Chương 122: Chapter 55: Ten Months

The following morning, she awoke with the first rays of the sun and a renewed sense of urgency. She dressed quickly, choosing the most practical clothing her "noble's wardrobe" allowed: tight-fitting trousers of soft leather, a loose linen blouse, and an unadorned padded vest. She gathered her hair into a low, tight ponytail. When she reached the designated training courtyard, the cold morning air gave her an alert jolt.

Magnor, Astrid, and Alistair were already there, waiting in silence, each in their characteristic posture: the giant impassive, the blonde alert, the bishop serene. A quick glance confirmed that Cassian had not yet arrived. Selena felt a prickle of satisfaction at not being the last one. But as she stepped into the covered shed they used as a meeting point, a shadow at the back, almost melted into the dark wooden beams, moved. Cassian emerged from the shadows soundlessly, like a ghost materializing.

—Just in time, Countess —he said, his voice devoid of emotion, without evident reproach but heavy with relentless expectation. Selena's face fell for a second, but she controlled her expression and exhaled slowly. It was Cassian who centered their attention with his voice once more. —At least you have been relearning manners. He paused, his light eyes scanning the group. —First task of the day: you must speak. The order was simple, yet strange coming from him. —Who you are. What you do. What you love.

Anything is fine —he continued, as if he were dictating an instruction manual for machines. They all looked at each other, but Magnor the giant held an expectant smile. Cassian finished his sentence. —Undoubtedly, a team works better if its components know one another, if only a little. Then, he stopped speaking. He leaned against a wooden post and crossed his arms, becoming a silent and expectant observer. An uncomfortable silence settled in. It was Magnor who broke it.

The giant turned toward Astrid, his weathered face showing a genuine, almost childlike curiosity that contrasted with his imposing physique. —How long did it take you to become a conscious resonant? —he asked, his cordial voice echoing in the enclosed space. Astrid blinked, surprised by the direct question, but responded with her usual precision. —Two and a half years —she said in an almost Spartan voice. Magnor nodded slowly. Selena turned her head for a second, trying to comprehend.

—Isolde mentioned that it was the average —Astrid said, almost with resignation. Then her blue eyes fixed on Magnor, and a spark of her own curiosity appeared in them. —What is your resonant moniker? Only answer if you wish. The giant did not hesitate and puffed out his chest a bit. —I am Magnor the Purified, or the Ivory-Colored —he declared. The words fell in the shed like a slab. Selena, Astrid, and Alistair were left stunned, their expressions reflecting the same incredulity.

"The Purified." It did not sound like the title of a destroyer or a warrior. It sounded like… a healer. Someone who had been cleansed, purged. The giant with slaughterhouse hands and battle scars, a healer. Magnor seemed to enjoy their reaction. A wide, sincere smile broke through his sparse beard. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. —I learned under Valerian —he added, as if that explained everything.

—An incredibly talented and unpredictable resonant. To Selena, of course, the word "unpredictable" sounded deeply familiar. A playful impulse, born from the relief of the previous night and the absurdity of the situation, took hold of her. Adopting an exaggeratedly relaxed posture, she tilted her head, and in a perfect imitation of Valerian's mocking, singsong tone, she let out: —How old are you, little wretches, that your misery brings you to the depths of death?

To top it off, she added one of the jester's characteristic hand flourishes, an unnecessarily elegant flick of the wrist. The effect was instantaneous. Magnor burst into a thunderous laugh, a huge, jovial sound that shook the cobwebs in the beams. He bent at the waist, clapping his bear-like hands together with force. Astrid covered her mouth with her hand, but her shoulders shook uncontrollably, and a gleam of genuine amusement lit up her frozen blue eyes.

Only Alistair remained impassive, his face serious, the only one who clearly did not understand the joke nor knew Valerian well enough to appreciate the imitation. —I am thirty-two years old —the bishop said, in a solemn and slightly offended tone— as of barely two months ago. From his corner, Cassian's unvarying voice arrived: —It comes out just like him. You have a talent for mimicry. —But he was not smiling. His expression remained a mask of impassive seriousness.

Magnor, still wiping a tear of laughter with the back of his enormous hand, said: —I am twenty-nine years old. —He wiped his face completely, and his expression grew a bit more somber. —May Aelthra watch over my flow, and may my years be many. —So be it —Alistair replied instantly, with the solemnity of a ritual prayer, recovering some of his composure. Astrid, catching her breath, adjusted a strand of her blonde hair and said: —I am twenty years old.

Then, she turned toward Selena, curiosity still shining in her eyes. —And you, my Lady Countess? Selena calculated quickly. The original Selena… she really did not know if she had already turned twenty-three in the months that had passed since her arrival. She opted for certainty. —I am twenty-two —she said. Then, she added, almost as a postscript: —By the way, Valerian taught me as well. It was ten months until he named me conscious. This time, the silence that followed was different.

It was not one of suppressed laughter, but of genuine shock. Three pairs of eyes, from Magnor's gray and cordial ones, to Astrid's blue and analytical ones, and even Alistair's serious ones, locked onto her with renewed interest. Selena did not know for certain if their astonishment was due to her age. Do I look younger? she thought, or to the dizzying speed of her ascent: ten months, compared to Astrid's two and a half years, and who knew how many for Magnor. But it was undeniable.

They looked at her in a new light, a mixture of respect, disbelief, and perhaps a hint of pity. Because in the world of resonants, advancing so quickly was rarely a blessing; it was, almost always, the prelude to an even more thunderous fall, or a condemnation that arrived ahead of its time. Following the initial exchange that broke the ice and Valerian's imitation that left a lingering laugh echoing in the corners of the shed, the air between them lost some of its icy rigidity.

The rest of the time assigned for "getting to know each other" passed with a hesitant but genuine conversation. Astrid, with her usual precision, mentioned that she came from a mining town in the far north, near the misty border with Khelganor. —That explains my ancestry —she said, touching a strand of her silver-blonde hair. As if it were explanation enough for her ice-blue eyes and tall build.

She gave no further details, but in that simple phrase lay a world of snowy landscapes, unknown tongues, and blood intermingled by trade or conquest at the edges of the kingdom. Magnor, the giant with the scarred hands, spoke with a simplicity that contrasted with his intimidating physique. —I… learned to heal —he confessed. He did so while observing his own palms as if he still could not believe it. —Because I desired, with all my soul, that the echo would not just be corruption and fear. That it could… help.

Not just to mend bones or close wounds, but to heal from the heart. To return some light where there had only been shadow and toll. His words, clumsy but sincere, resonated with a strange weight coming from the mouth of a man who looked capable of snapping a log with his bare hands. Alistair Finch, the bishop in earthy robes, was the most direct regarding his motivation. For a moment, his voice lost its tone of ritual prayer and acquired a gleam of intellectual greed.

—To me —he said slowly, almost weighing his words. His fingers caressing the map of artifacts he always carried with him. —The artifact itself is what matters. One so ancient, so charged with history and residual power… My curiosity devours my mind every night. I imagine its shape, its texture beneath my fingers, the secrets it keeps. I imagine… the victory of unraveling it, of understanding it. It is a hunger of the soul. He made no mention of the mission, nor the danger, nor the good of the kingdom.

Only the object, pure knowledge, as an end in itself. Then, Cassian brought the period of confidences to a close and threw them headfirst into practical training. They were four people, all driven by their own motivations, merits, and internal struggles. There were years of study, losses, and also gains achieved inch by inch. Selena knew then what Cassian had wanted to accomplish: a community, a fortress built upon the knowledge of one another, just as she had learned so long ago in the sacred rest.