Chương 140: Chapter 2: I Am a Killer

The return journey was a deliberate slowness, a geographical decompression. They slept at several inns along the royal road, where the beds were hard but clean, and the food was simple but did not taste of stone dust or fear, a flavor she thanked in her soul. The roads were no longer tarred with dead snow. Now they were lined with the first wildflowers that dared to peek through the grass: small patches of blue, white, and yellow that released a feast of fresh and earthy aromas.

For Selena, every breath of that scented air was a reminder that life, simple and earthly, persisted. For Samira, however, spring brought an unexpected inconvenience. The pollen from certain blooming trees, released in invisible clouds by the breeze, unleashed a violent allergy in her. Her eyes turned red and watery, her breathing became wheezy, and she sneezed with a frequency that left her exhausted and embarrassed. Selena, observing the problem with her newly recovered clinical gaze, did not hesitate.

In the next village with a herbalist, she bought a small bag of a grayish, aromatic powder: ground bark from the Living Mantle Tree, a species whose antihistamine and soothing properties she knew from her classes. She instructed Samira to submerge it in hot water and deeply breathe in the vapors. After a few days of this rudimentary but effective treatment, the scholar's symptoms subsided completely, leaving her with a new, silent admiration for her lady's practical knowledge.

The days stretched out, monotonous and therapeutic, until one afternoon, Selena recognized the landscape. The forest, the strange and beautiful silicariel forest, whose translucent, brittle leaves captured the light of the setting sun, refracting it into a thousand tiny rainbows. It was the same forest she had seen, with a mixture of bewilderment and wonder, when she departed from Terracanto toward Kaelburg, toward the destiny that had led her to the university, to the court, to the dungeon, to loss.

A smile, genuine and off-guard, like that of a girl returning home after a long and difficult journey, drew across her lips. It was not a smile of complete joy, too many shadows accompanied her, but of recognition, of a familiar place in a world that remained foreign. That same day, at dusk, the wagon rolled through the familiar, cobbled streets of Terracanto, finally stopping in front of the imposing and severe facade of the Solendra Mansion. But Selena did not step down with the intention of staying.

She ordered Fjora and Samira to unload the belongings and leave everything prepared for their stay. —I will return later —she said, her tone admitting no questions. Both women nodded. They no longer followed her merely as guardians or slaves bound by a collar or the crown. Something had changed, forged in the distance, in mutual concern, in shared survival. For them, Selena was no longer just a noble oppressor, an owner.

She was a person, complex, damaged, dangerous, but a person whom, in their strange dynamic, they had come to respect and, in a peculiar way, to protect of their own free will. Selena left the mansion on foot, breathing the fresh, sweetish air of the Terracanto spring night. On a corner, she took one of the last rental carts traveling the city at those hours. An old man, with a face furrowed by wrinkles and an unlit pipe at the corner of his mouth, looked at her from the driver's seat. —Where to, young lady?

—he asked, his voice hoarse from the cobatta he smoked and the years. Selena, without further ado, climbed into the back seat. —To the Shelter of Sacred Rest —she said. Then, she added, with the promise that accelerated any night journey. —I will give you a silver crown if we get there quickly. The man narrowed his eyes, evaluating the seriousness of the offer on the young woman's face. Then, a toothless smile peeked out. —Giddy up, Chelok! The young lady is in a hurry!

—he shouted, giving a soft lash to the air over the back of the chelokran. The immense turtle stood on two legs, moving the other four in the air. The creature emitted a grunt and set off at a brisk trot, its nails clacking against the cobblestones, carrying Selena through the increasingly quiet streets of Terracanto, toward the only place that, at that moment, she felt as a true refuge. The cart stopped in front of the building that was not her final destination, but her beacon.

She stopped for a long time observing every forgotten detail, but to her surprise, those days had been indelible to her mind. It was just as she remembered it, a bastion of calm in the chaos. But the church was not her goal. She turned and kept walking, hugging the side of the religious building. There, almost as a humble and necessary appendix, was the Shelter of Sacred Rest. It was an even lower building, constructed with the same dark, rough stone, as if it had sprouted directly from the flank of the church.

Its roof, also made of resined tiles, sloped gently. In front of it, a solid wooden gate simple, without engravings or ornaments austere and functional like everything inside ought to be: refuge, not ostentation. At the entrance, like the first time, stood a man. Selena recognized him instantly. Kael. The silent guardian of the shelter, the imperturbable presence that had watched over her first, desperate arrival. When she stood before him, the man showed no surprise.

His brown eyes scrutinized her for an instant, registering the changes: the fatigue carved in deeper lines, the gaze that had changed, the posture that was no longer just that of a disguised noble, but of someone who had carried the weight of decisions. Then, with a fluid and respectful movement, he bowed deeply, dropping one knee into the dust of the street. He brought a wide, calloused hand to his chest, in a formal greeting he had never directed at her before.

—My lady Countess Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. His voice surprised Selena. It was deeper than she had imagined, rough from disuse or from habits of silence, but clear and measured. —How may I serve you? It was the first time Selena heard his voice. She understood the difference in treatment immediately.

He no longer saw her as the disoriented vagrant, the intruder with borrowed clothes and a panicked gaze he had met months ago. Now he knew, after the incident with Nyssa and undoubtedly through the rumors that must circulate even in the slums, that she was the Heiress Duchess, now Countess, a noble of blood. That was the reason for his formality, his audible voice, his respectful distance. It was a different world from their first encounter, marked by the knowledge of her status.

—I need to come in —Selena said, her own voice sounding strangely firm compared to the exhaustion she felt. —I come to speak with Anya. Even Elara would do, if she is here. She paused, seeing a shadow of concern, or perhaps a memory of the past uproar, cross Kael's impassive face. —Do not worry. What happened last time will not happen. I promise it by the great house Solendra. She brought a flat hand to her heart, trying to give more strength to her words.

