Chương 107: Chapter 40: More Valuable than Gold

Finally, they were left alone. Selena, Fjora, and Samira. The silence was different now, charged not only with the recent trauma, but with the need to address the unspoken. Selena observed her guardian. Fjora remained standing by the door, as always, but her posture was a bit less rigid; a slight favoring toward her unbandaged side betrayed the pain she surely felt beneath the dressings. —Fjora —Selena called, her voice soft but firm in the quiet— Sit down. It was not a suggestion. Fjora obeyed immediately.

She approached with measured movements and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress barely sinking beneath her weight. She kept her back straight, her clear blue eyes fixed on a point on the wall. Selena studied her. The worry that had been throbbing in her chest since she saw her wounded surfaced, pure and authentic, stripped of the formalisms of the false duchess mask. —How are you? —she asked, and the words resonated with a simplicity she rarely used. Fjora blinked, as if the question were unexpected.

When she spoke, her voice, always a surprising contrast to her sculpted warrior physique, sounded with its peculiar sweetness, but now laden with a heavy and guilty weight. —My lady… —she began, and an almost imperceptible tremor ran through her lips— They released a drug into the room. I noticed it… the air changed, a scent of sweet and pleasant flowers. But I could barely move. My muscles would not respond, my mind grew cloudy.

She paused, taking a deep breath, as if reliving the moment cost her a physical effort. —They tried to take you. They took you while you were asleep, deeply. I couldn't… I couldn't prevent it. Her eyes, always so cold and clear, flooded with a moisture that reflected the sunlight. They were not tears falling, but a gleam of contained water, of frustration and guilt so deep they seemed to want to drown her from within.

For Fjora, whose entire reason for being was protection, that failure was a wound deeper than any sword. —I fought one of them —she continued, her voice a hoarse whisper— But I was slow, lethargic. My body was made of lead. His sword… crossed my entire chest. Wide open. An instinctive hand rested on the bandage, as if she still felt the coldness of the steel. —I fell to the floor. And with his dagger… he pierced my side. It wasn't just the cut. I began to feel paralyzed, but at the same time…

my body moved involuntarily. Spasms. As if the nerves were rebelling. It was poison, working. Selena listened, her heart squeezing in her chest. So, she didn't just come close to dying from the cut, but she was poisoned, with her body completely numbed, she thought, a wave of her own guilt flooding her. I didn't even realize. I slept like a log, useless, while she fought and bled for me.

Fjora proceeded, her gaze lost in the memory: —A few minutes later, while I was fighting the poison, fighting the paralysis that wanted to take over my lungs… that woman arrived. The one in the black tunic with violet details. Isolde. Selena knew it instantly. —She placed a paper on my forehead —Fjora said. A flash of awe mingled with the pain in her eyes. —A small parchment, with runes. Then… I could move again. Not entirely, but enough.

She told me not to worry, that her companion had gone for you, only then did she withdraw. I had to… close the wound myself. With what I could. The tale was chilling in its rawness. The deadly efficiency of the attackers, the delayed but crucial intervention of Isolde, Fjora's iron will to survive and, even wounded, fulfill her duty. Selena extended her hand and placed it over Fjora's clenched fist, which rested on her thigh. The contact was firm, an anchor.

—It is understandable —Selena said, and her voice sounded with a conviction meant to be a balm. The Norsewoman avoided her eyes, her head bowed and her hair covering her face. —It was not a fair fight. They were cowards, using poison and sleeping drafts. You noticed the threat, you fought even while paralyzed. Have no regrets. You fulfilled your purpose excellently. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Selena squeezed her hand slightly; it was a simple gesture to restore her agency. —Now, you will accompany me to have your wound healed. Correctly. It is non-negotiable. Immediately, Selena got out of bed. A slight dizziness assaulted her, a residual effect of the shock and blood loss, but she ignored it. She dressed quickly, choosing a simple dress of thick, terracotta-colored fabric and wrapping a wool blanket over her shoulders. With a gesture, she indicated to both slaves to follow her.

The three left the Cloister of the Forest and made their way through the cold afternoon courtyards toward the quarters of the university clinic. The building was made of light stone, with high windows and a persistent smell of herbal antiseptics, burnt earth, and cleanliness. Inside, in an austere waiting room with wooden benches, there were a few students with minor sprains or feverish gazes. It was there that she saw him.

