Chương 124: Chapter 57: The Persistent Drip

At the end of four weeks, the month was up. Cassian reminded them of this fact forcefully, stopping the team during a particularly intense session. He gathered them, one by one, under his scrutinizing gaze, which seemed to weigh the fatigue, the determination, and the accumulated progress in each of them. —Do you know how to use your artifacts? —he asked, his voice as flat as an absolute ruler.

The response was a unanimous, synchronized "yes," born of fatigue and the certainty hard-won during long hours of private experimentation. Cassian did not even check. He nodded once, a sharp movement of his head. He believed in them or more precisely, he believed in the urgency of fate and in the capacity of necessity to force mastery. —Tonight… He announced, leaving the words in the air for a few seconds, then continuing in the same tone he used to issue a combat order. —You are going to drink. It is necessary.

Four weeks of constant pressure in such a demanding environment equal a month in the real world. The spirit needs a release valve before the string snaps. Do not get drunk like commoners at a fair, but… drink. Talk. No arcane matters. For once, he turned on his heel and left, leaving the command or the permission floating in the air, thick with the sweat of training. Those were his words. There was no further explanation.

That was how the four of them Selena, Astrid, Magnor, and Alistair with Cassian as a silent shadow who decided to accompany them, found themselves that night in a peculiar establishment within the first ring of walls, the oldest part of the city. It was not a noisy, vulgar tavern, but a luxurious bar with a cavernous appearance.

That was the nature of many buildings in that ring: structures that looked as though they had been carved directly into the living rock or excavated from ancient earth, with low arches, irregular walls, and an air of ancestral permanence. The establishment in question, called"The Persistent Drip" had a vaulted ceiling of black stone, worn down by centuries of leaks whose marks, like solidified tears of rock, ran down the walls to the floor.

The furniture was made of solid, dark wood, and the illumination came from oil lamps embedded in natural niches within the rock, creating a play of dancing shadows. It smelled of beeswax, aged liquor, woodsmoke, and the mineral dampness of stone. They asked for a table in a secluded corner, where the music from a duo composed of a bearded bard with a metal-stringed lyre and a maiden with a clear voice who played a bone flute reached them muffled.

They sang a pastoral, melancholy melody about a lonely shepherd watching his lanquirios under the frozen moon. Selena, out of instinct and habit, sat in the innermost corner, her back protected by the stone, from where she could watch the entrance and the rest of the room. —I think everyone fights better than when we first met —Magnor blurted out. This was after settling his enormous frame onto a stool that groaned in protest. He smiled, a wide and sincere gesture that lit up his weathered face.

A waitress, agile and discreet, brought thick, glazed ceramic jugs filled with frothy, golden mead. The giant took one without ceremony and, in a single, long, powerful gulp, emptied it. He slammed the jug down on the table with a sharp thud and exhaled with satisfaction. —A warrior must always train mind and heart, eat with love, and drink with passion. He said, flashing a knowing smile at Astrid. —It is a saying from Khelganor. Astrid returned the smile, but then she spoke.

She did so in a harsh, guttural language, full of consonants that clashed like stones. —Wójnar dyrbi přeco ruzum a wutrobu trenować, z lubosću jěść a z pasiju pić. To Selena, it sounded as if the resonant were uttering a curse or a harangue full of pent-up anger. Astrid saw the bewildered expression on Selena's face and switched back to Erahari. —Countess, pay it no mind. A faint blush rose to her pale cheeks. —Norrun is… complex to understand for unaccustomed ears.

And it always, always sounds as if one is terribly angry, even when reciting a love poem or asking for more bread. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. She took a prudent sip from her jug, contrasting with Magnor's frontal assault. —It is not that —Cassian intervened. Until then, he had been observing in silence, his long, pale fingers tracing circles in the condensation on his jug.

He took a sip and spoke without looking at anyone, as if explaining an arcane text. —That saying, in its original cultural context, does not speak of excess. Rather, it means that temperance in all things, even in pleasure, is what shapes a true man and transcends him toward a higher consciousness. To drink with passion does not mean to drink without measure; it means to do so with total presence, feeling every drop, being aware of the act and its limits. The same applies to training, or to love.

Astrid blushed even further, visibly impressed and somewhat embarrassed by Cassian's erudition. —I… only repeated what I heard so many times in my village —she murmured in a low voice. Immediately looking away, she added: —I did not think the translation hid something so profound. She took another sip, a longer one this time, perhaps to drown her embarrassment. It was then Alistair's turn.