Kael held her gaze for a second, as if evaluating the truth of her promise in her green eyes, now older and harder. Then, with an almost imperceptible gesture of assent, he stood up. —Allow me, my lady —he said, and turned to enter the shelter. Selena waited in the silent street, the scent of zintel tiles and the faint smell of vegetable soup drifting from the interior enveloping her like a familiar mantle. A few minutes later, Kael came out again.

He bowed slightly, with a deference that still felt strange to her coming from that wall of a man. —My lady, come in. Forgive the delay —his tone was respectful, almost formal. —We were… preparing a better tea for you.

He ducked his head in a final gesture of respect and, with a hand that seemed capable of tearing down the door in a single charge, but which now moved it with care, opened the solid wooden gate, inviting her to enter the only place in all of Erabergh that she still felt, in a paradoxical and painful way, as a possible home. Selena crossed the threshold and headed straight to the common dining room, passing through the austere foyer.

Everything remained the same: the same smell of weak lye and sand-wheat bread, the same stone floor that was uneven in parts and another courtyard of complete dirt, the same oil lamps softly smoking in their niches. As she passed the exact spot where the black-armored soldier had decapitated Nyssa, a visceral shudder ran through her. It was a physical sensation: the air seemed to turn thicker, colder, and the echo of a muffled scream resonated in her inner ears.

She stopped for an instant, holding her breath, but she did not allow the horror to paralyze her. She clenched her fists, fixed her eyes on the ground a few paces ahead, and kept walking, dragging the ghost of that night along with her. The dining room was full at that hour, but there were some of the women she still remembered. Anya, the sister of charity, with her kind face marked by perpetual fatigue, but illuminated by a spark of joy upon seeing her.

Pira, the dust collector, a petite, quiet woman who always seemed to have a fine layer of sand on her sleeves. Tessa, with her stiff leg that she dragged slightly when moving. Maren, the egg collector, with rough hands and a scarce smile. Enara, the old laundress, with fingers twisted and gnarled by decades of working in cold water. Selena smiled upon seeing the little old woman, it was slight, almost invisible, but inexorably a smile.

Along with them were four other faces she did not know, women whose stories she was still ignorant of, but whose faces carried the same mark of effort and resignation. Anya stepped forward, her tone imbued with the practical, tired love that characterized her. —My lady Countess —she said, bowing her head slightly —forgive the sobriety of our table. You may sit, and we will share with you everything we have. The favor of Aelthra be with you. Selena sat on the wooden bench, facing the long, worn table.

The women observed her. Some trembled slightly, their hands restless on their laps. Others had eyes like those of cornered animals, searching for an exit that did not exist. To Selena, that reaction recalled, with a blow of bitter lucidity, the inherent curse of the resonants: the instinctive terror they provoked in animals. I do not have it with animals, she thought, feeling a knot in her stomach, but… what about these people? Is it my title, my power, my mere presence?

Is the curse this body brings the one that makes them tremble? Once seated, she broke the silence she had maintained the last time she was there, disoriented and mute. —What happened last time —she began, her voice hoarser than usual —was… embarrassing. She looked directly at Anya, holding her gaze. —Your tea… I do not deserve it. It is not because of the quality —she clarified quickly. —It is because of what happened. You are people. People with dignity.

She paused, looking at her hands, which were beginning to tremble on the table. The tears, held back for so long, found a crack and began to well up, hot and silent, tracing paths through her dried dirt. —And I… am a killer. A deep sigh, laden with a thousand unspoken things, escaped Anya's lips. The other women stared, incredulous, their expressions a mosaic of confusion, fear, and a spark of something resembling hope. It was an inconceivable scene.

A noble, a countess, weeping and apologizing for the dignity of poor women, for the life of another poor woman. In their world, dignity was not inherent to humanity; it was something earned with status, with wealth, with power. For them, women of the slum, dignity was a luxury, an abstract concept that rarely translated into fair treatment. Anya said nothing. She rose calmly, took the earthenware teapot smoking in the center of the table, and poured a cup of simple tea, made of bitter and comforting herbs.

The gesture was simple, but in that context, it was a tacit forgiveness, an acceptance of the vulnerability displayed. It was then, when the cup stood full before her, that Selena did something that completely paralyzed the dining room. She rose from her chair. Then, with a deliberate and humble movement, she knelt on the stone floor, on both knees, in front of the table, in front of all of them. Her posture was one of supplication, of penance. —I know… —she said, her voice cracking with weeping.

—That apologies will not give Nyssa her life back. I know that. But I… I considered you my friends. My family, in this strange world. A sob cut her voice, forcing her to swallow before continuing. —I am sorry. I am sorry with all my soul. You are people. The soldier who did it… has already been punished. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint chirp of an insect outside and the held breath of the women. It was too much to process.

The kneeling noble, the confession, the recognition of their humanity… these were waters too deep and turbulent to navigate with their usual tools of survival. Selena did not wait for an answer. She stood up, wiping her tears with the back of her hand in an almost childlike gesture. She sat back down, took the cup of tea, and drank it in one gulp, feeling the hot liquid travel down her throat, a small earthly balm. Once finished, she did not say another word. Though Anya intervened with only a quote.

—She, blessed and powerful, with her eternal cycle puts everything where it should be, and there is no greater correct cycle than the one that recognizes it is wrong in front of its peers. The sister of charity smiled, a warm smile, blew on her cup of tea, and drank it. Selena remained in silence like the rest, until she stood up again, with a new dignity, forged in humility, and left the dining room, leaving behind a silence charged with emotion and the astonished gazes of the women.