Stolen by the Rebel King
Chapter 266: Dark Experiments III

Chapter 266: Dark Experiments III

Hazelle wisely kept her mouth shut, allowing him to continue ranting to himself, even as his fingernails jabbed into her soft skin.

"He suggested Leonora as well. God knows how much that sister of mine had been eyeing the throne." He gnashed his teeth together, and when he did, he placed more force into his fingers.

Hazelle flinched; his fingernails were going to leave marks. The insides of her cheeks hurt from being pressed so tightly against her teeth but she didn’t dare to make a single sound. She had been scarred before by his flames and she wasn’t willing to gamble on whether or not he would use his left hand to leave her a more permanent reminder.

"If she became the crown princess, what would you become?" he asked, pulling Hazelle’s face a little closer to his own.

"Nothing," she gritted out with much difficulty.

"That’s right," Alistair said. "Don’t forget, Hazelle. Without me, you’re nothing. If I lose my position of crown prince, you will also return to being the useless little girl that would only ever come in second best."

She dutifully nodded, controlled by fear. After all, only lunacy could be found in Alistair’s blue irises.

Her face was harshly let go of when a sharp knock sounded against their bedroom door. Alistair had used a little too much force when letting go, practically shoving her away. She collapsed on her hands, panting heavily once she regained control over herself again.

Her fingers trailed to touch her cheeks, worried that he might’ve burned her and she had been too numbed out to feel it. After all, she only had her face left. Her beauty was the only thing she could bring to the table.

"What is it?!" Alistair snapped, turning sharply to the door.

"It’s me, Brother," Silas’s voice could be heard from the other end. That only deepened Alistair’s frown.

"Another deadweight," he mumbled under his breath. He had not forgotten Silas’s reluctance to kneel and beg for Alistair’s life when Drusilla asked them to. In his eyes, Silas was now one of the people responsible for his current fate, and he would bet his other hand that his twin sister was also rejoicing in his tragedy.

Maybe the both of them were plotting against him together. A dark look entered his eyes as that thought crept into his head.

"Leave me. I do not wish to be disturbed," Alistair growled out. He didn’t want to see any of his siblings, save for Drusilla.

"It’s important. Alistair, you’ll want to hear this," Silas insisted and he opened the door anyway. Alistair gnashed his teeth at the blatant disrespect. He’ll want to hear this? What nonsense.

This whelp was clearly taking the chance to climb over his head when he was down!

"It’s regarding your hand. There might be a cure." Silas said, causing Hazelle to gasp in surprise and shoot him a hopeful look.

Alistair scoffed; his wife was so stupid, how could she be so foolish to believe his brother’s words? He barked out a laugh, but there was no humor in it.

"How dare you mock me! Get lost!" Alistair roared, enraged. He flung the nearby vase on the table at Silas’s head, forcing him to duck to avoid his head being cut open by the shards. However, Silas didn’t manage to avoid the water in said vase, and the flowers landed limply on his head as water dripped down his face.

Silas wiped his face clean with his sleeve, but he didn’t leave. "Alistair, I know you’re angry, but listen. There’s a cure for you!"

"A cure?" Alistair repeated disbelievingly, hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat. "My dear Silas, how daft can you be? Do you think I caught a cold or an infection, or did you think I got a stomach bug? Do you think I’m a fool?!"

"Alistair―"

"You can cure a disease, but my hand is gone," Alistair hissed, holding up his stump so Silas could see it in all its terrible glory. "How can you cure something that doesn’t exist?"

Silas shifted his eyes away from the stump, but his voice was firm. "There’s someone that can regrow it."

The room fell into stunned silence before Alistair let out an unhinged laugh. "Yes, I’m sure. And I bet that person can turn water into wine, gravel into gold?"

"Not quite," Silas said, "But it’s said that he can give magical abilities to people without magic."

Alistair paused. To his knowledge, there was only one man capable of such a feat. And even then, they were only rumors. The stories of the Seiberts’ downfall had traveled across kingdoms. Even Reaweth had heard whispers of it, but Alistair had thought it was a mere wife’s tale.

Then again, when Daphne had first displayed her acts of magic, Alistair had immediately thought of that very same person.

"It’s Eugene Attonson," Silas continued, his eyes flashing brightly.

Alistair’s heart shuddered in his ribcage; he had not heard from Eugene since their disastrous parting in Raxuvia, where he hinted at Daphne’s new abilities. All messages he sent to him were still unanswered.

That man knew all along what his traitorous little sister was capable of!

"I heard from the brothel girls that he managed to regrow his limbs. Apparently, Viscount Attonson was handicapped in his late teens, but he is functioning perfectly fine now. Even better than normal, in fact! Alistair, it’s worth a shot," Silas continued. "What do you have to lose?"

After all, his hand was already gone. Anything else would be an improvement.

Alistair clenched his one remaining hand.

"Fine then, arrange a meeting for me as quickly as possible," Alistair commanded. He wasn’t going to personally beg Eugene for an audience; just as well that Silas brought him up first. "If he’s a fraud, I’ll have his head!"

And if Silas tried to double-cross him using Eugene Attonson, his head would roll faster than he could blink.

***

Silas worked fast. In less than a week, Alistair found himself following behind him as he expertly navigated the narrow, winding streets that were home to Reaweth’s most profitable brothels.

His younger brother was incredibly popular, with women waving to him from outside their windows on the second floor, their chiffon handkerchiefs fluttering in the wind like flags heralding their king. Not only that, more than one woman had approached Silas, fluttering their eyelashes and thanking him for saving their lives.

Alistair scoffed disdainfully to himself. No wonder Silas frequented the streets so often. His younger brother could play at being king here.

Meanwhile, women who dared to approach him flinched as they caught sight of Alistair’s haggard face and his wide, bloodshot eyes. Those who actually recognized him couldn’t help but glance at his hands, gasping and stumbling over their feet when they caught sight of his stump. Murmurs of sympathy and pity followed their every step.

Alistair gritted his teeth. This was infuriating. He didn’t need pity from whores!

If Silas had purposely paraded him around the dregs of society to show off his missing hand, Alistair would grind him into powder.

Thankfully, Silas eventually stopped at a nondescript door.

"We’re here," Silas said.

Alistair merely nodded, looking at the door before back at his brother, gesturing for him to knock. Silas did as he was told.

He gave the door three long knocks, followed by five short taps. It swung open to let them in.