Chương 108: Chapter 41: The Face Behind the Mask

The following morning, Selena arose with a parsimony she did not feel in her chest. The night had been a discreet vigil, a silent guard beside Fjora's bed, watching over every breath of the wounded warrior. Although small, shadowy bags marked her face like a map of a won battle, like dark medals beneath her green eyes, the only thing she yearned for now was the truth.

A single, tangible truth that would restore meaning to that nightmare night: who those men in black were, and why they had sought her out, the Duchess, the intruder, the one who did not even know why she was a target. Before leaving, she gave clear orders, using a tone that admitted no reply but was tinged with a tenderness she rarely permitted herself. She ordered Fjora to stay in bed, telling her that rest was her only weapon now.

She entrusted her care to Samira, with a look that sealed a silent pact between them. Upon stepping out of the room, she took a deep breath. For the first time since her arrival in Kaelburg, since the royal carriage had deposited her in that world of stone and privilege, she felt a breath of real freedom.

It was an elusive, almost forgotten sensation that she had yearned for with a dull ache for so many days that, now that she was reclaiming it, a foolish, caught-off-guard smile settled on her lips and refused to leave them, despite the gravity of the inquiry awaiting her. She walked with a firm, measured stride toward the only place where answers were not a favor, but an obligation: the garrison of the Royal Guard upon the university walls.

She had dressed fully, not in the practical comfort of her vests and trousers, but in clothes worthy of her rank. Deep green silk, high collars embroidered in silver thread, the cloak bearing the emblem of Solendra falling over her shoulders with the weight of authority. The mask of the Hereditary Duchess fit her perfectly. Her stride was imposing, her gaze a lake of frozen emerald.

More than one student, upon seeing her pass with her hair billowing in the autumn wind among leaves that fell like golden coins from a dying tree, lowered their head with a respect that was more fear than admiration. Upon arriving at the gate of the garrison, she planted herself in front of the first guard. He was a man of imposing height, with burnished armor and the royal coat of arms of Erabergh embroidered on his shoulder, a rampant dune felis that seemed to roar in silence.

Selena, rather than speaking, demanded. Her tone, molded to resemble someone from the salons in Lumenburg, cut through the air. —Distinguished guard —she said, and the word sounded like empty formality— would you do me the favor of directing me to someone who can give me the answers I need. Her gaze swept over him from head to toe, a cold and swift evaluation that made his place in the order of things clear.

The soldier, accustomed to orders but not to scrutiny, frowned for an instant, a minimal gesture that tightened his jaw beneath his helm. —Someone important —Selena added, finishing the sentence with a calmness that was more insulting than a shout. The soldier, only then, with modesty and a patience that betrayed years of training in managing capricious nobles, spoke. His tone was purely military, undeniable in its hierarchy. —Who is she that enters such a request to His Majesty's Royal Guard?

—he asked, the emphasis on the verb making it clear that she was the intruder in his territory, not the other way around. Selena did not flinch. The man was reacting exactly as she had desired. A slow, almost playful smile turned up her painted lips. Then, almost savoring the title on her tongue, like someone tasting a sweet poison, she said slowly. —Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra. The Hereditary Duchess of the Grand Duchy of Solendra. The effect was instant.

The soldier's eyes widened, and every trace of annoyance or military authority evaporated from his face, replaced by a barely contained urgency. His shoulders, moments before tense as steel, relaxed. —My lady Isabella —he said, and his voice had lost its edge— The captain of the guard mentioned to us that you might come. Forgive me if I aggrieved you. You may accompany me immediately. Only then did she look at him again. A mocking smile, intimate and cruel all at once, was born on her lips.

Only then did she pronounce, almost like a sentence, like a reminder of the unbridgeable gap between them: —Do not worry. I understand the bewilderment of the common folk. There were no further exchanges. She followed him, and the soldier guided her. But that man was breathing now with a contained rage that vibrated in his broad shoulders, a rage that Selena felt in her own chest like a stab. The mask was, above all, a tool to break oneself. And every word that sharpened it also drove it in deeper.

They arrived at a modest office with bare stone walls and a single large window that looked out onto the parade ground. In front of a dark wooden desk, worn by the elbows of generations of officers, stood a weathered man. He wore no armor, but rather a fine suit of military cut in the colors of the crown: the violet of justice, the red of spilled blood, and the gold of eternal power. His eyes, of a light and tired gray, evaluated her without haste.

—Miss Isabella —he said, and his voice was grave, like the friction of two stones— Forgive me if Cayus aggrieved you. He tends to be a bit rough with ladies. He inclined his head in a gesture that was more protocol than apology. Then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed the soldier. Once they were alone, the man continued. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. —If you will permit me, I shall introduce myself.

I am Captain Curtis Elvars, the permanent officer in charge of the walls of the great Royal University of Kaelburg. Selena confined herself to nodding, to listening, her posture erect, her gaze fixed on him like a hawk on its prey. Until he fell silent, and she added, with a voice that was pure contained edge: —I want all the information you have regarding the massive failure of your guard regarding my personal safety. Not only was it deficient, but furthermore, a person dear to me was wounded.

Curtis did not flinch. He sat at his desk, laced his fingers over the polished wood, and then, with a serene gesture that invited calmness, indicated the chair opposite him. Selena took a seat, feeling the hardness of the wood. —Duchess. The information we are permitted to give you is that the guard had an infiltrator. For months. Even before you arrived here. The soldier had been serving with us for months when the attack occurred. He paused, letting the gravity of the information settle.

