Chương 137: Extra Chapter: They Will Meet Again

The grayish sky accompanied her steps; two weeks had already passed since that event. She looked at her hands, turning them under the dying light of the dawn, examining the lines of her palm as if she could find an answer in them, a map, a justification. Although they were still the same hands that had touched Nyssa's blood, she vividly remembered the pain, the color, the temperature. She abruptly looked away; it was necessary to get to the place she had avoided going since the event.

Following the black, polluted river that smelled of waste, she finally found the mouth of the cave. She looked in all directions, making sure no one was following her. As she drew closer, she clearly noticed that the jars of vesperas were empty. They fled, she thought. Maybe they escaped from her too. She took a breath and stepped inside, pace by pace. Upon arrival, only a solitary figure sat meditating upon the stone, it was Elian. He slowly opened his eyes as he felt her footsteps and walked straight toward her.

—Master Corren saw that you would return —he studied her for a moment and continued— He said you would come for answers, alone this time, away from Selena. Kaela did not back down at the words, her expression serious with the same strength that had endured sleepless nights. —Not just that, the deal is still on —she looked him directly in the eyes, almost challenging him— Clear accounts make strong friends. Elian smiled slightly on just one side of his face and exhaled.

—The path is always open to those who feel the desire to satisfy their curiosity, to learn and investigate —he smiled fully this time— but if it is more convenient, we will say the deal is still on. He extended one of his arms and pointed. —As you know, only the master of scribes is capable of giving you what you seek, and you are fortunate that he is here. She followed the crackle of the torches until she stood at the threshold separating the corridor from Corren's desk.

Upon her arrival, the master was firmly flipping through a heavy book; she could only make out the blurry, elusive letters of words she still did not fully understand. Hearing her, Corren looked up from the book. —You had better take a seat —he stood up and offered her the chair in front of his desk— I suppose you've come looking for answers. Kaela nodded slowly, and Corren continued.

—We of the Path of the Inner Voice are, above all, seekers of knowledge, philosophers of consciousness, and liberators of the spirit —he sighed, his tone turning more bitter— however, what happened that night at the shelter, we know it well. Not just because of the rumors that spread like wildfire, but because we have the means to know more than most. The tanner opened her eyes slightly, her expression restrained, but her voice beat her to it and rushed out.

—I know what they say about you, but what I seek is to understand, more than that. —her voice broke for a second, her eyes slightly misted— I seek to understand her, I can't, she must not. Her head shook violently with every "no." —No one can be that cruel, I can't, I don't want to believe she was like that, and yet… The words hung in the air, and she was unable to finish even the smallest sentence; her voice had formed a knot and now lived in her throat.

Corren poured her glass of water, extended it, and with it, his invitation. —Elian surely told you the deal was still on. Kaela nodded, then finished her water. Corren picked up the thread. —However, the path requires knowledge for knowledge and answers for answers. —he made a face as if searching for something forgotten in his memory— In the streets, they usually say it as "No scale tilts unanswered" is that not so?

The master smiled, yet the teenager took a deep, heavy sigh; she knew this would come, she had pondered it and had reached an answer before showing up. —We agreed that you would learn to read and continue doing so —Corren said, his voice gaining firmness— But the answers you demand do not fit into any previous agreement. Selena delivered philosophy to us, and with it, a great responsibility. That is why today, the path extends an opportunity in exchange for the answers.

Kaela sighed deeply again, inhaling just as loudly, and the man continued without disruption. —You will be part of us. We will teach you to read and share our knowledge with you. Having been her friend, we will give you access to her material. If things go well, you will be able to be a scribe and transmit her words; in exchange, I will tell you everything I know about House Solendra. There was no other answer; her heart knew it, and she nodded heavily. Her mouth sealed the deal, heavy and powerful. —It's a deal.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into a new rhythm, a routine carved into the stone of the cave. Kaela moved in with them. She had her own room in one of the cave's niches, a space hollowed out of the rock that barely held a straw pallet, a frayed blanket, and a small lectern where she could rest her parchments to practice writing. It was humble, even humbler than the Shelter of Sacred Rest, but it was hers. And for the first time since that night, she felt she had a place to belong.

