The silence inside the chamber was suddenly shattered by a sharp sound.
SLAP!
Elara's trembling hand landed hard on Alistair's cheek. The sound echoed off the silk-lined stone walls, louder than the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Alistair did not flinch. His head was merely jerked slightly to the side, leaving a contrasting red mark on his pale skin.
"Insolent!" Elara gasped, her chest heaving rapidly. She pulled her gown back with a jerk, trying to cover her midriff where Alistair's hand had just been pressing. "You... you take advantage of my weakness, Julian! What were you doing beneath my clothes?!"
Alistair slowly turned his face back toward Elara. His eyes showed no anger, nor did they offer an apology. His gaze was as cold as the surgical steel he used to hold in the future. He wiped a trace of blood from the corner of his lip with the back of his hand.
"Are you finished?" Alistair asked flatly. "If your pride is satisfied after slapping me, can we return to the business of saving your life?"
"You touched me! Without permission! In a place that... that..." Elara could not finish her sentence. Her face, previously pale, was now flushed crimson from a mixture of fever and overwhelming shame. "I am the Crown Princess of Aethelgard! You are merely a convict who should be dying on the gallows!"
Alistair stood up from the edge of the bed. He strode toward a large silver mirror in the corner of the room, dragging it roughly until it stood right beside Elara's bed.
"Look at this, you arrogant Princess," Alistair hissed.
He grabbed Elara's hand—ignoring her weak struggles—and forced her to look at her reflection in the mirror. Alistair pulled the collar of Elara's gown slightly down, revealing the black lines that were now crawling upward like rotting tree roots.
"Look at these veins," Alistair pointed to a black line that had passed her collarbone and was now branching at the base of her neck. "This Obsidian Vein does not care if you are a Crown Princess or a kitchen maid. It does not care for your dignity. In six hours, this line will reach your jaw. In twelve hours, it will lock your tongue until you can no longer scream for help. And tomorrow morning? You will be a beautiful stone monument for your father to weep over."
Elara stared transfixed at her reflection. The black lines seemed to pulse, as if they were living creatures feasting beneath her skin.
"I didn't... I didn't know it had gone that far," Elara whispered, her voice trembling.
"Of course you didn't. You were too busy worrying about your pride while your body was being consumed from within," Alistair released Elara's hand roughly. "The massage I performed earlier was to stimulate your lymph nodes and blood flow. This parasite hates rapid circulation. I must destroy the primary knot at the solar plexus so the toxins from that broth do not settle in your heart."
Alistair sat back down in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He met Elara's gaze with a challenging stare.
"Now tell me, Elara von Astrea. Which is more valuable? The skin of your belly touched by a doctor's hand, or the golden casket your guards have already prepared outside?"
Elara looked down, tears beginning to track down her cheeks. Pure terror began to override her high-and-mighty pride. "But... it felt so wrong. People will talk... Cedric will..."
"Cedric?" Alistair let out a short, scoffing laugh. "The man who let you lie here dying while he was busy guarding the secrets of his own illness? You are worried about that man's opinion?"
Elara looked up, startled. "What do you mean?"
"Forget it," Alistair cut her off. "Listen, I have no desire for you. To me, you are nothing but a very complicated medical case. If I wanted to defile you, I could have done it while you were unconscious earlier. But I chose to keep you awake so you would know every bit of pain required to heal."
Alistair picked up a fresh silver needle, heating it over the candle flame.
"I will continue this procedure. I will press the meridian points around your abdomen and lower chest to pump the remaining arsenic toxins out through your pores. You will feel hot, you will feel nauseous, and yes... you will feel very uncomfortable because my hands must be there."
Elara stared at the silver needle in Alistair's hand, then into the man's eyes. She saw a resolve she had never seen in anyone before. There was no lust in Alistair's eyes—only a lethal focus.
"Will it hurt?" Elara asked softly.
"Extremely," Alistair answered honestly. "But pain is proof that you are still alive. The dead feel no pain."
Elara took a deep breath, and then she slowly released her grip on her gown. She lay back down, closing her eyes tightly as if preparing for an execution. "Do it. Save me... Julian."
"My name is Alistair," he murmured so softly it was almost inaudible, as he placed his hands back onto Elara's cold skin.
For the next hour, the room was filled with muffled moans and ragged breaths. Alistair worked with terrifying precision. Every pressure of his fingers was aimed at breaking the crystallization beginning to form in the subcutaneous fat tissue. Sweat soaked Alistair's forehead, dripping onto the silk sheets.
"Hold on, Elara. Don't pass out," Alistair commanded as he pressed a point just beneath the ribs.
"Aakh! Enough... please, stop!" Elara gripped Alistair's free hand, her nails digging into his skin until it bled.
"One more. Just one more," Alistair applied a final, powerful surge of pressure.
Instantly, Elara let out a small shriek and her body arched. From the pores of the skin around her abdomen, a clear, reddish fluid began to seep out—a mixture of residual toxins and infected serous fluid. A pungent metallic scent filled the air.
Alistair immediately wiped the fluid away with a clean cloth soaked in alcohol. He saw the Obsidian Veins on Elara's neck begin to fade in color, turning from pitch black to a dull grey.
"It worked," Alistair whispered. He leaned his back against the chair, panting. Physical exhaustion began to hit him; he had forgotten that Julian's body had not eaten and had just been tortured the night before.
Elara lay limp, her eyes slightly open, staring blankly at the bed's canopy. Her entire body felt hot, but the bone-chilling cold from before was gone.
"You were right..." Elara's voice was raspy. "It hurt so much."
Alistair only grunted, trying to stabilize his hands which had begun to shake from muscle fatigue. "That was just the beginning. We have a long night ahead."
Elara turned her head to the side, looking at Alistair who appeared a total mess—torn prison clothes, the blood on his cheek from the slap, and eyes that looked exhausted yet remained sharp. Something inside Elara shifted. Her hatred and disgust were slowly being replaced by an unexpected respect.
"Julian..."
"Hmm?"
"Why didn't you hit me back earlier?"
Alistair looked at her, the corner of his lip curling into a cynical, lopsided smile.
Alistair stood, packing his toolkit with the cold clinking of metal. He gazed at Elara, who looked fragile beneath her blankets. "Because a doctor does not hit a patient who is hallucinating from terror," Alistair said as he walked toward the window to breathe the night air. He turned back just before extinguishing the candle. "Slap me again if it makes you feel better, Princess. Slap me until your hand aches. But remember one thing: tomorrow morning, without my hands beneath your gown, you will no longer be a Princess. You will only be a silent statue of stone."