Chương 113: Chapter 46: Royal Reclamation

That morning she ate breakfast quickly, consuming brown bread with scrambled eggs; a dull urgency in her chest hurried her, and she went straight out to the Atrium of Knowledge. Her boots crunched upon the virgin snow, leaving the first tracks on the deserted paths. The air was so cold that it stung her lungs with every inhalation. There, beneath the imposing silhouette of the Hourglass, whose sand seemed to flow slower under the bluish light, a dark figure waited.

Valerian, wrapped in a black cloak trimmed with excellent quality, looked like a blot of ink upon the white canvas. Upon seeing her approach, he executed one of his characteristic flourishes, a movement of his hand that caused a snowflake to deviate in an unusual curve. —The destiny of the wretch has found you, crimson —he said, and his voice sounded clear and metallic in the winter silence. Without further ado, he extended his hand. In it he held a thick parchment envelope, closed with four overlapping wax seals.

The most prominent one, in the center, was unmistakable: the royal coat of arms of Erabergh. Selena took it, feeling the weight of the paper and the authority it implied. —Only a three-week journey away —Valerian added, almost as a whisper. Selena was still staring fixedly at the seals. —Winter on the paths of the royal highway is unforgiving, even to conscious duchesses. He paused, and a flash of his old personality emerged. —By the way, I have already lifted the ignorance. Only to find that I am a jester.

He winked at her, a tacit and amused acknowledgment of the book prank she had planted in his office. Only then did he laugh out loud, a dry sound that did not disturb the snowy silence. —I must go. Prepare methods of theatrical intimidation for the rest of your classmates. The semester doesn't teach itself. He vanished among the snowflakes that were beginning to fall again, leaving her alone with the royal envelope in her gloved hands. Selena did not wait.

She headed straight to the library, seeking the relative warmth and privacy of its interior. At one of the high reception tables, far from the few early risers who were flipping through volumes with numb hands, she broke the seals with ceremonious care. The letter she unfolded was a formal document, far removed from the personal notes or cryptic missives she was used to. It was an official summons, drafted with the cold precision of royal bureaucracy.

The ink was black and deep, the handwriting impeccable, drawn with a firm and authoritative stroke.

"To Lady Isabella Elizabeth Selena de Solendra, Hereditary Duchess of Solendra, Lady of Lumenburg, Protector of the Eastern Straits. By the present document, Your Most Excellent Sovereign Monarch, Thaerón IV Volgthar, Lord of the Four Lands and Protector of the Eternal Flow, summons you to a private audience. The presentation shall take place in the Alabaster Throne Room, in the Royal Palace of Volgthar, three weeks and three days having elapsed from the receipt of this missive.

Matters inherent to the succession and duties of the House of Solendra shall be addressed, as well as other affairs of vital importance for the Crown and the Kingdom. You are wished the best of journeys; may the roads and the designs of the Flow be propitious to you. Signed by his own hand, Thaerón IV Volgthar." Beneath the signature, stamped with force, was the great royal seal, depicting a dune felis with a sword in its muzzle. But it was not the only one.

Flanking it, smaller but equally solemn, were the seal of the Royal Council, a scale upon a book, that of the Supervisor of Scribes and Archives, a quill crossed with a scroll, and the one that made her catch her breath, the seal of her own house: the coat of arms of Solendra, a golden hawk armed with a spear over green and blue waves over silver. Her own family seal, used to endorse a summons that sounded more like an order to appear. The formality was absolute. There was no room for doubt, excuse, or delay.

"Matters inherent to the succession… affairs of vital importance for the Crown." The words echoed in her mind, cold as the snow that kept falling outside. The King did not just know of her existence; he had plans for her. Those plans, in the world of the Volghthars, always carried the bittersweet taste of power; she feared the price of the throne might be the grave. The freezing air seemed to have solidified inside her chest as she read the summons.

The formal words, the overlapping seals, the weight of the parchment… everything confirmed there was no escape. The audience with the King was not a distant possibility, but a destiny already mapped out in ink and wax, a path unfolding before her feet like the snowy trails she must now travel. Selena folded the letter with her fingers, there was conviction in her actions, but mixed with resignation; only then did she tuck it into the inner pocket of her tunic, alongside Valerian's red earring.

Two small objects, two silent warnings: one of royal power, the other of arcane power. Both followed her. She did not return to the Cloister of the Forest. There was nothing to pack, nothing to say. Her room was no longer a refuge; it was merely a passing station on a journey that others had designed for her. She walked with a firm stride through the snow-covered gardens, her boots sinking into the white mantle with a dull, constant crunch.

The campus was deserted, phantasmal under the bluish light of the winter dawn. Not even the birds sang; only the wind whistled through the bare branches of the coral trees, now dusted with white like bones decorated with frost. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. Upon reaching the entrance of the Cloister of the Forest, she stopped.

It was not the usual stillness that surprised her, but the foreign, military, and orderly presence that completely broke the peace of the place. In front of the building, occupying the small clearing where she used to train with Fjora, a retinue waited. Three heavy carriages of robust construction and austere lines were aligned with precision. They were not the elegant transports of courtly nobility, but long-travel vehicles, with high wheels and side armor of wood reinforced with iron bands.

Each was hitched to four titanopods, those enormous six-legged insects with shiny carapaces, now covered in thick blankets to protect them from the cold. Their heads, with multiple eyes and still mandibles, breathed vapor into the gelid morning, creating ephemeral little clouds that dissipated into the air. Around them, a dozen soldiers formed an impassive semicircle.