Over the weeks, her letters grew steadier. What used to be clumsy scribbles, strokes that drifted, letters that got confused, words that crumbled before completion, became recognizable shapes, syllables she could join, phrases she could read aloud with a trembling but growing slowness. Corren provided her with texts every day. First, it was reviewing isolated words: water, fire, earth, air. Then, simple sentences:"The river flows toward the estuary," "The nimora flies at dusk."

Later, entire paragraphs, excerpts from books she still could not fully comprehend, but whose words she could pronounce. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. But what interested her most, what kept her awake late, what made her get up before dawn, was the history of House Solendra. Of the one who had been her friend.

She waited every afternoon, with poorly disguised impatience, for Corren to put aside his books and dedicate time to revealing the fragments of a long history. It was like opening a sealed chest and finding, instead of treasures, uncomfortable truths, truths that hurt, truths that forced her to rethink everything she thought she knew. She learned that House Solendra had not always been the most powerful in the grand duchy.

Before the kingdom was founded, two priestly castes competed for influence: the Solendru, worshippers more attached to traditions and faith, and the Solendra, who focused on earthly power, on merchants, on the silk routes. The dispute lasted centuries, until the soft power of the Solendra prevailed over the ecclesiastical dogma of the Solendru. She also learned about the pride of the house. Something Corren called "the green anomaly." It was common for a grand duchess to rule rather than a duke.

Solendra blood was strong in its women, they said; emerald-green eyes were passed down from generation to generation like a blessing. Many nobles from other houses had tried to marry a Solendra just to obtain that trait, that mark of legitimacy, that seal of a power that transcended titles. Corren also spoke of political complexities. Of how Valerius, Selena's uncle, had marched just ten years ago against a rebellious region of Veridia. He slaughtered entire cities, they said, over an insult to the young heiress.

A merchant had questioned the quality of her fabrics, or something like that; the story was confusing, the details lost in the mist of propaganda. But Corren, with his access to documents others could not see, knew the truth. Or at least, what he believed to be the truth. Once the route was cleared by the army, the commercial flow to the east skyrocketed. Taxes on goods crossing the new territories brought House Solendra a profit of up to forty percent over previous earnings.

The insult to the little duchess was just an excuse, a bloody headline to hide the true reason: the control of a trade route Valerius had been coveting for years. It was like that with more than one story. All with the same center. Selena was used, under everyone's gaze, as the instigator of conflicts. Her name, her title, her reputation as the "Crimson" was the hammer House Solendra employed to justify its expansions, its wars, its business.

She was the perfect excuse: young, beautiful, supposedly capricious and cruel. Who would question the grand duke when he said he was protecting his grieving niece? Who would doubt there was a conspiracy against her? Kaela listened, and as she listened, something broke inside her. It was not the image of Selena, but the idea that someone could be used like that, reduced to a symbol, a tool, a piece on someone else's board. Did she know? she often asked herself. Did Selena know her name was used to justify massacres?

Is she another victim, another woman used by a man with power? There were no answers. Not yet. But she kept looking. The hot Pyr passed quickly until the routine was etched deeper. One afternoon, while Kaela was writing with a stick on the dirt, a sound engraved in her memory made her turn her head. It was men in armor, accompanied by two clerics in earthy robes with red-patterned trim.

Kaela felt her heart shrink in her chest, her hands begin to tremble, the memory of that night returning with the force of a punch. One of the soldiers presented himself before them. His voice was affected, official, the voice of one repeating a speech learned by heart. —By the sap and the crown, by the authority emanating from the eternal flow, we present ourselves. We are the inquisitors of the holy church; we seek heretics. Elian, who until that moment had remained motionless under the hood of his robe, moved.

Slowly, with a deliberate calm that seemed to defy the urgency of the moment, he drew a tiny whistle from the folds of his clothes. He brought it to his lips. And he whistled. The soldiers, tense, drew their swords. The sound of metal unsheathing was a sharp rasp that cut the air. The clerics, however, only laughed. A low, confident laugh, the laugh of those who know they have power on their side.

