Chương 141: Chapter 3: Debts That Do Not Exist

Under the whisper of the nightly insects that filtered through the half-open windows, she made her way to Elara's small office. It was a minimalist, almost spartan space. A desk of noble wood, though simple and without carvings, occupied the center. Upon it, a few papers were perfectly arranged, forming right angles with the edges of the furniture. Behind it, sitting with an incredibly straight back that defied her years, was Sister Elara.

Her hair, of a uniform ashen color, was gathered in a bun so tense, tight, and perfect that it seemed sculpted from marble, the very kind a strict mother would make for her daughter before sending her to school. Time always stands still with this woman, Selena thought, wiping away her last residual tear with a small, slightly foolish smile, a glimpse of the young woman she still was, beneath the layers of pain. —Sister Elara —Selena said upon entering. The woman looked up.

Her eyes, gray and piercing like steel, recognized her instantly. But unlike Kael, her reaction was different. With a swift and precise movement, she stood up and then bowed deeply, almost in a genuflection, looking down at the polished wooden floor. —Lady Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra —she said, her voice clear. A tone that sounded cold and lacked Anya's pastoral warmth. —How may this humble servant help you? It was surprising.

Elara, always so rigid, so military in her efficiency, was now showing herself to be deeply ceremonial, recognizing the unbridgeable gap in status between a sister of the church and a countess. Selena sat in the chair in front of the desk, without waiting to be invited. —I come to have you help me with something —she began. Her tone was more practical now, regaining some control. —I know that the shelter… goes through times with few funds. Elara nodded once, a sharp movement of her head, confirming the obvious.

—Therefore, I must go look for something. —the countess added, unbothered. Selena rose then, and as she did, with a movement that seemed clumsy but was calculated with a watchmaker's precision, she dropped something from her pocket. The object struck the wooden floor with a metallic, resonant clink, rolling a bit before stopping at Elara's feet. It was a crown.

A small but thick crown of solid gold, with a simple yet flawless design, the type of high-denomination coin used by wholesale merchants or the nobility for large transactions. Elara did not move immediately. Her gray eyes lowered toward the gleaming gold, then rose to Selena's impassive face. Promptly, with deliberate slowness, she bent down and picked up the crown. She held it in her palm, its significant weight contrasting with the lightness of the gesture.

—My lady —she said, her voice now completely neutral— your gold crown. Selena looked at her, and in her green eyes flashed a spark of recognition, of complicity. She adopted an expression of genuine surprise, furrowing her brow with convincing perplexity. —What crown? —she asked, her tone innocent, almost careless. Without waiting for an answer, she turned around and left the office, softly closing the door behind her. Elara was left alone, holding the heavy gold coin.

A minuscule, almost imperceptible smile curved the severe line of her lips for an instant. She had understood completely. It was a direct nod to the test she had put Selena through months ago, when she had believed her to be troublesome and had set that trap of honesty. Although in her heart she knew it was not the same, she fulfilled her function; Selena, however, was not testing her. She was donating in the subtlest way possible.

The roles had reversed, but above all, it was a small theater that saved appearances, giving without humiliating, charity with a nod to memory. It was a way that respected the iron dignity of the sister. In the end, everything was a coded message, an act of generosity disguised as carelessness, and a test passed with flying colors. Elara closed her hand around the gold, feeling its weight not as wealth, but as a responsibility and a renewed understanding of the enigmatic woman who had just walked out that door.

Selena left the shelter, plunging once more into the dark, throbbing veins of Terracanto. She walked with a firm stride toward the west district, where poverty was not resigned, but fierce and desperate. Her destination: the Old Rim Inn. The road was a test in itself. The night, in those alleys, was a predator. They tried to mug her three times.

First, a pair of drunken shadows just looking for an easy purse; with a swift movement of her still-sheathed scimitar, she struck their wrists with the metal pommel, leaving them gasping in pain. The second, a more determined man, with a short dagger and the eyes of a hungry rat. Selena dodged the first attack with a fluidity that would have surprised even Fjora; with the scabbard of the scimitar itself, she struck his collarbone with a sharp crack; the man fell, cursing.

The third, a group of three, more organized. Here, Selena no longer showed mercy. Her arm, strengthened by weeks of brutal training, moved like a piston. A bone-breaking blow to the arm of the first, a low kick to the knee of the second, and a strike with the tip of the scabbard to the stomach of the third, leaving him vomiting on the dirt floor. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. The steel was not necessary, much less mute words.

It was pure violence, efficient and cold, the response of someone who has already seen horrors that make petty thieves look like annoying flies. The news must have traveled, because after that, the shadows kept their distance, watching with fearful respect the woman who walked with the determination of a storm and the precision of an executioner. Finally, she reached the area of the Old Rim, but she did not enter the inn.

She took a detour, entering an even narrower and foul-smelling labyrinth of shacks built out of desperation. Structures of intertwined twigs, sun-dried mud, and crumbling roofs of moldy thatch. She followed the course of a stream, whose waters smelled of rot, until she found the shack she remembered. The one belonging to Rolus and Lykos, which no longer had the old, tattered cloth as a door. Now there was a rough piece of wood, discarded from some construction, tied to the posts with thick ropes of braided fibers.

