Chương 125: Chapter 58: At the Gates of Destiny

The morning following the gathering at The Persistent Drip arrived with the harshness of a forced awakening and the heaviness of a resolution made. At the earliest hour, with the sky still tinged a leaden gray, the expedition departed. There were no grand ceremonies, nor farewell speeches. The King's order was clear, and time was a resource believed to be scarce. Fjora and Samira had to remain at the palace.

Selena gave them simple instructions, in a tone that admitted no discussion but was not cold either: maintain her quarters, continue with their routines, and remain attentive to any communication. Fjora nodded with her usual, imperturbable gesture, though in the tension of her jaw one could read the frustration of being unable to accompany her lady, almost as if she sensed something. Samira, more reserved, bowed her head and murmured something in Sahric that sounded like a blessing or an omen of good fortune.

—Hemî gavên te yên li ser qûmê pîroz bin û tu li her rawestgehekê bigihêjî oasisekê. There were no embraces, nor exaggerated displays of affection. Only the weight of a trust forged over months of shared survival. For Selena, leaving them behind felt like leaving two anchors in a safe harbor, making her feel lighter but also infinitely more exposed.

The royal carriage transporting them, a vehicle more robust and less ornamented than those used at court, designed for long roads, set off, rolling over the cobblestones of the palace's outer courtyard, when a messenger riding a titanopod caught up to it at a full gallop. He delivered a sealed envelope bearing the crest of Solendra directly to Selena's window. It was an urgent letter. The handwriting was Valerius's, firm and confident, but the words held a more personal, almost pressing cadence.

"My dear daughter, I sent a crate along with the entourage. Inside, you will find the official armor of House Solendra. It is made of dune felis, treated and tanned by the finest artisans of Terracanto. The innate resistance of its hide to cuts is legendary. I hope it serves you, that it protects you as I could not do in person on this mission. Remember that your family awaits you. Not only myself. The foundations of Solendra, its people, its memory… everything awaits your return. You must return.

With all the affection and concern of this old soldier, Valerius Thenorius of Solendra." Selena held the parchment for a moment, feeling the weight of the message more than that of the words. She sighed, once more. The burden of Valerius's affection was simultaneously a shield and a chain. It is true, she thought, he does not know if I will return. The dungeon, the mission, the very curse of being a resonant… everything consisted of sinister unknowns. But the felis armor… that was a practical, invaluable gift.

The almost supernatural resistance of the dune felis hide to slashing weapons could make the difference between a scratch and a mortal wound within the confines of a place where normal laws bent. She tucked the letter into her bag and sent for the crate. It was a chest of reinforced wood with iron bands. Inside, resting upon a bed of wool, lay the armor: a set of breastplate, backplate, pauldrons, and greaves made from plates of hardened and lacquered felis hide, joined by flexible leather joints.

The color was a sandy brown with darker speckles; it smelled of tanned leather and protective resins. It was not as heavy as metallic plate armor, but it promised a formidable defense. Selena nodded to herself, and then a strangely satisfying smile spread across her face, it was the memory of Kaela speaking of the object she now held in her own hands. The carriage departed for good, leaving behind the imposing silhouette of the capital, and headed south, following the majestic course of the Volg River.

The weeks slipped away in a monotony of changing landscapes. The persistent snow of the highlands gave way to barren hills, then to semi-arid plains where the wind blew dust and the sun became more present. The relative comfort of the palace was replaced by nights in fortified inns or beneath tents, by simple food, and by the constant rattling of the wheels. Until, several weeks after entering increasingly dry territory, the landscape transformed completely.

Before them, unfolding as far as the eye could see, the desert revealed itself. A motionless sea of dunes, orange and reddish in some parts, in others a bright, pale gold that seemed to melt into the sky. The chronic cold of the north became a distant memory. Now the challenge was the heat rising in waves from the ground, reflecting fiercely onto their faces, and the relentless wind that whistled heavy with fine sand, slipping through every crack and covering everything in persistent dust.

The air smelled of hot stone, absolute dryness, and something more: vastness, the loneliness that only an ungraspable desert can give. After two full months of travel, they finally reached their destination: an outpost of the crown of Erabergh, a settlement carved directly into the base of a red rock mountain that rose like an island in the ocean of sand. It was more of a natural fortress than a building, with tunnels excavated into the stone and inner courtyards protected from the wind.

There, exhausted by the journey, they rested. Barely a breather, just enough to shake the sand from their clothes and fill their canteens. During a shared lunch in the outpost's vaulted dining hall, it was a thick legume soup and stale bread, they were joined by the commander of the barracks, a captain whose face was weathered by the sun and responsibility. With him came another man.

He was of ebony complexion, with sharp and serene features, wearing the loose, flowing linen clothes typical of the desert, designed to reflect the sun and allow air circulation. A simple turban covered his head. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. The captain spoke first, his expression serious, almost incredulous, as if he could not understand why anyone would voluntarily go to that place.

—His Majesty informed me —he said, his voice raspy from the dry climate. Everyone centered their attention on him; however, Selena, by contrast, continued eating. —You will depart in three days. The destination is… —he paused, swallowing hard— "the Dungeon of Eternal Life." The name, pompous and ominous, echoed in the silent dining hall. The captain looked at them one by one, as if evaluating the condemned. Then, the black-skinned man stepped forward. His movement was calm, balanced.

