Chương 118: Chapter 51: Costume Party

Upon leaving the office, she was received by a pair of maidservants with serene faces and impeccable manners who guided her, without an unnecessary word, through another labyrinth of corridors and staircases toward the royal quarters for high-ranking guests. The assigned room was a display of irreverent luxury, a continuation of the palace's opulence but within an intimate space.

The walls were upholstered in cream-colored silk embroidered with silver threads, the floor covered by a thick Sandstrohm carpet of reds and golds. A canopy bed of maroon velvet dominated the center, and a crackling fire in a white marble fireplace kept the winter cold at bay, filling the air with the scent of burning wood. But amidst that splendor, something was missing. Selena scanned the room with her gaze. They were not there.

The absence of Fjora and Samira was palpable, a physical void in the space that suddenly made the enormous room feel too large, too silent. It was frankly strange, a dull unease. She had grown accustomed to their constant presence, to the protective shadow of one and the analytical stillness of the other. Her loneliness now was more complete, more vulnerable. Upon the bed, over the silk bedspread, rested two letters. Selena picked them up, feeling the thick, high-quality parchment beneath her fingers.

She sat on the edge of the bed, next to the warmth of the fireplace, and opened the first one. The handwriting was firm, confident, but with stroke slightly broader and more emotional than usual in Valerius's official documents.

"My daughter," it began, and the greeting produced a pinch in her chest.

"I have purchased the most luxurious dresses in the capital, from the most skillful and discreet tailors, so that you may show yourself beautifully tomorrow before the court. In turn, each jewel I have selected is more precious than the last, all of them chosen with the sole purpose of highlighting the green of your eyes, which are the only true legacy of your mother that you retain. But thank you, my girl. Thank you for understanding without words.

For not making a scene out of this, for accepting the change with that dignity that sometimes astounds me in you. I see you growing by leaps and bounds, and when I look at you, I still remember the clumsy girl who tripped over her own heels trying to imitate her mother in the great hall of Lumenburg. By the way, a little veteran's trick: use a dress with a long, wide skirt. No one, absolutely no one, will know whether you are wearing heels or not. That way you can be comfortable and majestic at the same time.

Signing off with all the affection of this old soldier, Valerius." Selena let the parchment rest upon her lap. A deep sigh, laden with a complex melancholy, escaped her lips. —If only the poor man knew —she murmured to herself, her voice barely a breath in the silent room. —That the Selena he loves so much… does not even exist. Another sigh, stronger this time, shook her. Guilt, that tenacious companion, crawled through her veins. But resignation came as well. I suppose it is inevitable.

He loves the ghost that inhabits this flesh, and I… inherit his love along with his debt and his protection. At least the advice about the heels is practical and comes from a genuine place. She let her breath out, slowly now. So, the eyes are her mother's legacy… Though her mind reminded her of the embarrassing fall she had suffered months ago, when meeting Valerius for the first time in Terracanto, when the heels had betrayed her feet accustomed to sandals. A light, sincere laugh erupted from her chest.

The memory, viewed now with the distance of time, was frankly comical. Then, she opened the second letter. The coat of arms on the wax seal was unknown to her, and curiosity took hold of her. The legend was flowery and pompous:"To the Most Excellent Countess Selena of Solendra, Royal Palace of Volgthar." Inside, the writing was convoluted, full of empty praise and excessive reverences. She did not even reach the middle of the first paragraph before her eyes caught the essence:"...

it is my most pleasant pleasure, following the happy news of your new and well-deserved title, to offer you an alliance that would strengthen both houses: a political marriage with my son and sole heir, a young man of impeccable lineage and promising future..." —Gossips —Selena muttered, with a tinge of weariness and disdain. The speed with which news flew in the court, and the audacity of trying to fish in troubled waters on the very day of her comital "elevation," were pathetic.

Without even finishing it, she took the letter, walked over to the fireplace, and threw it into the flames. The parchment curled, turned black, and disintegrated in a matter of seconds, becoming ash that rose up the flue. A symbolic and satisfying gesture. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work! Tired to the bone from the journey, the tension, the secrets, and the court gossip, Selena lacked the energy to even undress.

She removed her boots and padded vest and simply let herself fall backward onto the immense bed, sinking into the feather mattress and silk sheets. Fatigue, both physical and mental, overcame her almost instantly. Her eyelids felt heavy as slabs, and she plunged into a deep, dreamless sleep, vanquished by the weight of the days. When she woke, it was with the unusual sensation of warmth and light.

