Chương 143: Chapter 5: The Weight of the Title

It was an envelope of thick parchment, closed with two wax seals: the larger and more elaborate was the royal seal of the dune felis with a sword in its snout; below it, a smaller and more functional one, that of the chief scribe of the court. Selena took it with firm fingers, but with a sudden coldness in her stomach. She allowed herself for a moment, closing her eyes, holding her breath. Then she released it, a long, silent sigh that seemed to empty the room of air. She broke the seal.

The calligraphy was impeccable, that of a professional, and the words drew themselves before her with brutal clarity:"To the Heiress Duchess Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra, Your Majesty requires your presence to speak of what occurred during the entrusted mission. Your attendance is of vital importance. You are requested to return as soon as possible. Farewell, The Chief Royal Scribe." Brief. Dry. Unyielding. There was no room for refusals, nor for more rest.

The King was claiming his part of the deal, his report on the horror, his explanation for the loss of three of his agents. The journey to the capital would be long; with luck, by taking advantage of the main highways and changing mounts frequently, it would take the entire first month of spring and perhaps three-quarters of the next. There was no time to lose. She called for the head maids. —Everything must be left in order —she ordered, her voice regaining the tone of command that had been absent.

—I will depart tomorrow morning. Prepare what is necessary for a prolonged journey to the Royal Capital. The mansion plunged into a silent, efficient bustle. Selena, however, remained in the living room, the royal letter resting on the ebony table like an accusation. Later into the night, when the sounds of the house had died down, she sat at the desk. She took an ornitura quill, sharpened it with her penknife, and dipped its tip into a silver inkwell. Yet, she did not direct it to the King. She wrote to Valerius.

It was the first time she had addressed a letter to him since she had arrived in this world. The words cost her at first, catching in her throat before flowing onto the paper with a neat and confident calligraphy, the one Isabella had perfected.

"To the Grand Duke Valerius of Solendra, I hope the little one is soon to be born, that all is well, and that you are as happy as you can be. After the mission entrusted to me by his majesty, I returned directly to Terracanto. I wanted to rest; I needed to. Surely you understand well; you too have had to see the horrors of war, and though they are not exactly the same, the pain of loss is identical in whichever eyes reflect it. I have seen that Terracanto has been improving since that tax was removed.

It was natural, but poverty still lashes the lower districts like an endless winter. Because of this, I have had an idea. Remove taxes for five years from emerging enterprises, small workshops, and those who are just starting out. The people will grow progressively wealthier due to the new working class and the businesses that flourish. You could also provide an incentive to improve the pollution of the river and the air: grant expansion funds or exemptions to the tanneries that implement cleaner methods.

I assure you that, if done well, it will enrich the duchy in less than twenty years, and the people much sooner. It is the last favor asked of you by your dear niece, Selena of Solendra." There was no title whatsoever to strengthen the request, only "Selena of Solendra." A name, a family bond, an identity that still felt borrowed to her but which she now utilized with a clear purpose. She let the ink dry, contemplating the words.

They were seeds cast onto fertile soil, the only positive inheritance she could attempt to leave in this place. Then, she folded the paper with care, slipped it into an envelope of fine parchment, sealed it with dark red wax, and stamped upon it a simple signet she had found on the desk: a golden hawk armed with a spear over waves. She called for Anne, the red-haired maid, who came with her usual discretion.

—This letter —Selena said, handing it to her— must be sent to Lumenburg, to the attention of Grand Duke Valerius, as soon as possible. Use the fast channels of the house. It is urgent. Anne nodded, taking the envelope as if it were a relic, understanding the weight of the correspondence by her lady's tone. —Immediately, my lady. Selena watched her leave, and then she was left alone, looking through the window at the night wrapping around Terracanto.

The next day, she would undertake the path back to the heart of power, to give an account for a nightmare mission. But that night, at least, she had planted a small seed of the future in the cracked soil of the present. The journey began at the following dawn, with the sturdy carriage and two fresh titanopods yoked to it. They followed the Royal Highway, a well-maintained stone road that serpentined through hills, young forests, and plains that were beginning to dress in spring green.