The bishop, who had been drinking with parsimony, spoke with the serene cadence of someone delivering a homily, though his eyes shone with the warmth of the alcohol and the forced camaraderie. —Aelthra says —he began, his voice deep and melodious. The others listened intently, except for Cassian, who kept staring into nothingness.

—That man rises from the earth, that sap runs through his veins in the form of blood, and that every step, every tear, every drop of sweat, flows toward the primordial water, completing the cycle of the Flow. He took a sip, letting the words familiar to everyone but now spoken in an intimate context resonate. —When I chose to serve her, being barely a novice, I only thought of the knowledge I would attain, of saving the faithful from pain and ignorance.

Of the goddess's love for us, of the beloved nature of all things and their unceasing flow. He paused, and his expression clouded slightly. —But after serving her for eighteen years… I see my task as more complex. More arduous. This work we have, this mission in the shadows… I hope, I pray, that my inspiration for her divinity is witnessed, that I may be a beacon… even for those who question her, like those of the Path of the Voice. Upon hearing the Path mentioned, Selena widened her eyes slightly.

Worried, she looked at the others, but no one seemed to notice. Only then was her paranoia cut short by someone's voice. —Faith is an anchor for every man —Cassian said, taking the floor with surprising eloquence. He was already on his second large jug, and though his face remained impassive, his words flowed with unusual fluidity. —But for those for whom it is not yet time to listen to Aelthra, the anchor feels like a chain, like a lack of freedom. And water, its purest presentation, is free.

It flows, it changes, it adapts, it evaporates, and it falls again. We must not hoard it, nor channel it solely in directions we deem correct. Sometimes, one must let the river find its course, even if it is not the one we have dug ourselves. It was an unexpectedly tolerant speech, almost heretical coming from someone so close to royal power and the church establishment. Selena observed him with renewed interest. Cassian the madness was a multi-layered enigma.

Until then, Selena had remained silent, taking small sips from her jug, observing the group dynamic, analyzing the nuances of each personality under the relaxing influence of alcohol. But then, the mead, which was stronger than she had anticipated, went to her head. A wave of warmth spread from her stomach, slightly loosening the perpetual tension in her shoulders and clouding the filters of her caution. —I feel —she articulated. Her voice sounded a bit harsher, more personal than usual.

—Like being a noble is a kick in the ass. The words, vulgar and direct, fell on the table like a brick. Everyone looked at her, surprised. —The title… is further removed from humanity than being a wretch or a cursed resonant. It is a cloak of gilded lead. If I could… I would shake it off in an instant. She sighed, a sound heavy with deep and genuine weariness. Everyone's faces were a poem of conflicting expressions: surprise from Astrid, knowing understanding from Magnor, bewilderment from Alistair.

But it was Cassian who spoke. Leaning slightly forward, he lowered his voice to nearly a whisper that only they could hear, and said: —His Majesty has told me the same thing, in confidence, more than once. Overlooking, of course, the unbridgeable distances of the echo and the weight of the crown. Then, he fell silent, withdrawing once more into his impassive observation, letting the bomb of that intimate revelation explode silently among them.

The others looked at one another, a glance charged with a new understanding, a complicity that went beyond training. The rest of the night passed in a more lighthearted tone.

There were clumsy jokes from Magnor about his first disastrous encounters with the healing echo; anecdotes from Astrid about growing up in the frozen mountains, hunting with ice traps, and learning runes from her grandmother, a local seer; the occasional strange saying in Norrun that Cassian, with his sober erudition, translated and explained, unveiling hidden philosophical or historical meanings behind the apparent harshness; more sermons about Aelthra from Alistair, though increasingly relaxed, more personal.

Until, at one point, the bishop completely forgot to sermonize. With his fourth jug already half empty, he rested his head on one hand and confessed, with a silly smile and a thin thread of mead escaping the corner of his lip: —You know? The monk who taught me to read the sacred texts… was truly insufferable and a pain in the ass. Pure dogmatism and no compassion. He almost made me quit the clergy before I even started. The declaration, so irreverent and human, was the spark.

Magnor burst into a laugh so powerful it made the jugs on nearby tables jingle. Astrid bent over, stifling laughter between gasps. Even Selena could not help but let out a brief, sincere laugh. Only Cassian remained impassive, though his eyes, in a rare glimmer, seemed to soften for a moment before returning to their usual coldness. He took another sip, his last, and brought the evening to a close with a gesture.