Chương 144: Chapter 6: The Weight of Duty

At dawn, they escorted the captives, still bound, along the Royal Highway. As soon as they encountered a guard post, stone watchtower with a small garrison, they delivered the bandits along with a succinct account of the events. The outpost captain, a man with a weathered face, paid them a reward for the capture of the wanted outlaws, but Selena barely paid attention to the crowns. She yearned for only one thing: to reach an inn, any place with water and soap, to wash her hair.

The sensation of dried blood at her roots, sticky and carrying that metallic scent, was the worst of all to her, physical and visceral reminder of the violence that clung to her being. After finding a modest and clean inn, the bath became an almost religious ritual. She scrubbed her hair and her skin until it turned red, attempting to erase not only the grime but the phantom of the scent and the memory of the night. A deep, albeit restless, sleep allowed them to regain their strength before resuming the journey.

They arrived in Erabergh, the royal capital, three weeks after the incident. The journey had been remarkably faster due to the complete absence of snow; spring now reigned over the lowlands, dressing the landscape in brilliant greens and wild blossoms. However, the pomp and protocol within the city walls and inside the palace had not changed in the slightest. It was the same elaborate theater, the same dance of masks and silks. The meeting with the King was direct, bypassing the public preliminaries of the court.

After dressing in attire appropriate for her noble rank, simple dark green gown, her social armor, Selena was conducted to the same private office where she had once negotiated her title and her destiny. The waiting room, the deep purple sofas that contrasted brutally with the dazzling whiteness of the single-piece marble, everything was identical, an immutable backdrop for ever-changing dramas. When she finally entered, the King was already there, seated in his ebony armchair.

The formal greetings were brief, almost mechanical. It was then that the monarch spoke, and his voice possessed a different quality, slower, more weighted. —Selena of Solendra. He said it, pronouncing her name with a deliberate cadence, while intertwining his fingers over his lap in a gesture of concentrated thought. —You came out of the dungeon alive. That, by itself, speaks volumes of your capability. Of your ability to… adapt, to survive. He paused, his gray eyes, cold as a glacier, fixed upon her.

—But the mission failed. Now I want to know the reasons, not a scribe's report; the truth. Selena did not vacillate. With a calm that mirrored the King's own coldness, she detailed everything. Emotion distanced itself from her words as she spoke with the clinical precision of a surgeon describing an autopsy. She reported on the cannibalistic library, of the books with maws that recited poetry. Of the decapitated soldiers who murmured concerns of a war from four thousand years ago.

Of the floor that was a pool of pulsing blood, a monstrous, buried heart. She described the descent to the threshold where the tower built by Eliud ended and the original cave began, the wound in reality. There, her voice, though firm, allowed the shadow of horror to bleed through as she related Alistair's death.

How the dungeon had used the purest and most terrible image, that of Aelthra herself, to tempt the bishop, offering him knowledge of the Flow in exchange for his essence; how his body had liquefied in ecstatic devotion until leaving only a skeleton kneeling in eternal prayer.

Then, with an even more cutting coldness, she described Astrid's transformation: her skin turning inside out, the flesh twisting into a pulsating, purplish mass that still stammered with echoes of her voice, the monster she became, and how she attacked with appendages of bone. Finally, Magnor.

His last act of purification, the white fire that consumed both parasite and host, the sacrifice that granted her the opportunity to escape, and how his title, The Purified, had found its most literal and tragic expression in his death. When she finished, the silence in the room was dense, laden with the weight of the images she had invoked. Selena looked at the King. His face was a mask of serenity carved from granite, but his hands, resting on the arms of the chair, trembled.

It was a slight, almost imperceptible tremor, but it was there. Selena laughed a dry, humorless sound. She arched an eyebrow, a gesture of lucid disdain. —Fear —she said, her voice clear as crystal in the silence. —That word falls rather short of describing the truth, don't you think, Your Majesty? The King blinked, as if emerging from a deep stupor. He took a sip of cold tea that sat to his side. —The artifacts —he murmured, more to himself than to her. —They were a loss. A total loss.

Just like my dear resonant, Magnor. His gaze settled on the floor, on the pristine white marble, and he let out a sigh that seemed to drag with it centuries of disappointments. —Isn't that right? It was dismay made man, a human gesture in a man who rarely showed himself as such. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it —That is right —Selena confirmed, her own deep sigh filling the void. —Alistair's sword… we attempted to salvage it.

But it was all in vain after what happened with Astrid. She paused, and then, with bitterness she could not conceal, added: —I thought your Majesty would say the same as that damned Cassian. That we had simply failed. The name was pronounced as if she were chewing it, carrying all the resentment accumulated since the resonant's coldness at the desert camp. The King raised his eyes, and for the first time, Selena saw something akin to understanding, or perhaps complicity, in his gray eyes. —Cassian… told me.

His words were… misguided. Do not hold it against him. He made a significant pause, choosing his words with care. —The pact he made with the creature of the Echo, a long time ago, robbed him of some of his emotions in exchange for… other things. He deliberately omitted which things. Then, his tone shifted, becoming more intimate, more confidential, like that of a conspirator. —I will tell you why I took the risk, why I sent such a valuable group to such a secure grave. It is a tradition.