The weeks slipped away in a monotony of changing landscapes, nights in fortified inns, and days of constant rattling. Despite the relative safety of the main road, a subtle tension accompanied Selena; the royal letter weighed on her mind like a block of lead, and every shadow at the edge of the road seemed to contain the echo of invisible eyes. One night, particularly dark and moonless, when they were already near the fork that led to the University City of Kaelburg, they decided to camp.

The place was a clearing beside the road, protected by a low grove. They erected the tents quickly, lit a controlled fire, and after a silent supper, retired to sleep, with Fjora taking the first watch. Selena slept with the lightness of a hunter; a habit burned into her by the training prior to the dungeon. It was not a sound that woke her completely, but the sudden absence of the usual nightly noises. An instant later, Fjora's figure slipped inside her tent. The Nord did not speak.

In the almost absolute darkness, she made a series of hand signals, precise and economical movements that Selena had learned during the training prior to the nightmare. One signal was clear:"Surrounded." The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. The air inside the tent seemed to thicken instantly, becoming cold and heavy. Selena moved without thinking, her hand finding the familiar hilt of her short scimitar beside the bed. She drew it with a metallic whisper.

Outside, footsteps could already be heard, many of them, trying to be stealthy but betrayed by the cracking of twigs and the rustle of clothes against the brush. As soon as the canvas of the tent entrance stirred, Fjora acted. Like a released spring, her longsword swept out in a silver arc that barely caught the faint reflection of the dying fire's embers. The first man who attempted to enter emitted a choked gurgle; a hot jet of blood splattered the inside of the canvas and the ground.

The smell of copper and iron, dense and metallic, invaded Selena's senses and brought back, with a nauseating clarity, the memory of the pulsing floor of the dungeon, of Alistair's blood, of Magnor's, of the creature that had been Astrid. A visceral shiver ran through her. But there was no time for horror. That was only the first. Several more figures rushed toward the opening.

One of them, bolder, lit a torch with a tinderbox, abruptly illuminating the scene: coarse faces full of scars, eyes gleaming with greed and violence. Fjora, turned into a whirlwind of steel and death, launched herself against the light-bearer. The man, seeing his end approach, shouted in a hoarse and mocking voice: —Don't fight, girls! Your bruised bodies are worth less in the market! Wounded slaves...! He could not finish the sentence. Because Selena, while Fjora dealt with him, had already acted.

She did not use the sword, but her will. She opened her mouth and a silent word; a mute verb transformed and molded the earth; the command had sprouted from the deepest part of her being. The ground beneath the feet of the bandits outside, and that surrounding the tent, changed. The damp earth and dry leaves suddenly became thick, viscous, and sticky.

It was a supernatural mud that clung to their boots with increasing force, trapping several of them in their tracks, causing them to lose their balance with shouts of surprise and rage. Selena did not stand still to admire her work. In less than a second, taking advantage of the confusion and the flickering light of the torch that Fjora had caused to fall, she lunged out of the tent. Her focus, far from disarming or incapacitating, went for the tangible, for what guaranteed her the best outcome.

Her movements swift as a serpent's, her silver scimitar drew short, brutal lines in the darkness. The fluidity with which she moved the weapon was destined only for the hands that wielded arms against them. A flash, a shriek of pain, and a hand, still clinging to a dagger or a short sword, flew through the air. Another flash, another scream. The shrieks of agony, mixed with Fjora's grunts of combat, filled the night.

The original torch-bearer, who had managed to dodge Fjora's mortal blow but was bloodied, screamed in a voice loaded with a primitive fear of the incomprehensible: —Kill that bitch! And the other one too! They're witches! It was then that Selena, planting herself in the middle of the chaos, with her sleeping clothes stained with foreign blood and her scimitar dripping, raised her voice.

