Chương 120: Chapter 53: Lessons in Humility

She slept with the depth of the condemned, a dreamless sleep, a black abyss reclaiming all the energy spent on pretending. When she awoke, it was not to the soft palatial dawn, but to the frank and vigorous light of the midday sun filtering through the large windows. She sat up, disoriented. The sun was already high, shining brightly. It was, without a doubt, noon. An immediate and practical question arose in her groormy mind: Why did no maiden wake me?

In the palace, where every minute was regulated by an invisible yet ironclad schedule, leaving a guest to sleep until noon was an anomaly. Her gaze swept across the room and settled on the nightstand beside the bed. There, upon the lacquered wood, rested a small sheet of parchment, neatly folded. She took it and unfolded it. The calligraphy was impeccable, that of a royal scribe, but the message carried a personal, almost intimate tone.

"I have given orders to my maidservants to grant you freedom. I still remember that when I gave you the freedom in Kaelburg to not have them hovering around you at all hours, you took it with both hands and flourished. I have no interest in suffocating talent in protocol. Rest. The real work begins when you are ready." There was no signature. It did not need one. The sender was undoubtedly the King.

Only he possessed the absolute power within those walls to alter the rigid rules of service, and only he would remember that seemingly minor detail of her life at the university: her refusal to have personal maids, a small act of independence that Valerius and the King had granted. It was a calculated gesture, of course, a demonstration that he was watching her, that he remembered, that he pulled the strings of even her comfort. But it was also, undeniably, a relief. A small space to breathe.

Selena let out a long, deep sigh that seemed to expel part of the accumulated exhaustion from the previous day. She stood up, and instead of calling for the maidservants, she searched through the wardrobes. She found clothes.

"Humble" was a relative term in the Palace of the Volgthars; what to a commoner would be an unimaginable luxury was the simplest attire here. She dressed in trousers made of fine but sturdy wool, practically cut "boy-style," a white linen blouse, and a padded vest of dark green velvet, completely unadorned. She slipped into low, comfortable shoes of soft leather. Then, facing the mirror, she combed her hair, still disheveled from the deep sleep.

She divided it into two sections and wove two thick braids that began at her temples and crossed at the nape of her neck, securing the rest of her mane, which fell in a free cascade down her back. The result was simple, practical, and made her feel more like herself, less like the jeweled doll of the previous night. A soldier, the same one guarding her door, was waiting for her in the hallway.

With a silent salute, he guided her through a labyrinth of less ornamented corridors, descending through service staircases and crossing interior courtyards. The atmosphere shifted; the scent of incense and flowers was replaced by the aroma of oil, metal, sweat, and clean stone. It was the smell of the royal barracks. Upon arriving there, the reverence was different. The soldiers and guards who saw her pass squared their shoulders or bowed their heads with a martial, swift, and sincere respect.

It was a mere formality shown to nobility, but also an acknowledgment that, according to the rumors that undoubtedly circulated, she was linked to the King's "special" matters. They guided her to an indoor training courtyard, a vast, vaulted space illuminated by high skylights. The floor consisted of stone flags worn down by generations of boots. There, in the center of the open space, stood Cassian, and with him, three figures. Selena's attention was immediately captured by one of them.

He was a man as tall as a giant. Easily six feet six inches, perhaps six feet seven or more. It was not the lanky thinness of someone simply tall; his build was broad, powerful, like a standing bear. His face was weathered not only by the sun, but by experience, marked by deep wrinkles around severe, amber-colored eyes. But what drew the most attention were his hands.

They were enormous, and they were literally covered by a network of scars, scratches, and old burns that crisscrossed his skin like a map of battles fought not with swords, but with something more visceral and chaotic. Beside him stood a woman of average height, taller than Selena, with blonde hair so pale it looked almost silver in the light from the skylights, gathered in a practical braid. Her eyes were a glacial blue, intense and piercing. The memory of Fjora struck Selena with force.

It was not the same person, of course, but that combination of Nordic blonde and freezing blue eyes, that alert, contained posture… Could she be of Khelganor descent? she thought immediately. If her name sounds Norse, it's a certainty. The third was a man who, at first glance, did not particularly stand out. Of average height and build, his face was ordinary, his posture discreet.

But his hair gave him away: it was blonde, but intermingled with vibrant red streaks, a color far less common than the usual brown among the pure inhabitants of Erabergh, suggesting a mixed origin or a genetic peculiarity. —You are late, Countess —Cassian's voice cut through the air like a whip. His tone was unvarying but now laden with clear reproof. There was no greeting, no bow. It was the master facing a negligent student. —We have been waiting here for two hours. You missed the beginning of the instruction.

You must live with the consequences of your rest. He let the reproach hover for a moment, his light, impassive gaze fixed on Selena. Then, with a sharp gesture of his hand, he addressed the three present. Stolen story; please report. —Regardless, I will introduce them to you, since your tardiness has stolen time from everyone. Only then did he point to the giant. —He is Magnor. A graduate with honors as an arcane master resonant of the spoken echo. She knew the title; both of her teachers held it.

He was undoubtedly a royal resonant, the one the King had mentioned. Magnor nodded his head, a slow and heavy movement like that of a mountain, but said nothing. His scrutinizing eyes evaluated Selena with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Cassian then pointed to the man with red streaks. —The redhead is Alistair Finch. He is a Bishop of the Church of the Eternal Sap. Finch made a small, neat inclination, a tight, professional smile on his lips.

