Chương 151: Extra Chapter: Valerius Of Solendra

It was a night of an almost tangible darkness, a blackness so dense it seemed to devour the starlight. The song of the vesperas, with its sharp, rhythmic chirping, filtered through the cracks of the windows like a melody of lament, weaving a sonic mantle over the Solendra manor. The air smelled of beeswax, old wood, and the faint perfume of nocturnal flowers growing in the inner garden. It was the calm before the storm, the silence that anticipates the fall of the axe.

A boy, his feet bare to avoid making noise on the marble slabs, slipped through the corridors like a shadow among shadows. It was not the first time that Valerius, with the innocence of childhood still clinging to his bones, had sneaked to his father's study, drawn by the distant light of the oil lamp and the promise of secrets that adults believed hidden. That night, however, childhood curiosity collided with a truth he could no longer unlearn.

He stopped behind the half-open door, his heart pounding hard against his ribs, and strained his ears. —Father, what has happened is unacceptable —the voice of his father, Canuto, sounded tense, with an edge Valerius had never heard from him before— After Mother's death, you cannot allow this to occur. A deep sigh, laden with the weight of years and responsibilities, echoed from within.

—Thaerón cannot take Aunt Lyssandra as his wife —Canuto continued, his tone becoming more urgent— She must assume office as Grand Duchess of Solendra now that Mother has departed to the Luminar with Solendri. It is her right, it is the tradition. Then, a more worn voice, that of an old man of robust bearing but without a hint of trembling in his words, cut through the air.

—Separated we are stronger than assimilated —he said, and his voice carried the solidity of a rock that has resisted millennia of storms— That is the lesson our ancestors taught us. But there is something you must know, son. The sound of a sip of liquid reached the hiding place. —If Lyssandra wishes to marry a Volgthar, I cannot prevent her. I am a duke under the command of the Crown.

And in exchange, for the first time in the history of Erabergh, His Majesty has promised our grand duchy that we men will be able to inherit. The boy, moved by a curiosity that was now more fear than desire, peeked through the crack of the door. What he saw froze the blood in his veins. His father, Lord Canuto, had his eyes wide open, an expression of restrained surprise that Valerius had only seen five times in his life, and never in a social conversation.

The light of the lamp danced across his face, accentuating the paleness of his skin. —By your expression, I see you understand faster than I could tell you, Canuto —the old man remarked, and his voice was now a whisper laden with deep sorrow— However, it is a pity that Lyssandra, with her emerald eyes, separates herself from our family out of pure love. Canuto shook his head quickly, a sharp movement that made his neck crack. —Say it already, boy —the old man urged him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

—I fear, father —Canuto managed to articulate, his voice breaking at the edge— You know as well as I do about the resonants, the terrible magic. The shadow looms over us. They say the Threads of Tharven have to do with what happened to Mother... His voice cut off, choked by emotion. He took a deep breath, restraining himself. —... or worse, those madmen with lunar collars. Young Valerius felt the ground open beneath his feet.

The names, the secrets, the warnings he had only heard in fragments of adult conversations and in tales that were supposed to be just that tales suddenly took on a terrifying reality. Before he could process it, a hand touched his shoulder and a jolt ran through his entire body. He turned around, his heart in his throat, and found a maid in an impeccable dress, whose face was a mask of professional courtesy. —My lord —she said, her voice barely a whisper—, Valerius is spying again.

The old man shook his head, but a smile, tired and affectionate, drew across his lips. He rose from his seat with the agility of a man who, though old, had not lost his spirit, and approached the boy. He took him with strength that belied his age and led him to his desk, carefully sitting him on his lap. The smell of cobatta and old parchment enveloped Valerius, a scent he would always associate with his grandfather.

—You still have to learn, Canuto —said the Grand Duke, stroking the child's hair— There are matters that are only spoken of when others do not listen. But you, little one... His gaze settled on Valerius, and a spark of pride shone in his tired eyes. —... you have a gift for infiltration. Your grandfather is tired, child, tired of so much strategy of thrones and powers. I am only glad that you, little and sweet Valerius, did not inherit the burden like your father.

He passed his hand through his hair with all the love that only a grandfather can give, a gesture that was both a blessing and a farewell. —Remember what my father always repeated to me, little Valerius, in case destiny is uncertain, in case the future is not as we expect. You must always remember:"Separated we are stronger than assimilated". The years rushed by with the speed permitted only to families filled with love and wealth, those who do not worry about the hardships of money or illness.

Valerius's childhood vanished like morning mist, replaced by the long shadow of his older brother. Sir Arthur Teofilus de Solendra was everything an heir ought to be gentlemanly, impeccable in protocol, a natural-born strategist who seemed to play ten steps ahead of any man. His achievements, however, always diminished Valerius, who felt like a supporting actor in the play of his own life.