A millennia-old tradition, unknown to all except the reigning monarch and his direct heir. He leaned forward, the ruby of his diadem casting a crimson flash. —Every millennium, since the first, the king who rules during the millennium turn in the calendar of Erabergh has a duty, legacy to leave. It is not just a reign; it is a contribution to the hidden arsenal of the kingdom. He dedicates himself to obtaining an artifact of the imagined eco.

An object of unique power, born of his will or found in the darkest confines of the world. His eyes locked onto Selena's. —As you can imagine, and as the rank of Guardian of Ancient Artifacts that I granted you allows you to intuit, in this kingdom there is not one, nor two. There are four. One for each millennium passed since the founding. And the first of them… He let the revelation hover in the perfumed air. —Is the one left by our founder, the first king, Eliud Volgthar.

The revelation crashed into the atmosphere like a block of lead, thickening the air already burdened with memories of horror. Selena processed it with a cold swiftness. The millennia-old tradition of artifacts as a legacy. An accumulation of hidden power to keep enemies at bay. And then she spoke, without the filter of courtly reverence that suffocated her so much. —A stupid tradition —she said, the words coming out with the clarity of a self-evident truth. She did not wait for an angry reaction, nor a reprimand.

She simply let it slip, a personal judgment in the middle of the sanctuary of royal power. The King did not flinch. Instead, a shadow of weariness, of familiarity with that very thought, crossed his austere face. —My father said exactly the same thing the day he ceded the crown to me —he replied, his voice now carrying a heavy quality, as if bearing the weight of that past conversation. —However, it is a duty. Though to me… He paused, choosing his words carefully. —It does not seem entirely like a stupidity.

The power concentrated in those artifacts, their mere existence known by a few select minds in rival kingdoms… is what has kept large-scale wars away from our borders for centuries. It is a shield, even if it is forged in secrets and madness. Strategic deterrence. The concept, so familiar from her previous world, sprouted in Selena's mind with chilling clarity.

It was the exact same logic as weapons of mass destruction: peace maintained by the promise of mutual annihilation, but here, with unique magical artifacts instead of warheads. —I understand —she said simply, adding nothing more. The light of comprehension in the King's eyes was eloquent; he did not need her to explain the alien term, the underlying logic was universal. —Quite so —the King nodded, a hint of approval in his tone. —I see that, as Valerius wrote to me, you have matured sufficiently on your own.

He sighed then, a sound that seemed to carry away some of the tension of the moment. —I am glad. After all, you remain part of the family, however distant. My beloved wife, the Queen, is especially happy to see that House Solendra remains as strong and lucid as when she left it to marry me. He paused, shifting the subject with the abruptness of someone with a crowded agenda. —A petition has reached me from the University of Kaelburg.

Even though you have not been physically there in a long time, there is a research report that carries you as a co-author. Selena looked at him with genuine curiosity, an eyebrow slightly arched. —It deals with an innovative method to validate knowledge, to achieve reproducible results. The document calls it…

"the scientific method." It strikes me, as I already said, as innovative. So innovative, that it is sufficient merit to grant one of its principal authors the title his father always wanted for his family. Selena held her breath. Ralish. —Ralish Silkhand —the King confirmed, as if reading her thoughts. —He will be named Baron in three days. And with him, his family will inherit the title. He observed Selena's face, and a small, almost paternal smile drew itself upon his thin lips. —So it is true.

You helped them with this. Your smile… is eloquent. He drank another sip of tea, the mundane gesture contrasting with the magnitude of what he was deciding. —The truth, Countess, is that I must bestow something upon you. Despite everything that occurred in the dungeon… it is my duty not only to pay the unfulfilled part of our deal, but to recognize this. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a confidential but firm tone.

—First, and in a non-public manner, the artifact you wear on your finger, the bronze ring, is from this moment your property. Forever. It will serve as a physical symbol of your title as Guardian of Ancient Artifacts. It is yours, legitimately. Selena felt the ancient, warm metal against her skin, as if the ring itself had been waiting for that word. —Furthermore, for your contribution to the document, and in recognition of your…

singular perspective on health and well-being, I will alter the last title I bestowed upon you.

"Protector of the Health of Solendra" is hereby modified to "Protector of the Health of Erabergh." Your jurisdiction and your influence, at least in theory, now extend to the entire kingdom. He offered no further explanations on the matter. It was a monumental increase in symbolic power, larger golden cage, but also a more potent tool. He stood up, a sign that the audience was coming to an end. —You must present yourself at court on the same day as Ralish.

Now, if you will excuse me, Countess, I must attend to the other thousand pending matters of a monarch. He dismissed her with a nod, but as he turned away, Selena thought she saw, for a fleeting instant, a shadow of genuine, non-theatrical sadness in the line of his shoulders and the angle of his chin. It was not sadness over the loss of the resonants, perhaps, but the weight of duty that forced him to convert tragedies into transactions and to reward a survivor with more chains of responsibility.