Anselmo, the elderly professor of advanced medicine, the one in charge of the remains, was checking some vials on a shelf. His hair and beard, white as snow, gleamed under the light of the tallow lamps. Sensing their presence, he turned. His eyes, usually veiled by a resigned sadness or academic curiosity, rested on Selena and widened slightly. For the first time since they had met, it was he who spoke first, addressing her directly. —Miss Isabella de Solendra —he said with a slight inclination of his head.

His voice was grave but clear, without a trace of his usual heaviness. —What does your professor desire from you? He looked her straight in the eyes, without the exaggerated deference of others, but with the frankness of a professional before a potential patient… or an interesting case. Selena did not vacillate. Her tone was that of the Hereditary Duchess, cold, practical, making it clear there was no room for discussion. —I need treatment for both —she announced.

She then added, with a gesture that included Fjora and Samira. —I want Samira examined for residual agents of the sleeping draft they used last night. For Fjora, the same, but furthermore, her sword wound in her chest must be closed correctly, treated with the best medications and by the best surgeon available. No practitioners. She paused, and then added, with a gesture that was pure noble protocol but also a demonstration of power: —I will give a gold crown if I believe the treatment deserves it.

The sum was exorbitant for a university consultation. A gold crown was equivalent to two months of a professor's salary at the very least; it was more than anyone she knew in Terracanto would earn in at least five years. But Selena did not blink. Fjora's life, her loyalty, was worth that and more. Anselmo held her gaze for a long moment, as if evaluating not only the request, but the woman making it. Then, he nodded once, with a sharp movement.

—Very well —he said, and his tone was purely professional— We will begin immediately. He performed the tests himself. With hands surprisingly firm for his age, he took saliva samples, then examined Samira's and Fjora's eyes under a lens. A few minutes of tense silence passed. —I find no traces of active toxins —he finally declared. Selena, who until then had kept her shoulders tense, yielded for a few seconds. —Whatever it was, it was potent but short-acting, or it was countered effectively.

His gaze rested on Fjora. —Now, the wound. He led her to an adjacent, more private room. Selena insisted on staying. She observed, with a mix of fascination and contained worry, how Anselmo, with a precision that spoke of more than half a century of experience, cleaned Fjora's wound. He used an amber liquid that smelled of coral tree resin and alcohol. Then, with fine forceps and a curved needle, he began to suture.

His movements were economical, confident, each stitch placed at a perfect distance, neither too tight to strangle the flesh nor too loose to be useless. He spoke in whispers to himself, enumerating muscle layers, commenting on the cleanliness of the cut. —Fortunately, the blade was very sharp; the damage is clean— He was a master in the art of the physiologist, a cartographer of the human body.

Once the suturing was finished, he applied a thick and fragrant ointment, it was a mixture of waxban wax and silicariel resin, Selena recognized the scents from her class, then he bandaged Fjora's chest and side with firm, clean linen bandages. At the end, he turned to Selena. In his extended hand, he held a small glass vial with a fine, grayish-white powder. —Remember —he said, his grave voice laden with medical authority— It must be applied every morning, after washing the wound only with clean, warm water.

The bandages must be changed every day. And finally… He added, and his gaze became very intense. —If the wound turns even just a little yellow, if there is excessive heat or pus, have her return immediately. Do not wait. He did not say "my lady." He did not bow. He gave instructions as he would to anyone in charge of a patient. Selena took the vial, nodding. Then, she pulled a heavy gold coin, the crown, from a fold of her dress and handed it to him.

Anselmo took it, weighed it in his hand for an instant, and then slipped it into a pocket of his tunic without changing his expression. A payment for an exceptional service, accepted without comment. —You may leave —he said simply, and went back to his vials, the old scholar and surgeon disappearing once more into his role as a clinic official.

Once they returned to Selena's room, she noticed how Fjora tried not to look her in the eyes, this time knowing it was not out of shame for having failed to protect her, but because of what had been invested in her: her bruised body, her iron loyalty, that silent honor that the northern fjords forge in their warriors. Samira, in turn, looked at her differently, closer, as if the intimacy of convalescence had broken down the barriers of scholarly courtesy.

Selena did not leave her side that day; she cared for her as much as she could afford to in her role as a false duchess, because she had done what anyone with a soul minimally disposed toward the light would have done: value that which is so scarce in the world, the fidelity that cannot be bought with crowns nor decreed with titles.