Andrellia

11. Alaric

Alaric's bravado, despite being fueled by fever, faltered at Phillip's murmured words. The promise of peculiar information, something Phillip wouldn't share openly even with the Queen, snagged his curiosity. Here, in his weakened state, the normally gung-ho Captain found himself strangely compelled to obey.

With a resigned grunt, he allowed the guards to lift him, his feverish body a dead weight against their strong arms. A shiver wracked him, not entirely from the cool air, but from the disquieting news Phillip had imparted.
"Alright, alright," Alaric mumbled, surprising himself with his compliance. "Just get me to my quarters. But Phillip," he added, his voice weak but laced with a newfound urgency, "you owe me an explanation. What's so peculiar?"

A flicker of something akin to approval crossed Phillip's usually stoic face. "Rest assured, Captain," he replied cryptically, "you'll get your explanation. But for now, focus on getting better. The kingdom needs its most... resourceful Captain back on his feet."

As they reached Alaric's quarters, the weight of his illness settled upon him with renewed force. The guards gently deposited him on the bed, the cool sheets offering little comfort against the raging heat within him. Phillip, ever the efficient shadow, remained by his side, his presence a silent promise that whatever was happening, he wouldn't face it alone.

Once the guards had withdrawn, Phillip didn't waste time. He settled himself onto a chair beside the bed and withdrew a worn leather-bound notebook from his cloak. Unlike the parchment earlier, this notebook seemed well-used, the leather cover scuffed and the edges worn from constant handling. Phillip traced a finger along the embossed insignia on the front cover, an emblem that looked suspiciously like a stylized eye.

"There's a reason I wasn't around to observe your, shall we say, 'unorthodox' training methods in the Grand Hall, Captain," Phillip began, his voice low and serious. His gaze flickered to Alaric for a fleeting moment before returning to the notebook.

Alaric bristled. Unorthodox? He called it resourceful. Having the new recruits mop floors and scrub tables taught them respect and responsibility at the same time, it certainly livened things up for the palace staff. But Phillip, with his by-the-book demeanor, probably wouldn't appreciate his methods. Still, the mention of something more interesting overshadowed his annoyance.

"Grand Hall?" Alaric croaked, his voice hoarse. "What are you talking about, Phillip? Get to the point. What's so peculiar?"

Phillip sighed, a sound of weary patience. He flipped open the notebook, the crisp pages whispering a promise of secrets. "While you were... torturing the ... less then capable," he said, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm, "a report came in about a disturbance in the lower ward. A shop called Aetheels Arcane Artifacts."

Intrigued, Alaric managed a weak nod. "A shop? Disturbance? Sounds like a petty theft or a bar brawl."

A hint of an amused smile played on Phillip's lips as he glanced up from his notes. "Not quite, Captain. This report mentioned... magic." He paused, letting the weight of the word hang in the air before continuing. "And not the parlor tricks variety we see at courtly gatherings."

Alaric's breath hitched. Magic. That changed things entirely. "Magic?" he croaked, his voice hoarse with newfound interest. "Phillip, are you serious?" His question hung in the air, a silent plea for confirmation.

His question hung in the air, a silent plea for confirmation.

Phillip met his gaze, a flicker of something akin to urgency replacing his usual stoicism. "Very serious, Captain. The report details a robbery attempt at the shop. Apparently, the would-be thieves were scared off by a... vigilante."