Chương 150: Chapter 12: Lady of the Circle of Wisdom

The massive central hourglass marked the early hours of the morning, its fine cascade of crushed crystal flowing with eternal patience. There, as if summoned by the mere anticipation of her frustration, stood Valerian. The jester wore his black robe with red trim, though today it appeared less worn, almost clean. His rebellious brown hair caught glints of the rising sun. Upon seeing her, a grin stretched from ear to ear across his face, a gesture of pure gloating. —What shamelessness!

—he exclaimed, his sing-song voice cutting through the stillness of the atrium. A few heads turned, drawn by the jester's scene. —Using tricks to find me, as if you refuse to accept my absence. You have become a woman devoid of modesty, Crimson. Devoid of modesty and devoid of patience. Selena did not rise to the provocation. She simply looked at him, arms crossed, waiting. Valerian laughed, a clear, playful sound. Then, without further ado, he turned and approached the base of the massive hourglass.

With a movement that seemed casual, but Selena knew was calculated, he pressed one of the carved stones on the pedestal. A soft click of hidden mechanisms echoed, and a section of the flagstone floor slid aside, revealing a narrow staircase descending into the gloom. —After you, Crimson —said Valerian, making an exaggerated flourish toward the opening. Selena did not hesitate. She descended the stone steps, which twisted in a tight spiral.

The air grew colder, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, like old copper. After several turns, the staircase led into a low tunnel with smooth, gray stone walls, illuminated by tallow lamps that emitted a warm light. Valerian guided her through a labyrinth of passageways that Selena had memorized long ago. Finally, they reached an unadorned door of dark wood. Valerian opened it. The room was small, circular, and made of the same pale gray smooth stone. There were no shelves, no instruments.

Only a simple wooden chair placed in front of an equally modest desk. It was an austere, almost ascetic space, designed for one thing only: concentration. Valerian stepped to his side of the desk and prepared to make another of his theatrical flourishes, likely to be accompanied by a grandiloquent phrase. But Selena gave him no time. —I know I must resume my studies —she said, her voice clear and direct, cutting through the air before the jester could begin his performance.

Valerian stopped mid-motion, his hand frozen halfway through an elegant turn. —But the academic year is ending. Could I, by virtue of the word you gave me before, learn at least the fundamentals of the formal written touch? I am not asking for shortcuts. I am asking for a beginning. He looked at her, and for an instant, within his silver eyes, something seemed to gleam that was not mockery, but evaluation.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he finished the flourish, as if deciding that not even her interruption deserved to rob the gesture of its grace. —Due to your wretched tongue, which has no respect for the theatricality that feeds a resonant's soul —he declared, with a sigh that sounded more like enjoyment than disappointment. Selena remained expectant for his answer. Valerian seemed to savor what was to come. —I must deny it.

Until you are capable of creating a functional resonant object by yourself using the written touch, we shall progress no further than basic theory. This is the destiny you forged for yourself, Crimson, through the misfortune of not knowing how to listen to the proper rhythm of things. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. He paused, rocking slightly in his chair, a playful smile on his lips.

—Or perhaps this was what I was always going to do, and my refusal is just another script in the play. In truth, you will never know. He laughed, a soft sound that echoed in the bare room. —Remember, when you attempt to trace the written touch, perhaps tilt your fingers a bit more to the right this time. Symmetry is not merely aesthetic; it is structural. His eyes drifted to Selena's hands, which rested on her lap. —I hope that this time you use something more than will and... blood to permeate the parchment.

Selena frowned, frustration tightening her chest. It was not the rejection that bothered her, but the sensation of walking in circles. —I understand —she said, holding back a sigh— But at least give me a direction. A book, a treatise containing the answers on how to create such an object. I am not asking you to give it to me; I am asking where to begin looking. Valerian looked at her, and for the first time, his expression seemed genuinely disappointed, though the shadow of the joke never entirely vanished.

—You are a student, Crimson. A student who carries royal titles and rings of power, but a student, nonetheless. I will not tell you. The answers must be found by yourself, on the shelves, in the mistakes, in the dust of the books that no one opens. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. —After all, are you not the Lady of the Circle of Wisdom? Prove it. Knowing how to search is the first lesson, and the most important one. The class, if it could be called that, ended there.

Selena left the circular room; her frustration hardened into cold determination. She did not want to return to her room; something was drawing her toward another path. She went straight to the library, this time to the reference sector. She found one of the senior archivists, an old, hunched man whose eyes looked as though they had read every letter of every book in the building. —I am looking for treatises on the creation of magical objects —Selena said without preamble— Advanced level.

The archivist looked her over, evaluating who she was, until something clicked in his gaze. —Texts of that caliber, Lady Countess, are located from the fifteenth floor down. But I must warn you that access is restricted for reasons of security and... affinity. Furthermore... His voice reflected his fatigue, and a small sigh escaped his lips. —The cataloging system on those levels is... special. It does not follow the decimal classification of the upper floors. Rather, it follows the logic of themes and resonances.

There is no unified index. Selena was not surprised. She had spent months in that library, searching for clues about the Void, about this world. She knew that the deepest knowledge was protected by layers of disorder, something that many resonants like Valerian found entirely natural. She nodded, thanked him with a bow of her head, and descended. The air chilled as she went down. The lower floors were almost deserted, lit by the same tallow lamps.

The silence was absolute, broken only by the brush of her sandals against the stone. She began on the fifteenth floor, walking down aisles crowded with shelves that reached the ceiling. The books bore clear titles, treating various subjects ranging from the nature of the void, myths, lost tribes, to the fall of kings. Many of them she could not read, not even their titles; she knew the continent possessed far more languages than those she spoke. Hours passed.

Her mind, trained by the brutal patience of a philologist, did not grow restless. She checked shelf after shelf, letting her intuition, that strange perception of the Void that was now a part of her, guide her way. Sometimes she passed right by a volume that seemed promising; other times, she stopped before one that appeared completely opaque, and only after a minute of concentration would a word, a concept, gleam in her mind.

The afternoon slipped away, the cool of the underground a relief to her skin after the spring sun. Her eyes were beginning to burn, her back protesting. She was about to reconsider her method when, in a particularly dark corner of the seventeenth floor, behind a treatise on the crystallization of liquids, she saw it. It did not stand out due to its size or design; it was simply a slender volume, bound in a hide that resembled reptile skin, of a dark green color almost like the grass of a deep forest.

Inspecting the spine, she noted the absence of a title, perhaps erased by the years, but when Selena touched it, a faint tingling sensation traveled down her fingers, like the echo of a contained, utilitarian, unostentatious power. She pulled it out with care. On the cover, engraved in faded silver ink, there was finally a title: The Secret of the Artificer and the Alliance of Objects by Sulfic the Goldsmith.