Chương 145: Chapter 7: The Healer of Verses

The days flew by, weaving themselves into anxious anticipation. When the day of the ceremony arrived, Selena resorted to the same attire she had worn last time in the Throne Room: the emerald green gown that matched her eyes, elegant but not excessive. She sighed in resignation; the theater, at least, was already familiar to her. The ceremony was a choreographed repetition of pomp and solemnity. First came Ralish Silkhand.

The man, always so contained and academic, stood before the throne with an expression that fluctuated between reverential terror and a happiness so pure it bordered on the foolish. When the King pronounced the words, sealing his elevation to Baron, an enormous, unguarded, and completely sincere smile illuminated Ralish's face.

Selena, watching from her place among the nobility, made a conscious effort not to laugh openly, but she could not prevent her cheeks from flushing with a mixture of affection and amusement at the visible, naive joy of her friend. Then, it was her turn. She advanced along the carpet, feeling the weight of every gaze, many now laden with renewed curiosity and a respect tinged with fear. She knelt before the throne, bathed in the divine light filtering through the skylights.

The King rose, his figure majestic and imposing. With the same deep, projected voice that resonated through the vault, he declared: —For the merits demonstrated in the pursuit of knowledge and the well-being of the kingdom, in use of the prerogatives of the Crown, I modify the title previously granted. From this moment, Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra shall be known and recognized as Protector of the Health of Erabergh.

May her sharp mind and firm will serve to guide the sanitation of all our lands, cities, towns, and villages. Then, he took a step forward. The act of raising the scepter was replaced this time by a small purple velvet cushion that a servant brought close to him. Upon it rested a ring. It was of solid gold, heavy and bright.

The design of the seal was intricate: a sturdy tree whose roots, instead of hiding, expanded and flourished in the very earth that sustained it, a symbol of deeply rooted health and of the growth that nourishes its own base. —With this seal —the King proclaimed with solemnity, taking the ring— we confirm the office and grant the symbolic authority to act on behalf of the Crown in matters of public health. He slid the gold ring onto the ring finger of Selena's right hand.

Now she had two: the gold one, and the ancient bronze ring of light on the index finger of her left hand. The cool, heavy metal was a new sensation, both a promise and a burden. The ceremony concluded with protocolary applause. Selena rose, feeling the new weight of gold on her hand, the broader title upon her shoulders, and the gaze of the friend who had just changed the destiny of his family, smiling at her from among the crowd.

It was not a happy ending, too many shadows followed her, but it was a new starting point, a place from which, perhaps, she could begin to mold something more than her own survival in the borrowed world that now, irrevocably, was hers. The day was a grotesque and exhaustive copy of the previous one in which she had been named Countess. The same empty pomp, the same interminable banquet where the exquisiteness of the dishes was lost in her mouth, turned to ash by repetition.

But this time, the fervor of the suitors and their families was even greater. Now she was not just a countess; she was also a decorated countess with a new royal title that extended her theoretical influence to the entire kingdom. Noble fathers, counts, viscounts, even a marquis, approached with calculated smiles and veiled proposals, offering their sons, boys who were often young, ambitious, or simply docile, as political husbands. Selena no longer even attempted courtly elegance to reject them.

She had exhausted her capacity for theater in that aspect. Her response was a dry "no," a turn of the head, a gesture of the hand that dismissed them without consideration. She rejected at least ten different heads of families, one of whom, a count with a flushed face and a thick mustache, retreated with an expression of offense so deep he seemed on the verge of an apoplexy. Selena could not care less.

Each "no" was a small act of freedom, a reaffirmation that her body and her future were not bargaining chips on their board, no matter how much the world insisted. Later, during the nightly feast in the halls illuminated by a thousand candles, she sought a respite. She slipped away toward one of the open balconies that overlooked the palace gardens. The night was clear, cloudless; a sky studded with cold, distant stars stretched over the capital.

She breathed in the fresh air, distancing herself from the suffocating perfume of the flowers and the sweaty bodies. She felt, rather than heard, someone approaching from behind. A sigh of annoyance escaped her. Yet another one. With the words of rejection already on the tip of her tongue, bracing her face into a grimace of impatience, she turned around. But it was not a noble father, nor an ambitious son. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

It was Ralish Silkhand, the new Baron. His court attire, though well-made, seemed uncomfortable on his body, which was more accustomed to medical robes and practical clothes. His face, normally serene and focused, was pale, his eyes conveying a genuine panic. —It is… it is my first noble ball —he managed to say, his voice a tense thread. —Help me. Please. Selena looked at him, and the tension in her shoulders dissolved all at once. A sincere laugh, clear and unrestrained, burst from her chest.