—I am Dalil —he introduced himself, with a respectful bow of his head. His Erahari was perfect, almost academic, without the accent Selena associated with Sandstrohm. —It will be an honor to work with you. I know these dunes and their secrets better than my own palms. Selena, driven by an instinct of courtesy and perhaps by the desire to break the ice with something more than formalities, responded immediately. But she did not do so in Erahari.

She spoke in fluent, precise Sahric, the musical language of the desert that she had practiced with Samira to the point of exhaustion. —The honor will be ours, Dalil —she said, and the words came out with a naturalness that surprised even herself. The effect was immediate. A wide, genuine smile lit up Dalil's face, breaking through his initial seriousness. His eyes shone with a spark of approval and, perhaps, pleasant surprise.

—You speak the language of the dunes with the soul of a daughter of the desert —he replied, still in Sahric, his tone now much warmer. —That is a good omen. After the meal, Selena felt an imperious need to wash away the dust of a two-month journey. She found a bathing room, spartan but functional, carved into the rock and supplied by a rainwater cistern. The water was cold and scarce, but the simple act of washing the sand from her hair and skin was a re-conquered luxury.

Afterward, she went straight to her assigned bed, which was nothing more than a straw mattress directly upon a stone floor, where she slept a full day a deep, restorative sleep that her body desperately demanded. Upon waking, she still had one day of waiting left. With her energy renewed but without the immediate pressure of training, she dedicated herself to… doing nothing, or nearly nothing.

She walked through the outpost's passageways, climbed to the observation posts at the very top of the rocky mountain, and watched. What she saw, in every direction, were dunes. Endless. Rolling. Changing with the light. Only dunes and sand, she thought, with a boredom that soon turned into a kind of hypnotic fascination, and then, into pragmatism. To pass the time and keep her reflexes sharp, she dedicated herself to challenging the outpost's soldiers to friendly bouts, hand-to-hand or with practice weapons.

To her surprise and growing satisfaction, out of eight different duels, she only lost three. It was enormous progress, a tangible testament to the month of brutal training with Alistair and her own determination. Her small stature, which had previously been a clear disadvantage, now turned her into a slippery, fast target, capable of slipping beneath the guards of larger men and landing precise strikes.

In moments of calm, she sometimes approached the outpost's kitchen and cantina, which was run by a woman who vaguely reminded her of Samira. She had a warm, brown skin tone, deep black curly hair peaking out from beneath a light veil, and her eyes were large and expressive. They spoke in Sahric, and the woman, named Layla, proved to be open. —I come from Sandstrohm, from the deep south. She commented when she opened up more, while serving an infusion of bitter herbs.

—My family sent me to work here, at the border, because one earns more money. Furthermore… She paused, lowering her voice. —Since Sultan Jalil al-Muntasir ascended to power, the ancient tradition of using women as bargaining chips in political marriages or debts has been revived with force. She sighed almost tangibly. —Fortunately, the captain of the barracks gave me work and, above all, protection. Al'Shar, the Only Sun, was generous with me and my family by guiding me here.

Her tone was not one of bitterness, but rather of a resigned relaxation, of one who has accepted the rules of the game and found a niche of safety within them. Selena only nodded slowly. She already knew it. In a medieval world, in any civilization, a woman like Layla who was intelligent, capable, but without a powerful lineage or wealth of her own would always be, at best, a piece on the board, a common bargaining chip.

Even in Erabergh, which considered itself the most advanced and enlightened civilization on the continent, where women could theoretically rise in the social hierarchy through merit or marriage, they still existed beneath the invisible but unbreakable glass ceiling of the kingdom, of tradition, of male power. She herself, as a Countess, was an exception that proved the rule, and her position was just as precarious as any other, only with more expensive jewelry.

She did not speak much more during her second day of waiting at the outpost. The silent immensity of the desert and the spartan routine of the soldiers invited introspection rather than conversation. She knew that tomorrow, at dawn, they would resume that endless journey beneath the exhausting sun. And furthermore, there was an unexpected detail that Magnor had revealed to her: the final stretch would be traveled by night, not by day.

The extreme desert temperatures under the sun were a death sentence by dehydration and heatstroke; the darkness, though cold, was more merciful for a forced march. The following day, long before the first glimmer of light tinged the horizon purple, Selena dressed with care, in layers. First, light linen and cotton clothing that allowed for perspiration. Over it, with ritual movements, she donned the dune felis armor that Valerius had sent her.

The plates of tanned hide adjusted to her torso and extremities with a surprisingly light but comforting weight, like a protective second skin. As a third layer, she placed a massive, dense cloak of thick wool, lined with animal fur. In the desert dawn, where the sun had not yet appeared, the cold was terribly intense, dry, and penetrating, a reminder that the desert was a place of brutal extremes.

Upon stepping out into the rocky courtyard of the outpost, illuminated only by torches and a waning moon, she saw that everyone was already prepared. The entourage was exclusively human: Magnor, Astrid, Alistair, Dalil, and his young nephew, an agile and quiet boy named Kaden. Due to the inherent curse of resonants and the corrupting essence of dungeons, no animal, nor titanopod, nor beast of burden could draw near without losing its mind to terror or undergoing horrendous transformations.

All luggage from canteens, rations, tools, to camping equipment, had to be carried on their backs. Selena adjusted her leather backpack, feeling the weight of the water and of her destiny.