—I see —said the short, pot-bellied cleric, whose robe barely covered his bulging belly— The heretics of the Path always love a show. He paused, savoring the moment, letting the threat settle in the air like a thick, nauseating aroma. —Arrest them —he ordered, and his voice became a whip— Only fire can repair that runaway flow. The soldiers lunged quickly, their armor making clear, metallic sounds, the echo of approaching death. Kaela held her breath. This is the end, she thought. They will burn us.

We will die here, in this cave, and no one will ever know what happened. But at the next step they took with the intention of apprehending them, the ground turned to mud. Only beneath their soles. As if the earth itself had rebelled against them, as if the cave had a will of its own and had decided to protect its people. One of the soldiers fell entirely on his side, the weight of the armor sinking him into the mud that sprouted from nowhere. His cry was muffled by the splash. —Not just heretics, but...

—the other cleric began, but he did not manage to finish. From the gloom, a figure emerged, answering the call of the whistle. It was none other than Corren. His ashen robe seemed to glow in the dark, and his eyes, normally serene, burned with an intensity Kaela had never seen in him. He planted himself between the soldiers and the heretics, a bulwark of flesh and bone against the tide of the inquisition.

—Run —he said, and his voice sounded deeper than usual, heavier, as if it came from another place, another time— She will come for you, I know it, I have seen it. You will meet again. She did not ask who. She did not need to ask. She knew. She had always known. Selena. Kaela and Elian broke into a run. They could not afford the luxury of doubt, of hesitation. As they ran, Kaela heard a strange sound behind her, a rubbing of fingers against metal, a rhythmic and ancient sequence.

Corren was bringing his hands to his neck. To his moon necklace. He began to touch it in an almost ritualistic way, with a precision that spoke of years of practice, of an intimate knowledge of its secrets. The tanner did not catch sight of any more. She only heard footsteps behind her. They were pursuing her. They ran through one of the cave's multiple passageways. Elian knew the way by heart, and Kaela limited herself to following him, trusting that he would lead her to safety. But she felt it first.

The tug on her clothes. A sharp, hard pull that threw her off balance. Second, the fall onto her knees. The impact was brutal, a sharp pain that shot up her legs and settled in her bones, a wound that would take weeks to heal. The pain gripped her, but that was not what was on her mind. It was not a soldier standing before her, but one of the clerics. His robe, dark as the earth, occupied her entire vision.

The man was breathing heavily, agitated from the run, but in his eyes shone a light of triumph, the certainty of having caught his prey. The man squeezed her tightly by the wrist. His fingers, thick and calloused, closed like pincers around her skin. Kaela struggled, tried to break free, but it was useless. The inquisitor's strength far surpassed her own. It was then that she felt the heat; it came from her wrist, right from that bracelet Selena had given her.

The smell of burning flesh spread immediately; her fear was the trigger, the squeeze the medium. The resonant object was keeping its promise. The cleric released her wrist with a shriek. His hand was reddened, blistered, as if he had touched hot iron. He backed away, tripping over his own feet, and his face, previously confident, contorted into a grimace of pain and incredulity. —You damn daughter of a… —the inquisitor muttered. But there was no longer anyone to hear him.

The teenager, following the route she had been taught, the secret passageways, the emergency exits, the paths only the initiated knew, ran as fast as she could. Her legs burned, her lungs fired, her eyes filled with tears that were not of fear, but of rage, of that contained fury that had kept her alive during all those years. She had run like so many other times. For her soul. For her freedom. But this time it was because she knew she would find her. Selena. The duchess. The friend.

The one who had been used and the one who had used, the victim and the executioner, the one who carried Nyssa's blood on her hands even if she hadn't been the one to wield the sword. As she ran, as the tears dried on her cheeks, swept away by the wind of the tunnel, Kaela made a promise, one only to herself. The promise to trust the one she loved with her tanner's soul.