Chương 114: Chapter 47: The Royal Capital Erabergh

A day before reaching the capital, the landscape changed dramatically. The road began to wind alongside two wide, rushing rivers whose dark, gelid waters flowed with force, breaking the edges of ice that formed upon the banks. They were the Aelth and the Volg, the two great rivers that named countless towns and gave life to the kingdom.

At certain points, their tributaries almost touched, creating a network of frozen canals and wetlands that gleamed under the dim light of the winter sun like a mosaic of broken mirrors. It was a spectacle of natural power, the lifeblood of the kingdom frozen in its journey toward the sea. Then, at last, they arrived at Erabergh, the royal capital. First came the walls.

Not just one wall, but a concentric series of massive stone ramparts that surrounded even the periphery of the city, each higher and more imposing than the last, like the growth rings of an ancient tree. Outside the outer walls stretched vast expanses of farmland, now barren and covered in snow, dotted by silent farmhouses and silos that looked like oblong tombs in the white landscape.

Upon crossing the first fortified gate, which was a huge arch flanked by towers from which guards observed them with uninterested vigilance, the city opened before them. It was like entering a living organism, complex and noisy, breathing despite the cold. Majestic aqueducts, feats of engineering that seemed to defy gravity, crossed the sky above their heads, carrying water from the rivers to public fountains and baths.

Watermills, with their giant wheels partially frozen but still turning with parsimony, punctuated the course of the canals. Shops with faded awnings, houses of wood and stone piled against one another on cobblestone streets, and temples. Those temples. They were not mere places of worship; they were architectural marvels. Some, dedicated to Aelthra, had domes covered in copper sheets that, despite the moss and rust, reflected greenish glints under the diffuse light.

Others, more ancient and solemn, were adorned with colossal statues of forgotten heroes, stone figures so imposing that they brought a feeling to her chest, that feeling was a strike of bittersweet nostalgia, though she could not identify where it came from. Marveling, she followed them with her gaze, remembering as much as she could, visualizing everything she wished to finally put a name to. The caravan advanced slowly, making its way through the traffic of carts, bundled-up pedestrians, and patrolling soldiers.

At each ring of walls they crossed, they had to show sealed documents, and as a reward they received laconic greetings from the guards; the socioeconomic level of the city seemed to rise. The streets became wider and cleaner, the buildings more ornate, the people better dressed. The smell of baking bread, spices, and woodsmoke mixed with the fainter, yet persistent, aroma of incense and wet stone. Finally, they reached the very center, the heart of power.

There, stripped of the urban tangle, surrounded by a final vast ring of winter gardens and deserted squares, arose the Royal Palace. Selena caught her breath. She had imagined grandeur, but this transcended imagination. It was not a simple castle; it was a mountain carved by the hand of man, a symphony in stone. Built with grey-veined white marble, reddish sandstone that seemed to capture the last glow of sunset, pale travertine, and, above all, alabaster.

Large panels of this last material, translucent and smooth as the skin of a god, covered parts of the facade, gleaming with a phantasmal inner light even beneath the cloudy sky. Colossal pillars, at least fifteen meters high, flanked the main entrance, supporting a pediment sculpted with scenes of foundation and conquest. Monumental stairs, swept of snow by teams of servants with shovels, led to massive bronze doors engraved with the Volgthar coat of arms: the dune felis with the sword in its muzzle.

It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was the cradle of the kingdom, the seat of power that had forged her destiny, the place where her blood, her title, and her curse intertwined in a knot impossible to untie. The carriage stopped at the foot of the stairs. The soldier in the red cloak appeared at the carriage door, opening it. —We have arrived, my lady —he said, and this time his voice held a tone of final solemnity. He made a gesture with his arm, giving way to the full view, and then added.

—It is the Royal Palace of Volgthar. Please follow me. Selena stepped down from the carriage, feeling the intense, pure cold of the white marble transmit through the soles of her boots like a silent reminder of the solidity, permanence, and indifference of power. The ground did not yield; it was nothing like what she remembered from her first days; it was the polished epidermis of history, hard as the will of the kings who had stepped upon those very same stones.

Beside her, Fjora and Samira descended in a heavy, automatic silence. Their bodies, still accustomed to the relative supervised freedom of the university, tensed now into a posture of alertness, it was the pragmatism of one who knows their place. The warrior's blue eyes scanned the surroundings with a feeling that seemed to be nostalgia; Samira's eyes, however, were fixed on the floor.

Though there were no visible threats, only soldiers motionless as armored statues, along with a few servants passing with lowered heads, and the dazzling opulence of the architecture. But danger here did not carry a sword; it was woven into the tapestries, breathing in the perfumed air, hidden behind every smile of protocol. Before them, the massive bronze doors were of height that made anyone feel like an insect.

Only once opened with a slow and ceremonious movement did the sound reach them, it was a grave, resonant growl, a deep vibration that seemed to ascend the alabaster pillars and shake the snowflakes still floating in the gelid air. It was the sound of the threshold being crossed, of the point of no return. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

Past the doors, a corridor stretched into the bowels of the palace, illuminated by the orange dance of hundreds of torches bracketed on stone walls and by the cold majesty of chandeliers whose droplets of cut crystal caught and multiplied each flame like imprisoned stars. Selena crossed the threshold, and with every step she took, the opulence of the place revealed itself like a sleeping beast, dazzling and overwhelming. It was a wealth that did not merely exhibit, but crushed.