She spoke, holding back the emotion in her throat; her tone suddenly embodied all the icy, distant authority of nobility, sound that cut through the shrieks like a knife. —Stop! The effect was momentary, a flicker of uncertainty between pain and fury. —I am Countess Selena of Solendra —she declared, her voice clear and projected. —If you surrender now, I promise you will pay for your crimes as determined by the law of the kingdom. She made a dramatic pause, letting the implicit threat settle. —If you do not…

you will see why, once, they called me the Crimson Duchess. The name fell like a blow from a sledgehammer. No one in the kingdom was ignorant of it, not even the underworld of the roads. The stories, exaggerated, yes, but with an atrocious core of truth about the noblewoman who had dyed the streets of the ducal capital red in implacable purges, ran like an underground river of terror. Some of the bandits, the less injured or less fanatical, hesitated. Though not all.

A man, who until then had remained on the periphery of the fallen torch's light, stepped forward. He was tall and broad as a bear, wielding a battle-axe with terrifying ease. His voice was deep, filled with ingrained and personal hatred. —I won't surrender my life to a noble —he spat, his eyes gleaming with loathing in the gloom. —Least of all to one who delights in the death of the poor. We are neither poor nor weak here. Selena looked at him; in her green eyes there was no fear, only a cold acceptance.

—So be it —she said, and lunged. The countess was surrounded by a couple of bandits who tried to distract her, but she kept them at bay with circular movements of her scimitar while evading the heavy attacks of the giant. In the fierce determination of her green eyes, she appeared completely focused on every movement, on every tiny twitch of the man's hands. The air smelled of blood, sweat, and fear.

In a moment of apparent disadvantage, when the giant's axe was a span from her shoulder, Selena opened her mouth again. Another silent word, another surrender of her essence. This time, the verb was directed at the metal. Immediately, all the weapons of the bandits, the swords, daggers, and the giant's axe, became red-hot. An intense, instantaneous heat erupted from the steel, followed by the sickening smell of scorched flesh, the sound of skin and nerves burning upon contact.

Sharp screams of pure, animal pain tore through the night. The men dropped their weapons as if they were live coals, staring at their blistered, smoking hands in horror. The giant, with a grunt of agony and fury, looked at Selena with wide eyes. —Witch! —he managed to spit before Selena's scimitar, cold and precise, opened his throat with a clean, deep slash. The man fell like a tree, choking on his own blood. Selena stepped away from the convulsing body without looking back.

She planted herself once more in the middle of the clearing, now illuminated by the weapons cooling and sputtering on the ground. Her voice rose again, now imbued with the authority of one who has just demonstrated her power in the most graphic way possible. —My word still stands. Surrender. The terror, now absolute and incontestable, did its work. The bandits who could still move, with burned hands and broken spirits, threw themselves onto the muddy ground, placing their hands behind their backs.

The struggle was over. All except one. The man from the torch, badly wounded but still with a spark of rage in his eyes, looked at his surrendered companions with contempt. —Fools! —he managed to growl, spitting blood. But he did not manage to say anything more. Fjora's shadow loomed over him. A swift flash, a dry sound, and his head rolled, severed from his body, falling with a soft thud onto the damp earth.

The Nord lowered her sword expressionlessly, wiping the blade on the fallen man's clothes with a practical gesture. They bound them all with a sturdy rope, forming a miserable line of four living men. The dead lay scattered: two by Fjora's implacable sword, three by Selena's cold and efficient hand, the bear-like giant, and the two whose hands she had amputated, who had bled out in silence as the battle ended.

With meticulous care not to ignite the dry vegetation, they gathered the bodies and incinerated them in a makeshift, contained pyre. The smell of burning flesh mingled with that of blood, completing the picture of a nightly butchery, reviving memories before her eyes while she remained vigilant. They took alternating rounds until dawn tinged the sky a pale gray, watching the prisoners and the surroundings with their senses on high alert.