Chương 149: Chapter 11: The Gap on the Shelf

The following morning, she woke without any rush to reach the Atrium of Knowledge. Instead, she composed a calm, unhurried letter to Valerian, her neat handwriting shaping the message with deliberate ease.

"I need a day. Just one, to process. Tomorrow we shall meet, and if you cannot find me, I will find you. Perception of the Void has its uses. — S." She tasked Samira with leaving it on Valerian's desk, meaning the scholar would have to navigate the hazards of his cluttered office. Samira departed in silence with her usual discretion. Afterward, Selena dressed, steering clear of any travel or court attire.

This time, her choice was a dress of intense crimson color that spoke of her alias and a past history that still defined her. She slipped into simple sandals and placed a wide-brimmed straw sunhat upon her head, which cast a cool shadow over her face. Braiding her hair into a thick, practical plait over her shoulder, she stepped out. She headed straight for the Atrium of Knowledge. It was far too early; the place was nearly empty, bathed in the horizontal, golden light of dawn.

Valerian, naturally, was nowhere to be found. Rather than waiting, Selena turned and walked with a purposeful stride toward the orbital tower that housed the faculty of Medicine and Advanced Healing. At the entrance, she removed her wide-brimmed hat and handed it to Fjora, who had followed her like a silent, alert shadow but would now wait outside. Selena entered the lecture hall spacious room with wooden benches arranged in a semicircle facing a lectern.

She chose a seat near the door, though not in the very last row. Gradually, the other students arrived, filling the space with the murmur of conversation and the rustle of clothing. A few minutes later, the master finally entered. It was Anselmo, a much older man with hair as white as freshly fallen snow and a neatly trimmed beard that gave him the air of an ancestral sage the kind who seemed to have been born already old and brimming with wisdom. His eyes, a pale but piercing blue, swept across the room.

When they rested on Selena, a small, warm smile briefly lit up his wrinkled face. Without acknowledging her presence aloud, Anselmo took his place at the lectern and began. He spoke of various resin and wax mixtures. These were practical medicines: ointments for joint pain, syrups for dry coughs, antihistamine powders for spring allergies, and setting poultices for simple fractures. He delivered his knowledge with the fluidity of an ancient river, detailing proportions, extraction methods, and contraindications.

For over an hour and a half, Selena sat absorbed, her hand moving rapidly across the parchment sheets, filling them with neat and precise annotations. This was a language she understood solid ground in the middle of the marsh of politics and the arcane. When Anselmo fell silent, the ensuing quiet was one of deep concentration, not boredom. Selena looked up from her notes. The master stared directly at her, and in his clear, calm voice, carrying the quiet authority of his years, he said: —Isabella de Solendra.

Do me the favor of stepping into my office after class. He offered no further explanation. He simply gathered his own papers and walked out of the room with slow but firm steps. Her heart beating slightly faster, Selena quickly packed her things and followed him. A few minutes later, she stepped into an office that was the polar opposite of Valerian's. Everything was arranged with almost military precision.

Detailed anatomical models lined the light wood shelves: assembled bones, colored networks of blood vessels, and intricate nervous systems. The books, bound in leather and vellum, were meticulously classified. The only relative clutter was on the desk, covered in papers that appeared to be syllabus planning for the various years of the medical track. Anselmo spoke first, his tone, that of medical authority, but also that of a fond grandfather. —Take a seat, little one.

He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. Selena sat down, feeling the sturdiness of the wood beneath her. —As you know —Anselmo continued, settling into his own chair— this old man is aware of… the problems regarding the university's occult track. It was obvious. Isolde had brought him once, long ago, to examine Fern's body after a magical rebound had cost the boy his life. —His Majesty —he proceeded, lowering his voice slightly.

Selena leaned in, wanting to hear him better, but the master paid no mind and pressed on. —… asked me some time ago to keep the notes and materials for the subject you missed while you were… occupied at court. He offered a wink, a shrewd and knowing gesture. —They are these. He stood up with a soft groan of effort and walked over to one of the shelves. From behind a row of pharmacopeia volumes, he pulled a substantial stack of papers, notebooks, and a few rolled parchments.

He deposited them carefully onto the desk beside Selena. —Do not forget to study them all —he said, though his tone was one of advice rather than a scolding. Selena ran her fingers over the documents, unable to suppress a sigh at the sheer volume now in her hands. —I know the resonants use the university tracks as a cover to justify their absences. But I also know… that you genuinely like real medicine. The kind with herbs and bones, not just the arcane. Because of that, I added details to some of the lessons.

Clinical cases, symptom observations… so it wouldn't feel so dry to you. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Just when it seemed he was about to dismiss her, he paused. Then, he resumed speaking, as if recalling something important. —By the way… congratulations on that "scientific method." I had always thought about it, ever since I realized in my youth that the theory of the four humors was… ineffective, to put it mildly.

But I never had the tool, the way to structure it and prove it so that others would accept it. This… He pointed vaguely at the stack of notes, though he meant the concept itself. —… will push us forward. Medicine, and all knowledge. The old man smiled, and Selena noticed, with a pang of tenderness, that he was missing a few molars. —That is why I sent a recommendation to His Majesty months ago. I don't think I was the only one, because in the end… even Ralish was named a Baron. The boy deserved it.

He has a brilliant mind, even if he sometimes lacks… practical common sense. Like many of us, I suppose. Selena let the silence of their departure linger a moment longer in Anselmo's orderly office. Then, with a restrained gesture of gratitude, she gathered the mountain of papers and parchments the old master had saved for her. The notes felt heavy in her arms, not just due to their bulk, but because of the lost time, the lessons she had failed to hear while sinking into the abysses of the dungeon.