Away from the brilliance of the court and the admiration his brother harvested effortlessly, Valerius took the only path that offered him a purpose: military life. He enrolled in the University of Kaelburg, where sweat and steel spoke a more honest language than the whispers of the salons.

Then, for more than ten years, he fought in the border wars with Theosyra, on the coasts lashed by the salty wind, and on those rare occasions when Jingdao sent reinforcements, when the deafening sound of the iron cannons made every man on the enemy front tremble. A dark feeling had kept him away from his life, a mixture of resentment and a desperate need to prove his worth. Until one day, a letter from his brother arrived at his campaign tent.

He was no longer just a soldier; now he was Valerius, the lieutenant colonel, a rank earned in hazardous battles. His body remembered it: the scar on his forearm, a wound left by a polemarch expert in the kleften, was a map of his history of violence. And yet, when he read the letter, his heart sank.

"To my dear brother Valerius, I hope the campaigns near Fort Taros are going better than they have for me. I have undoubtedly lost a great opportunity, my dear brother. I am so foolish that people barely take it into account. I rejected the daughter of the Grand Duke of Thyll; it was a unique opportunity, said our old father, Canuto. However, I cannot take my eyes off a beautiful woman of low birth. You see the problem, don't you? She is barely the daughter of a sharif from Sandstrohm.

Father insists on saying that at least they are of pure Eraberghian descent. That is why I write to you, Valerius. I have decided to marry her. If the family is an issue, I can only marry under the sky of Sandstrohm. I will flee, and I fear, my beloved brother, that only you can help me this time. Convince Father and, in exchange, I will give you something you have always desired. Yours truly, your unfortunate and enamored brother, Arthur."

Valerius sighed deeply, the smell of gunpowder and wet earth from the tent mixing with the scent of fresh ink. He knew that the only thing he had wanted for years was that artifact bound for generations to the head of the Solendra family. It was not a mere jewel; it was a sword that bestowed supernatural dexterity, and upon wielding it, one could attack from a distance with the power of the air.

"The Whisper of Fencing." One of the legacies preserved since the days when Solandra's were just a priestly caste. Resolved, Valerius returned home. The journey was long, and each day on the road, the smell of salt and blood from the borders faded, replaced by the sweet aroma of the Solendra wheat fields. He knew Canuto would be implacable. His father had ruled the grand duchy with cleverness, with tradition, with business. Nothing he could say to him would convince him.

However, there was something Grand Duke Canuto Cassian of Solendra wanted even more than tradition, and that was the unity of the family. If I tell Father that I will escape alongside Arthur, he will have no choice but to accept or lose all his heirs. This was the constant murmur of his thoughts during the months it took him to travel from the western border to Lumenburg. When the expected day arrived, he stood firm before him. The Grand Duke's office seemed to cool several degrees under the tension.

The air smelled of candle wax and the titarde wood that lined the walls. Canuto, seated behind his desk, observed him in silence. And then, when Valerius finished presenting his ultimatum, the old man only smiled. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. —You are a good military strategist, Theronius —Canuto said, using his son's middle name only when his tactics seemed, to say the least, rudimentary— But you lack political vision.

It is not that I do not fear that both of you will abandon me. After the passing of your magnanimous grandfather León, I must tell you that the problem Arthur attracts is not mixed blood. Valerius, thwarted, could only incline his head and listen. —The hereditary sharifa Iris is a true Al'Savia —his father continued, his tone becoming graver— In her veins runs blood as ancient as that of our house. It would be a diplomatic incident.

The Sultan might even take it as an affront from the kingdom, wanting to claim lands that now belong to them. The young lieutenant colonel smiled. He had saved one last argument; one he had only learned to wield between diplomacy and war. —My brother mentioned to me that she is willing to renounce every right her blood confers in the Sultanate in order to marry. Furthermore, Father... This time he looked at him directly in the eyes, defying him. —... she has emerald eyes.

There is no better wife for a Solendra than her. Solendri has blessed my brother. Canuto took his crystal glass with Varlof and drank it in a single gulp, feeling the liquid burn down his throat. He sighed deeply, lit his pipe with cobatta, and inhaled the smoke, letting the bitter aroma fill his lungs before speaking. —I misjudged you, Valerius. War has prepared you more to understand humans than the salons have. My dear boy... Valerius shuddered. His father never used those words in any sentence.

—The truth is that Arthur and I laid a trap for you —the Grand Duke said, and a warm, mischievous smile drew across his face— The letter was intended to bring you to Lumenburg. Your brother's matter was settled months ago. And I, as the old man I am becoming, only wish to see you at the altar alongside your brother on the very same day. I do not want to see you die at the hands of the Theosyrians. The young man swallowed hard.