A modest luxury, but a luxury nonetheless. Selena knocked on the wood with her knuckles. They took a moment, but finally the door opened, dragging over the dirt floor. It was Rolus. The little boy as thin as wire, with large eyes of hunger and caution, the very one who had guided her in her first days. He was the first person who had offered her genuine help without asking for anything in return.

Although upon examining him closer, she realized the little one was no longer the specter she held in her memories; though still thin, he had meat on his bones. His face was no longer emaciated, his skin tone had improved; it was now a healthy color. The boy, who was examining her in turn, transformed the expression of surprise in his eyes into a flash of recognition, then into a happiness so pure and tremendous that it illuminated the entrance of the shack. —Miss Selena! —he exclaimed.

His voice was still childlike, even though he had grown a few centimeters. —Thank you! Thank you so much! My dad… he recovered completely with the medicine you gave me. He is working again! A voice, slightly deeper, sounded from within. —Who is it, Rolus? From the gloom emerged another boy, a bit taller, with the same hair color and unkempt look, but also with a healthy countenance, with life in his eyes. Selena recognized him instantly, despite the distance and the months. —Lykos —she said, with a warm curiosity.

Among them all a smile was born, one that filled the air, and the cold night turned warm because of the hearts that recognized each other. —Yes, miss. I am Lykos —the boy said, his voice firm. —I owe you my life. Rolus nodded enthusiastically by his side. —Things… improved a lot. Since they removed the town tax, and since I got a job with my brother at the dock warehouses… we eat every day now. Sometimes there is even meat. A wave of warmth, genuine and comforting, finally flooded Selena's chest.

It was such a strange feeling after so much coldness and horror that for a moment it took her breath away. Her smile was eloquent, opening up without restriction. —I am glad —she said. The words sounded sincere to the core. —I am so glad. Then she added, shaking her head gently. —By the way, you owe me nothing. What kind of kind gesture would it be if I expected a reward? She laughed a little, a light sound that accentuated the absurdity of the notion.

—I just wanted to see you, since I was passing through the neighborhood. It gladdens me enormously that your life is going better… and that the Heiress Duchess removed that town tax. It is gratifying to see a noble care for her people. They said goodbye with unspoken promises of well-being, and Selena went on her way, her heart a little lighter, but with a renewed purpose.

She followed the stream, moving away from the shacks, entering a more desolate area where the waters turned dark and thick, as if dragging the city's dirtiest secrets. Her final destination of the night: the cave where the Way of the Voice had once taken refuge. When she arrived, the place was desolate. The entrance, once discreetly guarded, was abandoned. Inside, the darkness was absolute and empty. There was no trace of the jars with bioluminescent insects hanging from the walls, casting their phantasmal light.

There were no piles of books squeezed onto the shelves. There was no sign of the smell of old parchment, ink, and dried herbs. There were no people. Only the silence and the echo of her own footsteps. Selena sighed, a mixture of disappointment and resignation. They were gone. They had vanished, as always.

She was about to turn around, to surrender to the evidence, when her perception of the Void, that strange sensitivity she had developed, gave a sudden and sharp tug in her mind, like an invisible thread being pulled. It was a sensation of a residual presence, of contained power, emanating from a specific point. Without hesitation, she headed toward the back of the cave, up to an immense rock that seemed part of the wall. With an effort, using the strength of her arm and her determination, she pushed it.

It was not sealed, but nearly so; it gave way with a crunch of gravel. Behind it, in a small, dry hollow, there was a single thing: a letter. A simple sheet of folded paper, protected from moisture by a thin layer of wax. She took it and unfolded it, then by the light of the full moon that filtered freely through the cave, she read. The handwriting was neat, fast, and familiar.

"Come see us in the northern mountains, the Rualfis mountain range. If you ask for Alaric the blacksmith, in the village of Murks, you will know where we are. — C." It was Corren. A flash of joy, sour but real, lit up Selena's face. She was not alone; the bond, though tenuous, persisted. The Way of the Voice, or at least a branch of it, still existed, hidden, but accessible to those who knew.

Without wasting a second, as soon as she left the cave and found herself again under the starry sky beside the black stream, she took the paper letter, tore it into several strips, and, one by one, tossed them into the dark, slow waters of the canal. She watched as the ink, upon contact with the fetid liquid, faded rapidly, erasing the words, dissolving the message into nothingness. Only the knowledge remained, tucked away in her memory, a new destination plotted on the map of her quest.

She returned to the Solendra mansion just as the first shreds of grayish light began to tear the black mantle of the sky, weaving the familiar and severe contours of the towers, of the battlements. The servants of the house, already at their first chores, greeted her with respectful bows as they crossed paths with her in the main foyer, their curious but discreet glances registering her nightly return and her state of extreme fatigue. Selena paid them no mind.

She headed straight to her quarters, to the spacious and cold room that had belonged to the Crimson Duchess and collapsed onto the huge four-poster bed without even undressing. Sleep took her like a tide deep, heavy, and free at last after days of immediate nightmares.