Then, his gaze hardened, and his voice became implacable. —But, under strict orders from the legions of the royal army, we are forbidden from giving more precise information to a civilian. Even if that civilian is, undoubtedly, a noble of the highest birth. He looked at her then, and in his brown eyes there was no fear, nor any apology. Only a slight annoyance, a silent reprimand that weighed more than any shout. It was the gaze of a man who applied the law, not justice.

—As an heiress —he proceeded, leaning slightly toward her— you must know that civilian laws do not apply to the military. And that, for an heiress, it is of vital importance to maintain respect between the royal armies and the grand ducal ones. He made a final pause, letting the poison of the implication take effect. His voice, when he spoke again, was barely a whisper, but each word fell like a stone into the frozen pond of the office. —Your uncle, the Lord High Constable of the Kingdom...

what would he think of your attitude today? Selena could say no more. The words choked in her throat, a knot of rage and shame she could not undo. She left the room with her heart in her hand, feeling her pulse slip through her fingers. It was true. She knew it. She had walked on a tightrope, dazzled by her own authority, ignorant of the civil, military, and ducal codes that wove the invisible web of power. Her ignorance had brought her dangerously close to a stumble, to the brink of falling from her own mask.

She walked back, almost dragging her feet over the cobblestones of the path. The morning sun, which earlier had been golden and promising, now felt gray and accusing to her. Her expression, her posture, which hours before had been so confident, now only reflected an absolute heaviness, one that came from the bitterest failure: that of having been caught in her own game. Until she stopped in front of the university bulletin board. There, absorbed in reading a parchment pinned to the wood, was Yarra.

The imposing woodcutter, with her broad back and her blacksmith's arms, was reading with an attention that was pure curiosity. Selena approached little by little, step by step, until she was by her side. —Yarra —she interrupted her, touching her arm softly. The girl turned around in surprise, almost with a startle that made her take a step back. Her eyes, dark and deep, looked at her with a mixture of respect and fear. —Miss Isabella —she managed to stammer. Selena sighed. It was that name again. Isabella again.

The mask, once more. But she refused, this time. In front of the damned, in front of those who carried the same invisible condemnation, she could only be Selena. —I approached out of curiosity. What are you reading? Yarra, however, smiled a little. A slight, almost timid gesture that illuminated her weathered face. Then, with her large, calloused fingers, she pointed to one of the papers on the board.

—Corin won the poetry contest —she said, and her voice held a hint of secondhand pride, of shared admiration— I heard his poem. It was truly beautiful. Her eyes drifted then, to a point beyond the wood and the parchment, as if she could see the written words floating in the air. —He spoke about the goddess. About how our lady created the world through words. It was so beautiful that we all knew he would win, without a doubt. Only then did a genuine smile, faint and small, appear on Selena's lips.

It was a fragile smile, like freshly blown glass, but it was real. —Valerian said he had no talent with words —she murmured, with a hint of irony— The jester was wrong. Yarra laughed softly, a hoarse and warm sound. Her shoulders shook in an echo of the laughter. Only when she calmed down did she add, with a curiosity that was pure innocence: —Miss... you are a medic, aren't you? Selena, somewhat embarrassed, could only correct her.

A sigh, laden with a humility she rarely permitted herself, escaped her lips before she spoke. —I try —she admitted— Though"The Great Medicinal Herbarium of Birgen" has cost me dearly. It is a very dense book. Sometimes I just want the book to teach the way Anselmo does. The woodcutter, surprised by the confession, could only smile, almost conspiratorially. Her face, normally serious, lit up with an expression of unexpected sisterhood.

—The"Official Digest of the Crown by Jurist Martis" makes me pull the hair right out of my head —she confessed, and both laughed, a brief but liberating sound that lost itself amidst the bustle of the campus. They spent the afternoon sharing anecdotes about books. Selena, about the medicine ones that cost her the most, the treatises on drug preparations, the dosages, all of that overwhelmed her.

Yarra, about the ones she hated from her path, "History and Royal Law," with its endless lists of decrees and its dates that refused to fix themselves in her mind. When the conversation turned to other matters, both girls spoke of their lives, their fears, their small joys. Selena permitted her to call her whatever she wished, but the woodcutter confined herself to saying "miss," arguing with a soul-piercing simplicity that her lineage did not deserve any other treatment.

Selena learned that Yarra was an orphan, that she had been raised by a friend of her mother, a woman who had also lost her family in the same plague. And that, since childhood, she had worked every day of her life chopping wood to get ahead; that was why she unconsciously distanced herself from Selena's nobility, not out of contempt, but due to a wound she did not know how to name. Back in her room after a conversation that had been an unexpected balm in the midst of the storm, Selena went directly to Fjora.

She cleaned her wound with soft, precise movements, applied the creams prescribed by Anselmo, and bandaged her side with clean, firm strips of linen. It was an act of silent care; a return of the protection the warrior had provided her with her own body. When she finally lay down in her bed, the fatigue was not merely physical. Her mind, exhausted by the weight of the duchess mask, by failure at the garrison, by the afternoon of shared humanity with Yarra, could only succumb to the weariness.

It was the exhaustion of a day where her two faces, that of the haughty noble and that of the vulnerable woman, had blurred until they merged, oppressing her chest in the solitude of the night. She closed her eyes, and sleep, heavy and dreamless, claimed her without resistance.