He had taken the bait and, not only that, but he would also have to assume consequences he had escaped from. —Father... —he stammered, the words sticking in his throat. —You will marry Lady Camila of Pellitor —Canuto interrupted— daughter of Viscount Aren of Pellitor, a faithful servant of our house for many years. Valerius was about to open his mouth to protest, but his father's gaze, cold and severe, silenced him instantly. —She is a very intelligent woman in the court. Iris said she was her best friend.

And adding to the new marriages, you cannot disappoint us. The young soldier knew when the battlefield had to yield. He withdrew with a heavy heart, the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth. That same afternoon, he challenged Arthur to a sword duel over the deception, to reclaim his honor. However, his brother won without the slightest complication. Looking up from the dusty ground, what he found were not just the gazes of his family.

From afar, a woman with porcelain skin and eyes as dark as night brought her hands to her chest, as if holding back a sigh that threatened to break her. Valerius recognized her instantly. It was Camila. The years rushed by once more, swift and accelerated, between minor ducal conflicts and the new implementation of currency that Solendra could mint, a renewal that had to materialize every twenty years.

In winter, when everything was quiet and the love of his young wife had blossomed into a tacit understanding, Canuto, now an old man, left this world at eighty years of age. His young sons were fifty-five, on Arthur's part, and forty, on Valerius's part. The ceremony of ascension fell upon the shoulders of the male heir by right. Arthur accepted the weight he had known he would bear since he was ten years old.

At his side, Iris shone with her own light: her pale, cared-for skin, her dark brown hair, her intense green eyes, her foreign accent that bestowed upon her an almost magical sensuality. She stole the gaze of most spectators. When the new Grand Duke took his seat on the throne of Lumenburg, the first thing he did was take his little baby in his arms creature of perhaps four years of age, quiet and demure, who looked at the world as if all of it belonged to her.

In her father's lap, the little Hereditary Duchess Isabella of Solendra would be the first female Grand Duchess, just as Solendri had wanted for his lineage for millennia. However, the heart of her uncle, Valerius, was filled with pain. Despite the years, only his brother had succeeded in having children. He, once more, had failed against Arthur's natural talent. The shadow of infertility loomed over him like a curse, a constant reminder of his insufficiency. Until that day arrived. It was a quiet summer afternoon.

The light created a mantle of gold and orange over the gardens of the mansion; the air smelled of hot earth and wilting flowers. The Solandra's were getting dressed to go to Isabella's birthday party. The little duchess would finally turn five, and the occasion demanded majestic clothes of a solemnity that only absolute wealth could afford. The carriage departed, leaving Valerius behind.

He had wanted to stay, with a special gift for his only niece: a necklace of emerald tears, so perfect it would make any other jewel jealous. That gift he could not allow it to be seen; he would deliver it in private, after the party, with enough discretion to make her eyes shine twice as bright. Camila, Iris, Arthur, and Isabella, all together in the carriage, departed amid smiles, joking about the beautiful Hereditary Duchess, about the apple of their eyes.

Valerius watched them drive away, the scent of leather and earth mixing with the perfume of the garden flowers. By the side of one of the roads toward the Lumina mansion, located on the outskirts of Lumenburg, four people waited under dark hoods, hidden among the bushes. There were three men and a young youth. The latter appeared emaciated, with skin as white as wax and hair as dark as jet. His eyes, sunken and bright, reflected the light of the waning moon that was beginning to rise in the sky.

One of the men, the one wearing a collar of a moon in its last phase, spoke firmly. —Corren, you are one of us after this. This is your baptism. You must not forget what you have to do. The youth, whose name was Corren, nodded slowly, clutching the folds of his hood. His hands trembled with violence he could barely contain. —The Clarity will guide us toward our lord. Only he possesses the truth of the entire universe, of all that is and has been, of what will be.

—The man took his waning moon collar and kissed it with an almost sickly devotion— Remember, little apprentice of pain... As he said it, the boy brought a hand to his back, to his thighs, to his arms. No one saw them, but his body, filled with ancient scars, spoke of the rite. —... you will activate the trap we set.

—The man smiled, his eyes slightly wild, and controlled himself with a visible effort— If they catch you in your little task, remember to say that everything happened because the duchies of Aelthria and Thyll conspired to make it happen. Did you hear me, Corren? The youth nodded once more, and this time his voice came out trembling. —It will be done, master. It will be done. The carriage, pulled by swift titanopods, approached at high speed.