The ceiling, at a dizzying height, was covered by splendid paintings of a mesmerizing mastery. Flocks of birds of varied and beautiful colors ranging from ultramarine blues, emerald greens, to cinnabar reds flew over idyllic landscapes of forests and lakes. But in other sections, the scene changed to the brutal epic of war: men in shining armor mounted upon armored-carapace titanopods charged against hordes of tribal warriors armed barely with spears and hides.

Selena stopped her gaze on one of those scenes, and a shiver of recognition ran down her spine. There, in the center of the battle, a man with a simple diadem and an expression of fierce concentration led the charge. Eliud the first king, the first resonant, the tormented man whose confessions she had devoured within the pages of a cursed book.

To see his image glorified upon the ceiling, transformed into an epic hero instead of the tortured being she knew, was a grotesque distortion, a lie painted with gold and ultramarine blue. The walls were not far behind. They were a silent procession of oil portraits; each framed in gilded carved wood. Complete genealogies of Volgthar kings observed her with painted eyes that seemed to follow her.

Artistic styles varied across the centuries: from the austere realism of the first monarchs whose portraits were preserved, with faces marked by war and responsibility, to the almost decadent baroque style of more recent portraits, where the kings appeared surrounded by symbols of power, exotic fruits, and unique pets.

Between the paintings, in illuminated niches, arose marble and bronze statues: forgotten heroes, nameless gods, and others of Aelthra, allegorical figures of Justice or Wisdom, and even indoor fountains where the water, perfumed with petals, ran ceaselessly with a hypnotic murmur, an obscene luxury in the dead of winter.

They were guided by the escort, which had halted at the entrance, leaving them in the care of the silent palatial protocol; they followed them through a labyrinth of salons, galleries, and staircases. They walked for what felt to Selena like at least an hour, though time distorted in that constant sensory display.

Finally, they arrived at a relatively more intimate waiting room, though "intimate" here meant a space the size of the university's great dining hall, with high windows overlooking a snowy interior courtyard and plush velvet sofas. There, maidens dressed in simple gray clothes served them, on silver trays, cups of varied teas that released scents from the sweetest to the most aromatic, along with a selection of fine sweets: glazed pastries, candied fruits, dark chocolates.

Selena, with a natural gesture that made the maidens blink, shared the sweets without ceremony with Fjora and Samira, inviting them to sit. The maidens exchanged incredulous looks, quickly concealed. A duchess, hereditary or not, sharing sweets with her slaves as equals… it was a rupture as subtle as it was radical to the invisible order of the palace. The wait was brief, about ten minutes that stretched like a taut rope. Until, without previous announcement of footsteps or a call, the double doors opened smoothly.

On the threshold appeared a man. He must have been around sixty-five years old, but time seemed to have carved him with tools of precision, not of wear. His bearing was impeccable, erect as a spear, dressed in a livery of black velvet and silver so well-pressed that every fold appeared sculpted. His face was thin, with sharp features and absolute calm. But it was his voice that captured Selena's attention: a perfect instrument.

He spoke in a fluid, high Erahari, a pronunciation so refined and clear that each syllable sounded like a musical note placed with millimetric exactness. —My lady —he said with care. He added to his modesty by making a bow that was a study in contained grace, the arch of his back as precise as the gesture of a nimora upon landing. —His Majesty has requested that I call you to the meeting room. There was no smile, nor excess of words. He was a pure channel of the royal will.

With another fluid gesture, he indicated for them to follow. The room to which he led them was not the grand throne room Selena might have imagined, but an office. But in the Palace of Volgthar, even an "office" was a statement of power. The opulence was still present, but here it was focused, directed with a clear intention.

The first thing that impacted her was the unity of the material: everything, from the immense worktable to the bookshelves, including the polished floor, was made from the same piece of white and gray marble. There were no joints or visible assemblies. It was as if the room had been carved out of a single mountain of stone, a whim of geology and wealth. The walls, also of marble, were covered by bas-relief engravings of impressive beauty and ferocity.

They represented the Dune Felis, the heraldic symbol of the Volgthars. But here it was no mere static coat of arms. In successive scenes, the beast hunted enormous beetles with claws deployed; in another, it pounced upon human warriors with a primordial fury; and further along, in a heart-wrenching twist, it licked its cub with a tenderness that contrasted brutally with the previous violence. It was a complete and un-sugarcoated reminder of the symbol: predator, protector, brutal, and maternal.

Power in its purest and most ambivalent state. The bookshelves, crammed with books with leather spines of every color, crimson, moss green, night blue, ebony black, were arranged with military precision. There was not a single volume out of place, nor a speck of dust. In the air floated a perpetual perfume, subtle but unmistakable, of winter flowers: a sweet, cold note that impregnated clothing and skin. The butler guided them toward the center of the room, where two enormous sofas rested.

They were pieces of an almost aggressive beauty, upholstered in a deep purple velvet, the color of royalty. The wood of their structures, carved with motifs of vines and leaves, was of a pale tone, almost white, like burnished bone. In that sea of white marble, the sofas stood out like two royal flames, islands of warmth and color in an ocean of cold stone. A low ebony table in front of them held a tea service of exceptionally fine porcelain, more biscuits, and a new tray of even more elaborate sweets. She knew it.

The hour had come; beneath so many layers of protocol and pomposity, the core was simple and brutal: they would use her. A pawn with a noble surname was still a pawn, moved with the same indifference with which those kings painted on the walls had moved entire armies. And with that certainty, another thought was born, one she had deliberately kept submerged for months: Valerius's letters. She had ignored them one by one, and now, in the very heart of the palace, she understood that silence was also an answer.

Nothing good could come from it.