The morning sunbeams, golden and invigorating, came pouring through the room's high windows, painting bright rectangles over the carpet and the bed. Selena sat up, disoriented for a moment, and walked to the window. The spectacle she witnessed took her breath away. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was no trace of snow. The sky was pale, clear blue, washed clean by the night.

The palace gardens, though asleep in their winter cycle, displayed their topiary shapes, their gravel paths clean and dry. The air coming through the cracked-open slit was cold, but not gelid; it smelled of damp earth and the distant promise of spring. It was a beautiful morning, simply beautiful, an unexpected gift of clarity. It was the calm before plunging back into the theater of the court and the shadow of the looming mission.

Selena took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the clean air, and for a moment, just a moment, allowed the beauty of the day to restore a glimpse of peace to her. After the pause afforded by the clear morning, Selena spent a few minutes inspecting the room. Her eyes scanned the shelves and side tables, looking for something more than decoration.

But she only found stacks of books with flashy spines and titles that spoke of a world of fiction and melodrama very far removed from her reality: Work Song of the Hills, Sighs of the Lady of the Moon, The Gallant of the Silver Flower, The Minstrel and the Maiden, The Eight Curses of the Northern Crown, Fleeing Beneath the Rain, Festival Songs. They were popular novels, distractions for the idle nobility, stories of love, betrayal, and simplified adventures that paled before the complexity of her own existence.

She ran her hand over the spines, feeling the grain of the leather and the parchment, but her mind found no comfort in those fictions. They were like colored sugar candies: appealing to the eye, but empty to someone who knew the bitter taste of truth. The palatial routine then broke in with its silent precision. First, maidens entered with silver trays. The breakfast was austere, almost spartan: a steaming teapot with an aromatic infusion, a piece of white toasted bread, and a small bowl of dark, thick honey.

Selena did not protest; in fact, she preferred it that way. The simplicity of the food was an anchor amidst the sea of opulence, a reminder that her body, at least, still needed basic and real things. She ate in silence, savoring the sweet and floral honey. Hardly had the trays been removed when a new group of maidens, more numerous and specialized, flooded the room. They brought with them the tangible weight of protocol: dresses. They were textile works of art, social armor made of silk, velvet, brocade, and lace.

They hung them on ebony hangers or displayed them over satin cushions, each more exquisite and elaborate than the last. There were lapis lazuli blues with silver embroideries that imitated constellations, crimson reds with gold threads forming the dune felis, deep blacks adorned with pearls like frozen tears. Selena observed them with a critical gaze, not one of admiration. They were tools, costumes for the role she was about to play.

She did not want to choose; she did not want to engage in the game of preferences. With her eyes closed, she let her hand extend at random, pointing toward the gallery of opulence. When she opened her eyes, the maidens were already retrieving the selected dress. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, given capricious chance, her finger had pointed to a green dress. Not just any green, but the deep, vibrant emerald green of her own eyes, the same shade that had tinted the flames of her incipient magic.

It bore golden trimmings along the edges of the neckline and sleeves, and very fine, glazed white lace fell like frost over the wide, majestic skirt. It was beautiful, yes, but it was also a silent declaration. Upon putting it on, Selena felt as though she were clothing herself in a fragment of her own essence, transformed into fabric and ornament. The maidens worked with the efficiency of a team of surgeons. They dressed her, adjusting every lace and every clasp with expert hands.

They styled her dark hair, gathering it into an elaborate updo that let a few calculated curls fall over her shoulders, and secured it with hairpins whose heads were small emeralds and diamonds. They fitted her with heeled shoes, but she insisted they be as low as possible, remembering Valerius's advice. With the long, wide skirt, no one would notice. The makeup was subtle but effective, accentuating her cheekbones and, above all, the intense green of her eyes.

Then came the jewelry: a gold necklace with a central emerald the size of a fingernail, resting right at the base of her throat; a diadem more delicate than the King's but of similar design, featuring silicariel glasses and small green gems; rings on several fingers, bracelets that jingled faintly with every movement, and even the hairpins gleamed with their own inner fire. She felt like a Christmas tree, covered in heavy, shiny decorations, but her posture was straight, her gaze serene.

It was the armor of the Countess. They had transformed her, dressing her for the occasion with all possible pomp. In the mirror there was only a woman whom she herself recognized with some delay as that oppressive nobility she had hated so much with Kaela, but with a long sigh, an idea took root. She was ready for the costume party of the world of banal appearances.