Fjora, always attentive, stepped forward and took the burden without a word, her strong hands naturally holding what was to Selena, a symbol of the normalcy she so desperately craved. She put her wide-brimmed hat back on, adjusting the cool shade over her face. The midday light was beginning to tint the university corridors with bright, golden hues, chasing away all shadows.

They dropped the notes off in her room at the Cloister of the Forest, placing them on the fine wood desk beside the window overlooking the garden. For a moment, Selena contemplated the stack: anatomy, pharmacopeia, detailed clinical cases. A tangible world of bones and herbs, of cause and effect. A sanctuary. But her mind was already elsewhere. On Eliud's book. Without delay, she headed to the library.

Her footsteps echoed with determination in the empty corridors, the sound accompanying her like a reminder of the many times she had walked this path, searching for answers in ink and parchment. She descended the main staircase, passing the floors of history and geography, then those of applied alchemy and elementary theory. She kept going down, past the levels most students had access to, until she reached the eighteenth floor: the sector reserved for advanced theoretical echo and foundational texts.

The air down there was colder, still, thick with the scent of old dust and a faint trace of ozone layer, as if the very words on the shelves retained a vestige of power. Selena went straight to the spot where, months ago, she had found Eliud Volgthar's volume, The Imaginary and the Understanding of the Echo. The gap between two treatises on forgotten tribes was empty. It hadn't been misplaced, nor was it misfiled. It was simply gone. She checked the adjacent shelves with a meticulousness bordering on obsession.

She ran her fingers over the spines, reading titles in dead languages, symbols embroidered in silver thread, and unknown runes. Nothing. The book had vanished. A cold tension settled in her stomach. One of the King's three gifts, she remembered. The volume wasn't just a text; it was a legacy from the first monarch, a mute witness to pacts made and prices paid. Now, it was not where it belonged. Selena ascended once more, her pace quicker, the shadow of her hat swaying against the stone walls. There was no doubt.

The King had it. It was the only logical explanation, and if the King had taken it, it meant that due to her absence, the crown deemed the book required protection. Back in her room, she sat at her desk. Anselmo's stack of notes seemed to watch her, a reminder of a safer, more benign form of knowledge. Selena gently pushed them aside, clearing the space. She took a sheet of smooth parchment, of fine and ostentatious quality.

She sharpened her writing quill with a pocketknife, the sound of steel against the feather a sharp whisper in the silence. Then, she dipped the tip into the silver inkwell, the ink as black as a starless night. And she wrote. She used a neat, confident calligraphy, the hand of Isabella Elizabeth Selena de Solendra, but with the direct clarity of the woman who had survived the dungeon.

"To His Majesty Thaerón IV Volgthar, Lord of the Four Lands and Protector of the Eternal Flow. I trust this letter finds you in good health and spirit. I address Your Grace with the formal purpose of requesting permission to once again consult the volume titled 'The Imaginary and the Understanding of the Echo,' authored by Eliud Volgthar, founder of your lineage.

Given the royal favor once granted to me 'that no information, whether in book or research, would be denied to me so long as I serve the Crown' I make use of said privilege to reiterate my request. I know, by deduction and out of respect such a relic commands, that the original must reside under your direct custody. Therefore, I request access not only to a copy, but, if possible, to the original volume, in order to study its pages with the depth that the first King's legacy deserves.

I thank you in advance for your consideration, and I remain at your disposal for any formalities necessary to grant access to said work. Cordially yours, Duchess Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra, Countess of the Royal Court of Erabergh, Lady of the Circle of Wisdom, Guardian of Ancient Artifacts, Protector of the Health of Erabergh." When she finished, she allowed the ink to dry beneath the lamplight.

Then, at the bottom, right beside her signature, which was an elegant, firm stroke, she pressed the solid gold ring the King had given her. The seal of the tree with blooming roots left its imprint in the dark red wax, a symbol of authority and of the burden she now carried on her finger. She folded the parchment with care, placed it inside a thick linen envelope, and sealed it this time with the emblem of House Solendra, the golden hawk over blue waves, using a smaller wax seal she kept in a drawer.

She called for Samira, who appeared with her habitual discretion, her wise eyes catching the gravity on her mistress's face. Selena handed her the letter. —This must reach the King's hands through the fastest and most secure channels available to us. Use the house seals and the authority of the ring if necessary. It is urgent. Samira nodded, taking the envelope as though it were a piece of delicate crystal.

—It shall be done, my lady —she murmured and vanished into the hallway with the silent efficiency of someone accustomed to delivering and receiving messages that alter destinies. Selena was left alone, breathing deeply. She spent the rest of the afternoon buried in Anselmo's notes, immersing herself in the pain-relieving properties of dusaut bark and the exact proportions for a honey and herb syrup. It was a finite, understandable world.

Yet her mind, time and again, drifted toward the missing book, toward the questions that Eliud could answer, which no one else dared to ask. Deep, accumulated exhaustion finally overtook her. She fell asleep over the pages, her cheek resting against a diagram of the bones of the hand, the ink from her own notes gently smudging her skin. She woke with a start, the morning sun filtering through the window and warming her face. Her mouth was dry; a thin trail of saliva had darkened a corner of the parchment.

She wiped it away dismissively, dressed quickly in a simple, practical green linen dress, and made her way to the Atrium of Knowledge.