Chương 153: Chapter 14: Six of Eight

Upon arriving, she took in the scene from the doorway. On the stage, under the light filtering through tall windows, Maya and Ren faced each other in a formal debate. The topic, audible even from the back, was a thorny one: Are wars ethical, or are they merely a manifestation of personal greed? Ren, with his military posture impeccable even without armor, his long black hair pulled back into a bun that was already beginning to come undone in rebellious strands, defended the position of war ethics.

He spoke with the deep, measured voice of someone who has seen combat: he argued for the defense of the kingdom, the soldier's honor, and the responsibility of the strong toward the weak. His sentences were solid and direct, carrying the weight of personal experience. Maya, facing him, seemed slighter but no less firm.

She wore a dress more elegant than those she commonly chose, her hands gesturing with precision, her hazel eyes shining with an intensity that Selena recognized, it was the brightness of a mind that had connected the dots. She did not attack the soldier; she attacked the structure. —Military logistics —she said, her clear voice projecting without apparent effort. Everyone remained silent to hear her speak. —... demonstrate the massive expenditure on armor, arrows, bows, supply wagons...

an expense that directly enriches the warlords, the suppliers, and the noble houses that control the mines and the workshops. She paused, letting the economic data settle, as a soft murmur echoed through the audience. —And then there is the plundering that follows a victory. Officially condemned, practically inevitable. How many nobles have seen their coffers grow, not from glory, but from the "unregulated" booty their troops bring back? Greed is not an accident in war. It is its hidden engine.

Ren attempted to counter-argue, speaking of discipline and codes of conduct, but Maya's line of reasoning was too concrete, too grounded. When the moderator, who was a rhetoric professor with a sharp-profiled face and excellent bearing, brought the debate to an end, the victory went to Maya. Ren stepped down from the platform with an easy, wide smile on his face, showing no trace of bitterness. Both made their way toward the exit, where Selena was waiting for them.

Ren stopped in front of her, his posture relaxed yet still martial. —She's good, isn't she? —said the boy, looking at Maya with genuine pride— Before you left, Selena, she couldn't even beat me in an argument about the weather. Now she has defeated me with bookkeeping and common sense. Maya flushed slightly but held his gaze with a smile of restrained satisfaction. —So, in the end, he did ask you for help with the debates —Selena observed, laughing a little.

Ren nodded, but Maya avoided looking, her eyes fixed on the floor, though Selena continued. —I am glad. But I need something from both of you now. She paused, and then, in a spontaneous gesture, she rushed toward Maya and hugged her tightly. —Congratulations, Miss Healer. Now, in addition to the health of the body, alchemy... She cleared her throat, giving an obvious wink. —... and writing, you are an excellent orator.

Perhaps one day you can convince the nobles to give some dignity to pack animals or to exhausted students. Maya smiled, the flush on her cheek deepening. —Of course. I am the best. —But then, correcting herself with a spark of self-awareness— Well, I am improving. If I perfect my oratory, perhaps one day I will be able to pet an anurhy without it fleeing in terror from the curse, from the power of words. For an instant, a glimmer of true, almost childlike yearning crossed her hazel eyes.

It was the desire of someone who loves animals in a world where her own nature drives them away. Selena let out a soft laugh and added: —As long as this soldier doesn't scare it away from you first. —Her eyes looked at Ren with complicity— Don't trust him, Maya; he has plenty of rebounds in his record. Seeing Ren's slightly embarrassed expression, she added: —Don't take it personally, Ren. You are good at fighting. And, well... I would like to test if you still beat me in the courtyard.

She looked at him directly, with that spark of defiance she had learned not to hide. Ren held her gaze, and a wide, frank smile broke across his face. —No one improves that much in just a few months, Selena —said the apprentice soldier, his tone respectful but filled with certainty. Selena could only smile confidently, then shook her head. Ren interrupted her gesture by speaking. —Remember that I entered this as a child. My father was a guard, and his father before him.

He paused, and his expression turned into a friendly challenge. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. —But this is not like a rebound. This is pure training. And yes, I will always be ready to prove to you just how much you still lack. The atmosphere among the three was comfortable, a rarity in Selena's life: simple camaraderie, untainted by hierarchy or survival. But practical urgency returned to her mind. —First of all, I need a workshop.

—She looked at the two of them, directing the question toward them— A place with basic tools: for working metal, perhaps wood. Something discreet. Do you know of any place within the university, or in Kaelburg, where I can gain access without raising too many questions? Both looked at her strangely, as if she had just asked for a swimming pool in the desert or a midnight rainbow. Maya's expression softened first, tinged with that pragmatism that had always characterized her.