He wore robes of a dark, earthy color, almost black, with notes of the Flow embroidered in dull green threads. His presence here, as a representative of the dominant cult on an arcane mission, was a political message in itself. Finally, Cassian turned toward the blonde woman. —The girl is Astrid. She is a conscious resonant… of Written Touch. The nuance was important. While Selena and Magnor manipulated power through willpower in the silent word, Astrid would do so through blood, symbols, and parchments.

Astrid made no gesture; she simply held Selena's gaze, and in her blue eyes there was neither curiosity nor hostility, only a cold evaluation, similar to Cassian's. Then, Cassian turned around to address the three of them, his voice rising slightly, gaining a metallic clarity that echoed in the vaulted courtyard. —She… He pointed to Selena with a tilt of his chin. —Is Countess Isabella. But for the purposes of this group, and for the matter at hand, she is also a conscious resonant of the spoken echo.

He paused, cleared his throat slightly, and when he spoke again, his tone was that of a general revealing a plan to his elite commanders. —You already know why you are here. You were selected, each one of you, for a specific and unique skill that His Majesty saw in you. Skills that, combined, can mean the difference between success and a death so horrible that not even the oldest dungeons could match it. The time for pleasantries is over. The training begins now.

And you, Countess His eyes locked onto Selena again, this time with more force. —Are already lagging behind. He made them train. Beneath the gelid vault of the training courtyard, Cassian subjected them to a brutal and revealing session. It was not the echo that he demanded first, but the raw reality of the body, strength, and technique. Rotating duels, hand-to-hand, without weapons or spells, only flesh, sweat, and calculation. Facing Magnor, Selena immediately understood the limits of her newly acquired skill.

The giant was a wall of muscle and experience. He was not just strong; he was agile. His size did not hinder him, and when he moved, he did so with a terrifying economy of movement, like a predator that does not need to exert itself. His hands, those maps of scars, were iron grips that stopped her blows with insulting ease. His counterattacks, though controlled so as not to injure her, sent her rolling across the stone floor time and time again.

The difference between her five feet and less than an inch against his six feet plus was insurmountable. Neither the best technique, nor reflexes sharpened by training with Fjora, nor even her fierce determination could compensate for the overwhelming difference in weight, reach, and pure strength. It was a lesson in humility in the shape of a mountain-man. Against Astrid, the balance tipped.

The blonde resonant with the glacial gaze was disciplined and precise, but her fighting style was more academic, less tested in actual chaos. Selena, with her months of being thrown down, struck, and corrected by an elite warrior, found openings. She used the agility her small stature afforded her, the takedowns she had learned the hard way, and a stubbornness that surprised the cold Astrid. Out of eight encounters, Selena won six.

It was not easy; Astrid was a formidable opponent, but the prior training had borne fruit, carving a muscle memory into Selena's body that now flourished in combat. The real surprise, however, was Alistair Finch. The earth-robed bishop, with his air of a devout scholar, turned out to be a martial artist of lethal elegance. His art was not based on brute force, but on redirection, on using the opponent's momentum against them.

Every attack from Selena was deflected, every hold dissolved with fluid, minimal movements that seemed to require infinitesimal effort. It was like trying to strike water or catch the wind. Without a doubt, he had received monk-like training within the Church of the Eternal Sap, a mind-body discipline that turned one's own body into an instrument of harmony and, when necessary, efficient submission.

By the end of the eight repeated rounds of everyone against everyone, the air in the courtyard smelled of sweat, exertion, and kicked-up stone dust. The four of them were breathing heavily, marked by burgeoning bruises and the fatigue of concentrated effort. Cassian, who had observed every exchange with the intensity of a hawk, spoke. —Congratulations, my Lady Countess. Though the words sounded dry, it was a simple acknowledgment of facts. —I expected you to know how to fight.

The reports from your personal guardian were eloquent. He paused, his light gaze passing from Selena to Astrid. —Both of you must improve your technique. You will train with Alistair during the remaining month. Learn to use minimal effort for maximum effect. Economy in physical combat preserves energy for when the echo is required, which is where you will truly be put to the test. Then, his gaze rested on Magnor, who remained impassive, barely breathing harder than normal after having wiped the floor with everyone.

—As for Magnor —Cassian continued. The giant and imposing man nodded deliberately. —He is already experienced. He does not need to polish his basic technique. The three of you will fight against him with wooden weapons starting tomorrow. His gaze swept over Selena and Astrid. —If you do not know how to use any, I will teach you the absolute basics with a combat knife myself. It is useful knowledge, especially in enclosed spaces like the ones you will likely face.

He made a final pause, a silence that cut through the panting of the group. —Follow me. What comes next is more important. He guided them out of the courtyard, heading deep into the bowels of the barracks. They went down a narrow, steep spiral staircase, plunging into an increasingly absolute silence, broken only by the echo of their footsteps. They passed doors reinforced with iron, each guarded by complex locks and wax seals bearing the royal coat of arms.

Cassian opened them with a master key and a series of precise taps on hidden mechanisms. The air grew cold, still, carrying a smell of damp stone and old metal. Finally, they reached a circular room. It was not large, but its contents were overwhelming. Along the curved walls, arranged in niches illuminated by a bluish, cold light that seemed to emanate from the stones themselves, were boxes.

They were made neither of wood nor metal, but of a type of smooth, gray stone with no visible joints, as if each one had been carved from a single block. They were separated from one another by at least three feet. Above each one, engraved into the stone, was a number and a brief inscription. It was the Room of Artifacts.