The road was right at a bend; the dust it kicked up brought an unpleasant odor to Corren's nose, a mixture of dry earth and anxiety. He walked up to the stone, and when he stood before it, he remembered only one thing feeling that lodged in his heart like his second skin: pain. The stone resonated. The earth shook. The air condensed, and immediately, as if everything obeyed a being superior to all consciousness, thousands of sharp stone spears impaled the titanopods.

The blue blood of the insects bathed the dusty road with a gush that smelled of metal and extinguished life. Their screeches, sharp and heartbreaking, provided a macabre melody that made the hearts of the hidden men dance. The guards, in turn, were impaled, the spears piercing through their chitin armor, their steel armor, their weak bodies. From inside the carriage, now a cage of splintered wood and twisted iron, only one sound could be heard: a woman's weeping. The door was kicked open.

From inside, a knight of excellent bearing, armed only with his fists, stepped between his family and the men. His head was bleeding, the hot, thick blood running down his face blinding his sight, but his posture was that of a warrior who knew no defeat. Two of them lunged at him. They grappled, but with only the flow of his fists, he brought both down.

Arthur was not just a Grand Duke and a decorated general; he was an absolute master of the fluid style, an art that turned the body into a river of lethal movements. He would not allow anyone to get close to his family. But when he turned to look, only one of the men was willing to fight him. The second had run straight toward the third. And that third man smiled.

—I thank the moon that only you ignorants do not know of the power —he said, taking the blood-soaked hand of his subordinate, touching with his fingers the blood that had belonged to the grand duke. Then he moved his lips, and a word, a word without any sound, was born from his mouth. Immediately, the water in Arthur's body obeyed, resonating in the environment. From his pores emerged the liquid, a fluid that separated from him as if it had a life of its own.

The man who had always been the perfect gentleman met his end like a withered flower, desiccated by the water of his own body, which had betrayed him. Corren ran as fast as he could, just in time to see Iris, bled dry and colorless in the face, holding a girl with emerald eyes in her arms. Beside them both, and pierced through the neck, lay a porcelain woman with black hair, her blood staining her gala dress an obscene and brilliant red.

He moved Iris's arms to take little Isabella, but a shout from one of the men startled him. Valerius had followed them on the back of a titanopod. His brother had forgotten what only a Grand Duke ought to carry. In his hands, the sword"The Whisper of Fencing." Seeing his brother fall in that manner, he could only do one thing. He drew his blade, pouring his blind wrath into the artifact, which resonated with a vibration that made the air tremble.

His agility became unnatural, and he rushed toward the men, slicing off one of their arms with a clean stroke. The soldier, blinded by the rage of losing everything he loved, was prepared to lead his house to extinction. Corren, who had almost touched Isabella, hesitated and turned his gaze back to the scene. Valerius, filled with a rage that burned his insides, could only shout one thing, a thing Solendra would only say as a bargain with his life.

—By my blood, by Solendri, I swear upon the death of my brother that I will not rest until I kill you and everyone who did this. The third man moved his lips. A verb, one without sound, a silent word materialized. The air became extremely heavy, as if an invisible mountain had settled upon Valerius's chest. He could not breathe. Noticing the lack of air, Valerius, with the desperation of a drowning man, pronounced with wrath a word, one that only they could know. —Ruach. The wind obeyed him immediately.

The atmosphere returned to him, and his lungs filled with air with a heartbreaking gasp. Without a second passing, the wind blew upon the man, an invisible blade that cut him in half. Blood stained the ground; a nauseating smell of entrails and hot iron permeated the air. However, the third man, the one in the hood, could only laugh. Laugh deeply, with an emotion of ecstasy. The ground obeyed, turning into a deep mud, denser than that of a swamp, which immobilized Valerius.

—You are no part of this, insignificant little one —said the man, dodging the next attack of wind with supernatural agility— And the wind is also within my understanding. You will not touch me. He kissed his moon collar with love, then turned around and shouted as loudly as he could. —The mission ends here. Your baptism is complete. He looked askance at Valerius, who struggled against the rage, against the mud, against the impotence. —Crawl, worms. You will never truly be like us.

A youth came running out, dodging the mud pit, and was lost alongside the man in the shadows of the night that had already fallen upon the tragedy. When Valerius managed to crawl with all his effort toward Arthur, he could only say one thing, while the weeping of little Selena was heard in the wrecked carriage. —She will be my daughter. I will love her with all my heart. A tear, hot and salty, mixed with the blood covering his face.

—My dear and beloved brother, I regret everything I did not say, I regret everything I envied. I swear upon your body and upon my blood that she will be everything in my eyes. The echo of his promise was lost in the wind, mixing with the smell of death and trampled grass, while the night closed its mantle over the crime scene, and the destiny of little Isabella, though she did not yet know it, began to weave its first dark threads.