She laughed openly, covering her mouth with one hand in an almost childlike gesture, while her eyes sparkled with amusement. —Ralish! —she managed to exclaim between laughs. —I don't know how to dance! Not at all! But… She added, catching her breath, a wide smile still on her face. —If you want, I can try. And I will probably step on all your feet. Ralish, seeing her laugh, seemed to relax a little, a timid smile appearing on his lips. —That… that would be an honor, Countess.

I prefer you stepping on me over having to face that… labyrinth of silk and protocol alone. Later, indeed, they danced. It was a clumsy and charming spectacle. Selena, with her knowledge of dancing limited to blurry memories of Earth, dancing while holding the waist of some friend or suitor, but without any genuinely good experience, tried to guide, or rather, dragged Ralish across the floor with determination more than grace. She stepped on him at least four times, apologizing through laughter each time.

Ralish, for his part, followed her movements with the concentration of someone solving a complex equation, stumbling, recovering, and managing, in the end, something that vaguely resembled a waltz. It was a dance far from everything the nobility expected, but they were satisfied. By the time it ended, a rumor was already circulating through the hall: "The new Baron Silkhand was able to dance with Countess Isabella."

It was a minor social achievement, but for Ralish, and for Selena at that moment, it was a shared victory against the absurdity that surrounded them. Selena retired shortly after the dance, leaving the bustle behind. The exhaustion accumulated from days of travel, tension, and now pomp quickly overcame her. But the sleep that awaited her was not a peaceful rest. It was Halom, message from the subconscious, or from something deeper still. She dreamed, and in the dream, she was transported to a devastated village.

There were no signs of an army, but of a furious, chaotic fire. The houses were charred skeletons against a reddish, dismal sky. Calcinated bodies lay in grotesque postures everywhere, some embracing, others trying to crawl. But the worst, what pierced even through the dream barrier, was the smell: a nauseating mixture of scorched flesh, burned wood, calcined plaster, and something sweet and metallic, the very essence of annihilation. In the midst of that landscape of horror, she saw a child.

He was lying beside the rubble of what might have been a doorway, his small body dirty but intact, though his face was ashen and his eyes glassy. Selena, in the dream, approached and knelt. Without thinking, driven by a visceral, dream-born compassion, she opened her lips and whispered. The word she pronounced had no sound; it was a verb of restoration, born of her new title and of something more ancient in her soul. The child blinked. Color returned to his cheeks, brightness to his eyes.

He sat up, looking at her with overwhelming clarity. Then, with a clear and surprisingly adult voice, he uttered: —The Healer of Verses. Selena, in the dream, wanted to look at herself, to understand what she was in that place, what she represented. But she could not see her own face. The only things she managed to distinguish were her own feet. They did not wear the travel boots or the low-heeled shoes of the countess.

They were clad in worn sandals; the clothes peeking out beneath a soiled apron were made of a coarse, patched fabric, as humble as that of the wretches of the Sacred Rest in Terracanto. In less than a second, the scene shifted sensorially. The smell of burning was replaced, superimposed, by another: the smell of fresh blood, of wood fire, of timber splintered by projectiles, of wet mud and mire. Along with the scent came the sound. Not screams, nor explosions. It was a woman's voice, singing.

A tired voice, imbued with an infinite sadness and a fierce determination. The song was in a language that Selena knew in the deepest part of her being legacy from another land:"Dark night, arrows whistle across the steppe… Only the wind hums in the wires… The stars twinkle dimly… In the dark night, my beloved, I know you do not sleep… Beside the cradle, secretly, you wipe away your tears…"

It was her memory striking a hammer blow, one like those of her first days in this world, and the recollection brought her with precision to remember what it was. A hymn of those who suffered the Great Patriotic War, from Russia. No one here could know it. No one could sing it. Except her. Yet, in the dream, they sang it in the middle of a horror that smelled of blood and trench mud. The dream faded then, abruptly wrenching her from that dual nightmare landscape.

Selena awoke in her bed at the palace, gasping, her face bathed in a cold sweat. The melody still resonated in her ears, the words in Russian engraved in her mind with terrifying clarity. She sat up, hugging her knees. Who was singing? What did it mean? Healer of Verses? She sighed, a trembling sound in the darkness. The Halom was never a gift; it was a burden, an open riddle in the night. Once she calmed down over the hours, she took advantage of the day.

After the protocols of farewell and ensuring that Ralish was settled in his new but overwhelming position, Selena departed. She climbed onto the carriage, with Fjora and Samira once more at her side, and gave the order. She could not return to Terracanto to keep resting, so after a long sigh, they set their course for Kaelburg, to the university. To the only place where, in the midst of the chaos of her arrival, she had found a refuge of knowledge and relative peace.