Chương 119: Chapter 52: Golden Cages and Keys

Once she left the opulent room, she was guided, without haste but without pause, through corridors that now seemed to be crowded with sidelong glances and muffled whispers, to the massive doors of the Throne Room. Upon crossing the threshold, her breath caught, not out of nervousness, but because of the monumental and calculated scale of the spectacle. The room was cavernous.

Pillars of polished obsidian, at least thirty feet high, rose like trunks of solidified night, contrasting brutally with the white marble floor, so unblemished it resembled a layer of perpetual ice. Solid gold chandeliers, the size of small trees, hung from the soaring vaults, their hundreds of candles burning with a constant light that reflected off the gold and the obsidian, creating a dazzling play of light and shadow.

Carpets of silk so fine they looked like colored clouds, embroidered with the coats of arms of all the important houses, covered parts of the cold marble. At the center of the far end, upon an elevated platform, stood the throne. It was a mass of solid gold, carved with scenes of conquest and symbols of the Flow, so gleaming that it hurt to look directly at it.

On both sides of the platform, in perfect rows, sat the nobles and characters of the court, a living mosaic of silks, brocades, and jewels, their faces a collection of curiosity, envy, calculation, and resigned boredom. Between the pillars, important workers of the kingdom, high-ranking officials, guild masters, generals, remained standing, observing. But what captured Selena's attention most were the statues.

Flanking the central path toward the throne, at regular intervals, rose colossal effigies of Eliud Volgthar, the first king. They did not show him as the tormented man from the book, but as the deified hero. Each statue represented him in a powerful pose: one hand gripped a spear that pointed directly toward the throne, as if delivering power and responsibility to it; the other hand was raised toward the sky, in a gesture of praise or summons.

From above, through skylights strategically placed in the vaulted ceiling, the morning sunbeams penetrated in golden and perfect shafts, illuminating precisely the raised hands of the statues, bathing the throne and its surroundings in a warm, celestial light. The effect was overwhelming, a choreography of light and stone designed to make one believe, even if only for an instant, that Aelthra herself blessed the act, that the monarch on the throne was the divine chosen one.

It was a lie carved in marble and gold, but of beauty and persuasion so potent that it almost made one doubt one's own incredulity. The air smelled of an intoxicating cocktail of aromatic candles made of honey and winter flowers, which burned in countless lesser chandeliers, creating a sweet and heavy olfactory mist. Selena advanced along the central carpet, feeling the weight of every gaze. Ahead, on the throne bathed in golden light was the King.

He was dressed with even greater lavishness than the day before: snow-white and gold robes, the royal diadem replaced by a larger but equally intricate crown, and in his right hand, he held a scepter of solid gold. From a distance, Selena, with her always curious eyes, could distinguish the inscriptions engraved in Volg-Thûr along the scepter. The words, masterfully carved, read:"By the Sap and the Crown" and, further down,"By the Grace of Aelthra and the King."

It was the complete fusion of temporal and spiritual power, the dogma of the Flow turned into a staff of command. She reached the foot of the platform and, remembering the protocol that had been whispered to her on the way, knelt gracefully, bending one knee and lowering her head, her wide green skirt forming a perfect circle around her. The King rose from his throne. His movement was slow, ceremonious. He descended the steps of the platform and stopped in front of her.

When he spoke, his voice was not the grave tone of the private office, but a more melodious version, projected to fill the room, a voice trained for ritual. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. —Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra —he began, and the silence in the room became absolute. It was as if the air had stilled with his voice, broken only once more by the monarch's delivery.

—Before the witnesses gathered here, do you confirm your willingness to yield, for the continuity and strength of your house, the title of Hereditary Duchess of Solendra to the child about to be born to the Grand Duke Valerius, your uncle and regent? It was a rhetorical question, but Selena, with a clear voice that surprised many with its firmness, replied: —I so confirm it, Your Majesty. The King nodded, satisfied. Then, he raised the scepter.

—And I, Thaerón IV Volgthar, by the grace of the Eternal Sap and the authority emanating from the Crown and from Aelthra, grant you a new rank and new responsibilities. He made a dramatic pause, letting the expectation grow. —From this moment on, I elevate you to the rank of Countess of the Kingdom. But it shall not be an empty title.

Then his voice acquired a more personal tone, removed from the protocols of the court, but without stripping an ounce of solemnity from his magnanimous figure, embellished by the light falling upon him. —I appoint you, furthermore, Lady of the Circle of Wisdom, so that your sharp mind may contribute to the designs of the kingdom. I appoint you Guardian of Ancient Artifacts, in recognition of your… singular affinity for research.

And I confirm you as Protector of the Health of Solendra, so that the gift of healing, the legacy of your blood, may continue to flow in your native lands. They were resonant titles, laden with prestige and, above all, veiled implications. The Circle of Wisdom was an advisory council of scholars and sages. The Guardian of Artifacts put her in direct contact with the power of the void accumulated by the crown. Protector of the Health was a nod to her medical interest and her new abilities.

They were golden cages, but also keys. The King then raised the scepter and placed it gently first upon Selena's right shoulder, then upon her left. —By this gesture —he declared, his voice booming in the silent room —I transfer to you the honor and the weight of these offices. May Aelthra, in her infinite wisdom, grant you the grace and strength to fulfill them. Then, he took a step back, raised his arms in a gesture of final blessing, and said: —The ceremony has concluded!

May the new Countess be received with the honor she deserves! A murmur of assent, followed by protocol-driven applause, not enthusiastic, but respectful, filled the room. Selena rose, feeling the weight of the jewels, of the fabric, and above all, the immense weight of the new titles that had just been forged like chains and tools around her. The Crimson Duchess had been officially buried.

Now, under the golden light of a divine lie, Countess Selena was born, an official piece on the King's board, ready to be moved toward the next play: the shadow of the dungeon and the truth about her kidnapping. The afternoon following the ceremony stretched before Selena like an endless and oppressive marathon of empty pomp. The banquets were endless successions of exquisite dishes that tasted like ash in her mouth, presented with a theatricality that bordered on the obscene.

The dances, in halls packed with strong perfumes and calculating whispers, were a particular torture. As always, she rejected every gentleman, count, or baron who approached with a polite but implacable smile, a "no, thank you" that grew harder with every attempt. The look of surprise, followed by veiled offense, and finally condescending disdain on some faces, was a price she gladly paid.

Every pat on the hand, every lascivious gaze disguised as admiration, every banal comment about the weather or court politics felt exhausting, stifling, a suffocating layer of lead upon her shoulders. It was the worst thing she had experienced in a long time. Worse than the brutal training sessions with Fjora, worse than the exasperating classes with Valerian, even worse than the cold terror of the night of the kidnapping. At least in those moments there was a tangible challenge, a raw truth, a clear enemy.

This, the court at its peak, was a vomit of superficiality, a dance of masks where every gesture, every word, every sigh was calculated to gain influence, favors, or simply to avoid losing position. She felt heavy, not from the food, but from the dead weight of hypocrisy. She felt drained, not in body, but in soul, depleted by the constant effort of maintaining her own impassive mask. She felt overwhelmed, drowning in a sea of silk, gold, and hollow words.

When finally, well into the night, she was able to retire to her quarters, the feeling of liberation was so physical that she almost stumbled upon crossing the threshold. She shed her jewels as if they burned her skin, let the heavy green dress fall, and, without even undressing entirely, sank into the bed, vanquished by a fatigue that was more mental than physical.