Chapter 167: The Crimson Tide [8]
Alaric stepped out of the library into the courtyard.
The moment the fresh air hit him, his hand went to his head. Pressed against his temple where a dull throb had started building.
He sighed. Long and heavy.
"I need to get this checked out."
The words came out quieter.
He started walking with no clear destination yet. Just needed to move, to think through his options.
The academy had healers in the medical wing on second floor of the administrative building.
He could go there, let them examine him, maybe get something for the headaches and exhaustion.
But what would he tell them?
I can’t sleep because I’m having vivid nightmares about being chained in darkness, and my eyes glow red, and I might have lost several hours of memory last night?
They’d either think he was insane or they’d start asking questions he couldn’t answer.
And if whatever was happening to him was connected to his system, or,to things that he doesn’t know.
No.
He was certain it wasn’t just a normal breakdown. Something was happening to him.
He needed someone who dealt with unusual cases. Someone who wouldn’t report everything back to academy administration. Someone outside the normal channels.
Alaric stopped walking and looked toward the main gates.
They were closed.
The curfew was still in effect after the capital attack—no one in or out without explicit permission and documentation.
No legitimate excuse would work.
Which left illegitimate options.
Alaric’s eyes moved across the academy walls.
The guards patrolled in patterns. Predictable ones, because they’d been doing the same routes for weeks and gotten comfortable.
There would be gaps. Moments when certain sections went unwatched.
He just needed to find one.
And he needed a reason to be near the walls without looking suspicious.
Alaric started walking again, this time with purpose. Headed toward the training grounds on the eastern side of campus. Students were allowed there until evening bells. It was normal for people to be in that area.
And the eastern wall ran right along the back of the training yard.
The grounds were moderately busy when he arrived.
A dozen students scattered across the space, some running drills, others sparring, a few just sitting and catching their breath after practice.
Alaric moved to the far edge, near the equipment storage. Picked up a practice sword from the rack like he was planning to train.
From here, he could see the wall. About fifteen feet high at this section. Stone, but with enough irregularities in the surface that climbing wouldn’t be impossible.
A guard walked past on the other side he could see the top of the helmet moving along the wall’s edge. Counted the seconds until the guard disappeared around the corner.
Few moments later, another guard appeared from the opposite direction. Passed. Kept going.
Three-minute gap between patrols. Maybe less if they were being thorough.
Not ideal, but workable.
Alaric set the practice sword back. Glanced around. Nobody was paying attention to him. Everyone focused on their own training.
He walked casually toward the wall, like he was just looking for some shade. Pressed his back against the stone and waited.
One guard passed. Alaric counted.
When he hit two minutes, he moved.
Found a handhold in the stone. Pulled himself up.
His muscles protested—still tired from everything—but adrenaline helped. Another handhold. Then another.
Halfway up, he heard voices from the training ground.
And froze.
"Hey you see someone there?"
"Where?"
"Never mind. Thought I saw movement by the wall but it’s just shadows."
Alaric stayed perfectly still, pressed flat against the stone.
The voices faded. The students went back to their practice.
He kept climbing.
Reached the top. Pulled himself over. Dropped down the other side into a crouch.
The street beyond was quiet. It was late afternoon, most people inside were preparing for dinner or finishing work.
Alaric straightened, brushed dust off his clothes, and started walking away from the academy walls. Then he stopped in a narrow alley between two buildings.
He pulled off his academy jacket and folded it. Stuffed it into his bag. From the bottom of the bag, he pulled out a dark traveling cloak he’d kept for situations exactly like this.
He swung it around his shoulders, fastened the clasp, and pulled the hood up over his head. His face fell into shadow.
Better.
Alaric stepped back onto the main street and headed deeper into the capital. The afternoon crowds had thinned but hadn’t disappeared completely. Merchants closing their stalls. Workers heading home. A few street vendors still calling out their wares.
He kept his head down and walked with purpose. Just another traveler moving through the city.
His mind worked through his options as he walked.
Then a name surfaced in his memory.
Doctor Maren Milford. A physician who operated a small clinic in the merchant district.
Selene had introduced her once, during his training time in the Blackthorn.
More importantly, she owed Selene a debt of loyalty. Had sworn oath. Which meant anything Alaric told her would stay with her.
Perfect.
He turned down a side street, then another. The merchant district was busier here—shops still open, people haggling over prices, children running between the stalls.
Alaric scanned the buildings until he spotted it. A narrow three-story structure wedged between a tailor and a spice merchant. A wooden sign hung above the door, painted with a mortar and pestle.
No name. Just the symbol.
He climbed the three steps to the door and pushed it open.
A small bell chimed above his head.
The interior was clean but cramped. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of herbs, vials of tinctures, bandages, and medical supplies. A counter stood near the back with a curtained doorway beyond it.
Behind the counter sat a woman, maybe in her late thirties. Dark hair pulled back in a practical bun. Sharp eyes that looked up from the ledger she’d been writing in.
She opened her mouth—probably to give the standard greeting—then stopped.
Alaric pulled back his hood.
Recognition flashed across her face. Followed immediately by wariness.
"Long time no see," Alaric said.
Doctor Maren set down her quill slowly. Her eyes moved over him, taking in the traveling cloak, the hood.
"Lord Alaric." Her voice was measured. Professional.
"I wasn’t aware you were in need of medical attention."
"I wasn’t aware either until recently."
Her gaze sharpened. Moved to his face, his eyes, checking for obvious signs of illness or injury. "What are your symptoms?"
"That’s... complicated."
She stood, came around the counter. Gestured toward the curtained doorway.
"Come. We’ll talk in the examination room."
Alaric followed her through the curtain into a small room with an examination table, more shelves of supplies, and a single window with the shutters closed.
Maren turned to face him, arms crossed. "So. What’s wrong with you that you couldn’t go to the academy healers?"
"I need someone who won’t ask questions."
"I’m asking questions right now."
"Different kind of questions." Alaric pulled off the cloak and tossed it over a chair. "And I need someone who won’t report everything back to Selene unless it’s absolutely necessary."
Maren’s expression didn’t change. "Lady Selene would want to know if her heir is unwell."
"She’ll know if it’s serious. But right now, I need you to examine me and tell me what you find. Without assumptions. Without theories. Just facts."
Maren studied him for a long moment. Then nodded once. "Sit."
She pointed at the examination table.
Alaric sat.