They wore hardened leather armor and chainmail, and upon their chests, embroidered with silver and gold threads, was the shield of the House of Solendra, forming the heraldry of power and heritage. They were her men, or rather, the men of her title, of her blood, of the Hereditary Duchess she embodied despite everything. Selena observed them for a moment, without hurrying. Her gaze, green and sharp as the edge of a crystal, scanned every face, every detail.

They showed no emotion whatsoever; they were professionals, soldiers accustomed to obedience and the cold. The only one who seemed to hold a higher rank was a man of medium height, broad build, and a face marked by old scars. Over his shoulders he wore a thick wool cloak of an intense, dark red, the color of a precious gem. It was not the mocking red of Valerian nor the crimson of her title; it was a serious, martial red, from which emanated authority and, perhaps, a warning.

Upon seeing her approach, the man with the red cloak separated from the group and advanced toward her with measured steps. He stopped at a respectful distance but did not make an exaggerated bow. His inclination of the head was brief, functional, that of a soldier who recognizes his superior but wastes no time on flourishes. —My lady —he said, his voice grave and raspy, like stones rubbing together under water— You must already have been informed. We shall depart immediately by direct order of the Grand Duke.

He paused, letting the words settle in the cold air. Selena did not reply, she only observed him, waiting. The man continued: —His lordship, the Grand Duke said it was not necessary to pack. Upon arriving at the capital, you will be provided with an entire wardrobe of new clothing, fitting for your status and the audience with His Majesty. His tone was neutral, but in his dark eyes there was a flash of something that could be resignation, or perhaps simple efficiency.

He knew his mission was to transport the Duchess, not to question orders. Then, he extended a gloved arm and pointed toward the center carriage. It was slightly larger than the others, with windows closed by thick curtains and a House of Solendra shield painted with care upon the door. —Your slaves are already inside —the guard added. For the first time, his voice dropped a tone, as if the term made him uncomfortable, or perhaps as if he knew that Selena did not like it either.

—If you please, we may depart immediately. He stood expectantly, motionless, awaiting her order. The snow began to fall again, large and slow flakes that settled upon his red cloak like pale stains upon a battlefield. Selena remained silent for a few seconds more. There was no choice, she knew it. But in her mind, a cold and analytical part was already processing the journey, the risks, the variables. She nodded, a slight but definitive movement.

—So be it —she said, her voice clear despite the cold as she let out a heavy sigh. She walked toward the central carriage. A youthful-faced soldier stepped forward and opened the door, lowering the small steps of forged iron. Selena climbed in, immediately feeling the contrast between the freezing air outside and the relative warmth of the interior, maintained by hot stones placed in compartments beneath the seats. There sat Fjora and Samira.

Both were bundled up in practical but high-quality clothes: thick wool cloaks, lined mantles, gloves. Fjora, seated by the window on the left side, kept her back straight and her gaze alert, though a slight paleness in her face betrayed that the wound in her chest was still not entirely forgotten. Samira, on the opposite side, had a book open upon her lap, but her dark eyes rose toward Selena with an expression of expectant calm. There were no greetings, no questions.

Their months of living together had created silent language between them; they knew this journey was no excursion. The moment Selena settled into the center seat, with a fluid movement that barely made the leather cushions groan, the carriage set off. The driver's command was heard, followed by the unique grunt of the titanopods, and the vehicle began to move forward with a heavy but constant sway.

Through the window, Selena saw how the Cloister of the Forest, the university, all of Kaelburg, began to recede, wrapped in a white and silent mantle, as if the world had decided to erase her tracks after her departure. This is how one travels when one is a pawn on the royal chessboard, she thought, with a hint of bitterness. With an escort, with closed carriages, with orders that arrive before you do.

The days that followed were a monotonous and challenging succession of winter landscapes, difficult roads, and gelid nights. The problem was not bandits or wild beasts, as the escort of Solendra soldiers was imposing and deterrent; the problem was nature itself. The snow, initially a soft white layer, turned into hidden ice traps and treacherous quagmires when the cold yielded slightly during the day.

The titanopods, resilient creatures, advanced with difficulty when temperatures dropped too low; on more than one occasion, the caravan had to halt earlier than planned, seeking refuge in fortified inns or abandoned barns to give them rest and shelter. Selena observed the landscape from the window, which was occasionally fogged by her breath. The world outside Kaelburg was vast, ancient, and laden with history. As they drew closer to the capital, the towns changed.

They were no longer the modest and practical settlements of the university region, but villages with sturdier architecture, featuring gray stones and slate roofs that seemed to have endured centuries of winters. At some crossroads, enormous monuments arose: obelisks carved with worn scripts, triumphal arches half-covered in dry ivy, statues of ancient kings whose faces had been softened by the rain and wind until they became enigmatic and anonymous.

On a high hill, she spotted a distant mountain range, a wall of jagged peaks that lost itself among the low clouds, like the teeth of a sleeping colossus. And in the squares of some larger towns, there were statues dedicated to Aelthra.

They did not depict her as a warrior goddess or an abstract entity, but as a woman of serene features, holding a jar from which fell an eternal water, though in more than one place it could now be seen frozen into icicles over her feet; and at her feet, sculpted into the stone, flowers and vines bloomed, a miracle of petrified life in the midst of winter.

It was a powerful image, domesticated and integrated into the landscape as a fundamental part of its identity, a part that reminded her painfully of the statue of the sacred rest, the one Theron used to care for with such devotion.