The rattling of iron keys against the bars echoed like a death knell through the subterranean corridors of Ironspire. The footsteps were heavy, slow, and filled with a sickening sense of confidence. Julian—or rather, Alistair, who now inhabited the body—leaned his head against the jagged stone wall. His hand, which he had just finished suturing himself, was throbbing, sending waves of searing heat up to his shoulder.
"Oi, wake up for one last time, little rat," Silas's gravelly voice rang out from the cell door.
Silas stopped in front of the iron bars. He held a torch in one hand and a large key in the other. Behind the flickering flames, Silas's coarse face was twisted with satisfaction. He spat on the floor before sliding the key into the lock.
Click.
The iron door creaked open with a harrowing screech. Silas stepped inside, the stench of sweat and cheap alcohol immediately filling the cramped space.
"Pity you have to die so early, Julian. I'd only just started enjoying your screams last night," Silas said, lowering his torch toward the floor, searching for the stiff corpse he expected to find.
However, the torch did not find a cadaver. Instead, the fire illuminated a pair of sharp, piercingly clear eyes.
Alistair sat upright. Though his face was deathly pale and his body covered in wounds, his gaze showed not a flicker of fear. He stared at Silas as if the massive man were nothing more than a specimen under a microscope.
"You're late, Jailer," Alistair's voice was cold and flat.
Silas recoiled until his back hit the cell door. His eyes widened in disbelief. "You... you should be dead! I broke your hand myself and made sure you lost plenty of blood!"
"Indeed. The Julian you knew is dead," Alistair replied, glancing at his right hand wrapped in filthy linen with neat sutures hidden beneath. "But I have other plans for this body."
Silas growled, trying to mask his shock with rage. He raised his heavy wooden mace. "I don't care what demon brought you back. My job is to drag your carcass to the execution grounds before sunrise. If you aren't dead yet, I'll make sure of it now!"
"Wait," Alistair interrupted. His voice didn't rise, but it carried an authority so potent that Silas's hand froze mid-air.
"What now, bastard?"
Alistair narrowed his eyes, activating his analytical skills as a senior surgeon. He didn't just see a cruel jailer; he saw damaged anatomy. Under the torchlight, he noticed an unnatural, small lump on the left side of Silas's neck, situated right over the carotid artery. The lump was reddish, with fine, bulging veins—signs of severe acute inflammation.
"You've been feeling dizzy for the past three days, haven't you?" Alistair asked suddenly.
Silas went still. His eyes blinked in confusion. "What did you say?"
"Your neck. It feels stiff. There's a painful throb every time you take a deep breath, and this morning, your vision started blurring on one side," Alistair continued. He spoke as if he were reading a medical chart to his students.
Silas's face paled, turning whiter than Julian's. "How... how do you know that?"
"I can smell death on your body, Silas. Stronger than the stench of this prison," Alistair stood up slowly, enduring the agony in his back. He took step after deliberate step toward Silas. "That lump on your neck isn't just a common swelling. It's a deep-seated abscess that has infected the walls of your primary blood vessel. In medical terms you wouldn't understand: it's a ticking time bomb."
"You're lying! This is just an old wound from a fight!" Silas shouted, but his hand holding the mace was trembling.
"Touch it," Alistair commanded. "Touch it gently. Feel the heat. Feel the strange vibration there. That is your blood churning because its path is blocked by pus and infection. If that vibration stops, it means your vessel has ruptured. And if that happens..." Alistair snapped his healthy fingers. "You will be dead in less than sixty seconds. You will drown in your own blood without being able to cry for help."
Silas unconsciously touched his neck. He whimpered as his fingers met the inflamed skin. "It's hot... it's so hot..."
"Of course it's hot. Your body is at war, and you are losing," Alistair now stood directly in front of Silas. Though Julian was shorter and far thinner, his current aura made Silas feel like a dwarf before a giant. "I estimate that abscess will burst within hours. Perhaps while you're dragging my body, or perhaps while you're drinking your last ale."
"Heal me!" Silas suddenly dropped his mace. He grabbed Alistair's filthy tunic with shaking hands. "You... you used to be a physician's assistant, right? You must be able to do something! Help me!"
Alistair removed Silas's grip with a calm but firm motion. He straightened his tattered shirt.
"I am no longer the pathetic assistant you can trample on, Silas. I am the one holding the keys to your life and death right now," Alistair stared directly into the Jailer's eyes.
Outside, thunder rumbled again, followed by the pitter-patter of rain beginning to drench Ironspire. Time was marching toward dawn—the hour Julian was supposed to be executed.
"What do you want?" Silas asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Gold? Freedom? I'll give you anything, just get this cursed thing out of my neck!"
Alistair offered a thin smile—one that didn't reach his eyes. He knew he was gambling with his own life. If Silas panicked, he could simply kill him. But the fear of death is the most powerful weapon in a doctor's hands.
"Gold is useless to me if I'm hanged tomorrow morning," Alistair said. "And freedom... I will take that for myself later."
He glanced at the still-open cell door. The light in the corridor revealed several tools hanging from Silas's belt. A small knife, usually used for cutting meat rations.
Alistair held out his healthy hand, palm upturned.
"Listen to me carefully, Silas. You have less than two hours before that infection reaches your brain. If you want to see the sun rise tomorrow as a living man, and not as a carcass in a gutter..."
Alistair gave him a piercing look, the gaze of a Dr. Alistair Thorne who had never failed an emergency surgery.
"Unlock these bars completely. Take me somewhere with a bit more light, and most importantly..."
Alistair gestured toward the knife on Silas's belt with his chin.
"Give me that knife right now. If you want to live past midnight, open this cell and let me cut into your neck."