiet, involuntary groan escaped him before he could suppress it. He seemed barely aware of the sound himself.

"Your Highness," Edric began carefully, "the healer will be here soon."

Alaric did not answer immediately.

His thoughts began to drift once more. For one fleeting moment, the dark wood above him no longer resembled the canopy of his bed, but the low ceiling of an old stone chamber. He felt cold restraints around his wrists, heard footsteps beyond a locked door, and smelled the damp, musty air of a place he had spent years trying to bury in the deepest recesses of his memory.

His breathing faltered.

His hand curled into the sheets.

No.

Not again.

He forced his eyes open and stared into the darkness until the familiar outlines of the fireplace and curtains slowly returned. Yet the fever refused to let the memory fade entirely. It lingered behind his eyes, mingling with the pain until, for a moment, he could no longer distinguish where the present ended and the past began.

"Let no one enter this room unless I have requested them."

"Of course, Your Highness."

"And when she arrives..." Alaric paused, struggling to draw breath. His voice had dwindled to barely more than a whisper. "...bring her directly to me."

"I will."

Alaric closed his eyes.

He would show no weakness. Not in front of a stranger, not in front of his servants, and certainly not in front of someone who would be allowed to see his wounds. She might be the finest healer in the kingdom. She might command magic others could scarcely dream of. But that did not change the fact that she was a stranger, and Alaric did not trust strangers.

Least of all when they saw him in a state he could barely tolerate himself.

Nevertheless, he had no choice but to wait for her.

Time dragged on agonizingly slowly. The fire in the hearth sank lower, and Edric added fresh logs without ever taking his eyes off the prince. He replaced the cloths on Alaric's forehead, checked the bandages, and repeatedly attempted to persuade him to drink a little water. Sometimes Alaric responded to his voice. Other times, he seemed not to hear him at all.

Once, he opened his eyes and asked about his men. Another time, he murmured a name Edric could not understand. When the servant leaned closer, Alaric fell silent at once, as though even through the fever he had realized that he had revealed something no one was meant to hear.

Then he grew quiet again.

Too quiet.

Edric hurried to the bedside and pressed two fingers against Alaric's neck. Only when he felt the faint but steady pulse did he allow himself to breathe again.

"Hold on, Your Highness," he whispered, though he had no way of knowing whether Alaric could hear him. "She will come."

And far from the castle, somewhere beyond the dark forests and narrow streets of the city, a rider was racing through the storm in search of the woman who might be able to save him.

The healer whose magic promised hope even where others had long since given up.

The healer who might be the only person capable of saving Alaric Vaelmont.

And the woman who would soon enter the bedchamber of a prince who would rather bleed to death than beg anyone for mercy.