The adrenaline that had fueled Alaric's counter-attack began to ebb, leaving behind a cold, biting ache in his chest. He looked down. The slash across his jerkin was rimmed with frost, and the skin beneath wasn't just cut—it was grey, the color of old ash.
The blood wasn't flowing; it was sluggish and dark, coagulating into black crystals that seemed to be slowly spreading outward like a web of frost on a windowpane.
He touched the edge of the wound and hissed. It burned with a freezing intensity that made his teeth chatter.
"System," Alaric gritted out, stumbling toward the high-backed chair behind the heavy oak table. He collapsed into it, the wood groaning under his weight. "This isn't healing. The Venom-Purge isn't working on this. What do I need?"
A blue holographic menu snapped into existence before his eyes, illuminating the dim, wrecked solar.
[System Diagnosis: Shadow Necrosis]
Status: Spreading.
Effect: The residual dark energy is consuming living tissue and dampening natural regeneration. Standard potions will be ineffective.
Recommended Countermeasure: Light-Attuned Curative.
[Shop Query: Curatives]
Sunfire Balsam: A thick, golden paste infused with concentrated solar energy. specifically designed to cauterize and purify wounds inflicted by dark magic or undead entities.
Cost: 800 MP.
Alaric stared at the price tag. It was steep—nearly the reward for a minor mission—but he could feel the cold tendrils reaching toward his heart. He didn't have a choice.
"Buy it," he commanded, his voice tight.
[Purchase Confirmed: Sunfire Balsam]
[Cost: 800 MP]
[Current Balance: 5,424 MP]
A small, heavy jar materialized in his hand. It was made of white porcelain, warm to the touch, radiating a heat that felt comforting against his chilled skin.
He set the jar on the table, his fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the shivering cold radiating from his chest. He needed help. He couldn't apply this properly himself, not with his hands shaking and his vision blurring at the edges.
He closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, tapping into the mental link that bound him to his summons.
Go to the guest chambers. bring Roslin here. Tell her nothing, just bring her here. Immediately.
It shall be done, my Lord, the mental voice rumbled back.
Alaric let his head fall back against the chair, his breathing shallow. The room was silent save for the wind howling outside the broken window.
Minutes later, the heavy oak door creaked open.
Roslin rushed in, her breath coming in short gasps, likely having been hurried along by the stride of the giant knight.
"Alaric, the guard said you—"
She stopped dead in her tracks three steps into the room.
Her eyes went wide as she took in the scene. The heavy iron candelabra lay twisted on the floor. The stone wall near the window was scorched and clawed. The air still smelled thick with sulfur and the metallic tang of ozone.
Then her gaze landed on him.
Alaric was slumped in the chair, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. His leather jerkin was torn open, revealing the blackened, frost-rimmed gash across his pectoral muscle.
"Oh, gods," Roslin whispered, her hands flying to her mouth. The color drained from her face, her composure shattering instantly. "My lord!"
She didn't hesitate. She ran to him, falling to her knees beside his chair. Her hands hovered over the wound, terrified to touch it.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice trembling with genuine fear. "Your chest... it looks like... like it's frozen. Who did this?"
"An assassin," Alaric rasped, opening his eyes to look at her. He saw the fear in her eyes.
He nudged the white porcelain jar toward her with a weak hand.
"I need you to apply this," he said, his voice straining to stay steady. "It will burn. Do not stop, no matter what happens."
Roslin looked at the jar, then back at his wound. She swallowed hard, nodding rapidly. "Okay. Okay, I can do that."
She took the jar. Her fingers fumbled with the lid for a second before she twisted it off. Immediately, a soft, golden light spilled out, illuminating her worried face. The substance inside looked like liquid sunlight, swirling and hot.
"Do I... do I just put it on?" she asked, looking up at him, her eyes glistening.
"Directly on the black skin," Alaric instructed, gripping the arms of the chair. "Do it."
Roslin dipped two fingers into the glowing paste. She took a steadying breath, bit her lip, and pressed the salve onto the center of the wound.
HISS.
The sound was like water hitting a red-hot skillet. Steam erupted from Alaric's chest.
Alaric threw his head back and groaned, a guttural sound of agony tearing from his throat. His entire body tensed, the muscles in his neck standing out like cords. The heat of the Sunfire Balsam clashed violently with the necrotic cold of the shadow magic, waging a war on his skin.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Roslin cried out, pulling her hand back instinctively as he convulsed.
"Don't stop!" Alaric roared through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. "Finish it!"
Roslin sobbed once, tears spilling down her cheeks, but she didn't disobey. With shaking hands, she scooped out more of the burning gold paste and smeared it swiftly over the rest of the jagged cut.
Smoke rose from his chest—white, purifying smoke that smelled of incense and burning wood. The black frost hissed and retreated, evaporating under the magical assault of the balm.
Alaric gripped the chair so hard the wood splintered under his fingers. The pain was blinding, a white-hot purification that felt like being branded with a torch.
And then, as quickly as it had peaked, the pain vanished.
A cool, soothing sensation washed over him. The heat of the balm settled into a gentle warmth. Alaric slumped forward, gasping for air, his sweat dripping onto the floor.
Roslin was still on her knees, her hands covered in the glowing residue, staring at his chest.
"It's... it's fading," she whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek with her shoulder.
Alaric looked down. The black necrosis was gone. The wound was already closing, the skin knitting together under a layer of new, pink scar tissue.
He exhaled a long, shuddering breath and leaned back, the strength slowly returning to his limbs. He looked at Roslin. She was trembling, still kneeling in the wreckage of the solar, staring at him.
"You did well," Alaric said, his voice rough but steady.
Roslin looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed. She just reached out and placed a trembling hand over his hand on the armrest.
She didn't speak. The words seemed to have deserted her, lost somewhere between the terror of the blood-magic wound and the relief of seeing the light return to his eyes. Instead, Roslin slumped forward. All the highborn etiquette, the stiff posture she had maintained since arriving at Winterfell, dissolved in the wake of the raw, violent reality she had just witnessed.
She buried her face in his lap, her forehead pressing against the rough wool of his trousers. Her hands clutched at his thigh, her fingers digging in tight, as if she were trying to anchor him to the world—or anchor herself to him.
Alaric sat still. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a dull ache in his bones, but the weight of her head on his leg was grounding. He looked down at the tremulous curve of her spine. She was weeping, not with the polite, silent tears of a lady, but with deep, racking sobs that shook her small frame. The dampness of her tears soaked through his breeches, hot against his skin.
He lifted his hand—the one that wasn't covered in the iron gauntlet—and hesitated for a brief fraction of a second. Then, he rested it on her head.
He began to stroke her hair, a slow, rhythmic motion, his fingers tangling slightly in the soft locks.
[System Alert]
[Sovereign Bond Updated]
Subject: Roslin Frey.
Bond Level: 1 -> 2.