Chapter 141 - Alive - II
Dorian had been rushed from the royal castle to the Plumbarius family’s domain, the supreme masters of poisons and toxins in the entire demon territory.
Few knew it, but as soon as the Captain of the Guard, Sales, arrived at the castle, the healers were unanimous: this was not something conventional magic could cure. It was a complex poisoning, impossible to treat with common methods.
And then, she appeared.
Isolde, one of the Six Elders who served directly under Queen Selene, emerged at the castle gates shrouded in a purple mist. Her presence was imposing, dressed in crimson robes embroidered with black. Her sapphire eyes reflected power and secrets that weighed heavier than ages. She said nothing. She simply placed one gnarled hand on Dorian’s chest... and then both of them dissolved like smoke, disappearing into the air.
Dorian was unconscious.
His body lay on a cold slab of black stone, like an offering left on the altar of some cruel, forgotten entity. There were no windows in that place. No breeze, no sound besides the occasional drip from ceiling pipes or the whispering of creatures slithering beneath the thick fog that filled the air like toxic vapor.
The room looked more like a torture chamber than an infirmary. Glass vials of pulsing blue, green, lilac, and golden liquids filled dusty darkwood shelves. Rusted chains hung from hooks in the ceiling. On one shelf, what appeared to be preserved organs floated in magical solution, as if still alive. There were black needles the size of daggers, bone scalpels, poisoned stilettos, and sculptures of serpents coiled around skulls.
In the center of the room, above Dorian’s half-naked body, ten black snakes with obsidian-gloss scales sank their fangs into critical points: shoulders, wrists, ribs, and hips. Their bodies were motionless—seemingly dead—but their fangs vibrated, as if channeling something unseen.
Below, leeches the size of a grown man’s hand clung to his skin. Swollen and pulsing, they drank his blood like ambrosia.
At his jugular, a glass needle embedded directly into the vein injected a translucent green liquid that snaked through his vessels like a new lifeblood. Occasionally, Dorian’s heart would spasm in reaction to the pain, but he did not awaken.
Beside him, with his back turned, an elderly man with curly gray hair, half-closed eyes, and an almost gentle expression watched a vial of pulsating violet liquid with fascination. He wore a dark robe covered in alchemical inscriptions drawn in silver ink, and black gloves that did not hide his discolored, pointed nails.