Chương 111: Chapter 44: Conscious Resonant

She finally found him in the Atrium of Knowledge, toying absentmindedly with a crystal that caused the light to glint in tiny rainbows upon the floor. Upon approaching, Selena, imbuing herself with a theatricality she had learned from him, made an exaggerated bow and then, with a flourish of her hand that was an almost perfect copy of his most affected gestures, announced: —Little wretch, behold the price of your misfortune. Your bad luck in the hazard of destiny favors me far too much.

Valerian was completely thrown off balance. For a second, his jester mask shattered, showing an expression of genuine astonishment. Then, a loud laugh burst from his throat, not mocking, but full of an authentic and surprised glee. —By the Void, crimson! You are plagiarizing my style! —he exclaimed, wiping away an imaginary tear of laughter. Without further ado, he followed her through the hidden passages to the ochre room. Once inside, silence descended like a slab, heavy and expectant.

They sat facing each other upon the scattered cushions. The afternoon light, already low, entered through a small skylight, illuminating the dust that danced in the air between them. Selena pulled out, one by one, the objects she had gathered, placing them before Valerian on the polished stone floor.

The iridescence feather, the transparent beetle, the resonant dagger, the blue-green-flamed lamp, the indestructible parchment bookmark, the golden thread that caused dizziness, the weightless obsidian stone, and lastly, the vial with the trapped air from the mill. Valerian observed the display of objects, his gray eyes scanning each one with an intensity that stripped the things of their mere materiality to see only the arcane essence that pulsed within.

When he reached the glass vial, with its apparently empty but unsettlingly dense content for a trained perception, his expression of genuine surprise deepened. He brought a hand to his temple, as if a slight headache had assailed him. —I did not expect them to be all of them, crimson —he confessed. His voice completely lacked its usual affectation. He sounded tired, almost resigned. —Sometimes, for a resonant, it is better to have less. He sighed, a sound that seemed to drag the weight of years not lived but lost.

—How did you think of the vial? Selena, still under the effervescence of success and theatrical imitation, replied with an almost childlike sincerity: —It's just that I couldn't see anything and there was nothing, but the air was still there, dense. So, I trapped something I could hold. A faint, involuntary smile appeared on Valerian's lips upon hearing the explanation. It was the smile of a master who sees his student apply a lesson in the most creative and unexpected way.

—I expected that you wouldn't be able to bring the one from the mill —the jester admitted, passing a hand over his face, a gesture of real fatigue. Selena only frowned, her expression reflecting her thought; it was just as the master said, it had been a challenge. Only then did Valerian continue. —It is difficult to perceive. I had Isolde give, through the written touch, the quality of more density to the air… or less oxygen, as you said in classes.

He paused, and when he looked back at her, the mask had fallen completely. There was no jester, no tyrant, no enigma. Now there was a man, a master, the wretch with bad luck that she herself had named a long time ago. His face showed a bleak, solemn concern. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. —I cannot teach you anything more for a while, Crimson. Now His Majesty has something planned for you. You are talented. That, for a resonant, is dangerous.

The words fell into the room like stones into a frozen pond. Selena felt a cold that did not come from the air surrounding her. —Here, resonants die —Valerian continued, his voice grave, unadorned— Here, few graduate. Here, someone like you… is rarely found. The last time someone finished an arcane semester this quickly… He made another pause, and a flash of something bitter, a personal and painful memory, crossed his eyes. —They ended up calling him the red.

He sighed deeply, as if dislodging a weight from his chest. Then, looking her directly in the eyes, with a formality that was anomalous and therefore terrifying, he pronounced: —Congratulations, Miss Selena de Solendra. The use of her name, spoken with that solemnity, made Selena tremble. It was not a compliment. It sounded like a sentence, like a rite of passage into a deeper abyss. And from what she could remember, it was the first time he had called her "Selena." —You are a conscious-grade resonant —he declared.

The silence that followed was absolute on Selena's part. The air seemed to become denser, like that of the vial. A hand, the one that had been restored, began to tremble slightly—a fine, uncontrollable tremor that was born from the depths of fear. Conscious of what?, she thought, though a part of her already knew the answer. Of my own death? Of the curse in its full extension? Of the King's attention? Of the fact that I don't fit in anywhere? Valerian, noticing the tremor, made no mocking comment.

Instead, with a deliberate movement, he pulled something from one of the inner pockets of his tunic. It was an earring. Simple in its design: a single small stone, of a deep and intense red like arterial blood, set in a mount of dark, almost black silver. The stone did not shine, but it had no reflections from the room; it was as if it were emanating a crimson darkness. —Take it —he said, holding it out to her— An earring. It will look perfect on a crimson like you.

Remember to press it very hard when you put it on, with enough force… for when the bracelet breaks. The mention of Corren's bracelet was clear, a coded warning about the moment when her current protection would fail. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the jester's mask returned to his face. His tone became light, almost sing-song: —By the way, I have taken the book of the bandaged mage. The project of the table with bandages and a limp needs it. Besides, he told me you didn't read it much.

—A quick wink, and the solemnity of the previous moment was buried beneath the familiar facade of the capricious idiot. Upon leaving the ochre room and emerging into the grayish light of the winter sunset, Selena felt strange, as if she had been marked with an invisible seal. Conscious-grade resonant. The phrase echoed in her mind, blending with the vision of the objects found, with the weight of the red earring in her pocket, with the warning about the King.

But Selena was not one to remain passive before the designs of others, not even those of a monarch or a lunatic master. A masterstroke, an act of pure intellectual and personal rebellion, began to take shape in her mind. A few days later, taking advantage of a moment when Valerian was absent, surely torturing another student or lost in one of his games, Selena slipped into his chaotic office. She did not touch anything of the reigning disaster. Instead, she drew a book from amidst her clothes.

It was not the original by Eliud, of course. It was a creation of her own. She had employed hours of meticulous work, virgin parchment, special inks, and all her skill as a philologist counterfeiter to create an almost perfect replica of"The Imaginary and the Understanding of the Echo." The tanned leather spine, the simulated wear, the title engraved with faded ink… everything was impeccable. She placed it in a prominent spot upon the monumental desk, between towers of papers and forgotten teacups.

Furthermore, upon the cover, she put a small folded piece of paper. On it, in a neat and elegant handwriting that would have made any royal scribe blush with envy, was a single word: "Ignorance." Thus, when Valerian found it, lifting that false treasure full of promises of ancestral secrets, he would meet with that message. He would know that he had lifted the paper, and in that manner, Valerian would have finally managed to "lift her ignorance."

Then, if he opened the book, searching for the wisdom of the first king, he would only find, written in the same flawless handwriting in the center of a blank page, another word, a title and a final verdict:"Jester." It was her silent vengeance, her declaration of independence. A reminder, carved into the falsehood of a sacred book, that even a resonant conscious of her doom could return the ball to the master who believed he controlled the game.

The red earring weighed in her pocket, the consciousness of her destiny weighed in her soul, but the satisfaction of that small and audacious revolt was, for the moment, a bittersweet and necessary balm.