—The Craftsmanship workshops —she began to explain, speaking with the patience of someone listing the obvious— They are in the north wing, next to the greenhouses. That is where the Arts and Architecture students learn to work with wood, stone, wax, and resin. But... She paused, and her face darkened with genuine sadness, almost pity. —They are reserved only for those who pursue that track. I am sorry, Selena. Ren, on the other hand, did not seem discouraged.

A wide, defiant smile drew across his face, lighting up his brown eyes. —Perhaps you could speak with the rector —he said in a tone that made it clear it was no simple option. The countess's face reflected only a slight smile, her eyes holding a flash that spoke of a guiding thread. —Or better yet, with the head of the royal arts and architecture track. I have a friend there, a scholarship student. Perhaps he can help you. He made a deliberate pause, crossing his arms over his chest.

—But first, you must win the matches against me. The unwritten rule, you know. Selena did not answer with words. She merely inclined her head slightly, accepting the challenge with a serenity that felt familiar to Ren and, at the same time, disquietingly new. Later, in the fencing hall of the physical training facilities, the air smelled of old sweat, cured leather, and the faint dampness that seeped between the stones.

There were no spectators, only the echo of their breathing and the crunch of soles against the waxed wooden floor. Selena and Ren faced each other without weapons as tradition mandated; the combat was pure hand-to-hand, in a series of swift, silent bouts that were more of a tactical dialogue than a fight. Selena won. Not by brute strength, in that, Ren surpassed her in mass and experience, but by economy of movement, by that learned fluidity that turned the opponent's momentum into her own weapon.

In eight rounds, she prevailed in six. In the end, Ren was left lying on the floor after a final, elegant takedown, panting but smiling with forced admiration. —I admit it —he said, getting up with a grunt. Selena smiled with satisfaction, a smile almost of having finally achieved a tangible accomplishment. —You improved enough in these months to leave me in the dust.

—The boy added as he brushed imaginary dust from his shoulders and looked at her with renewed curiosity— I have only seen one person fight with this style in the university: our hand-to-hand combat instructor. He raised an eyebrow, his expression turning inquisitive. —Who taught you? Selena stood still for a moment, the cold sweat pinning her light clothing to her back. —A companion —she answered at last, her voice lower than usual.

Ren narrowed his eyes, then looked upward trying to remember, but he was instantly cut off by Selena, who added: —One I met at the royal palace. —She sighed, as if the memory weighed physically— I was only a novice in comparison. He was... a bishop of the Church of the Sap, trained by a monk a long time ago. She paused, uncomfortable, looking down at her hands. —You know, I always thought the Church of the Eternal Sap was just a religious faction. Nothing more. —It is —Maya interjected.

The healer had been watching from the doorway with her arms crossed. Selena and Ren turned their heads to look at her. —Though some, very few, take up ascetic lives, training the body and the mind. Or so my father used to tell me when I was a child. They are like... dry branches that still hold sap. Rare, but real. Ren nodded, absorbed in the explanation, but his practical mind was already elsewhere. —Well, you fulfilled your part —he said, stretching— I will go look for my friend. Wait here.

Approximately thirty minutes later, he returned accompanied by a young man who looked as though he had been carved from pale marble and moonlight. He was tall, slender, with blonde hair so light it almost seemed silver, and skin as white as fine porcelain. His eyes calm, silver-blue, rested on Selena with serene curiosity. When he spoke, his voice was soft, gentle, like the murmur of a stream in a silent forest. —My lady —he said, bowing with a natural elegance that did not seem feigned— How may I serve you?

My name is Einar. I am a first-year scholarship student in the Royal Arts and Architecture track. I always hate when they introduce themselves like that, Selena thought, and a slight sigh escaped her lips. —Can you help me get into your track's workshop? —she asked directly, without polite preambles— If it causes you trouble, you can use one of my titles to convince them. That of 'Lady of the Circle of Wisdom' should suffice. I need to study something there.

Another sigh, deeper this time, laden with the fatigue of having to resort to her status. —Please, do not treat me like a noble. I hate it. Einar observed her for a moment, his face expressionless but his blue eyes gleaming with a flash of understanding. —I understand —he finally said— Should I refer to you as Isabella, then? He paused, as if weighing the implications. —I think it would be best if you accompanied me.

I am merely a scholarship student, and thanks to my scholarship, I was granted the status of a free man. But, as you know, in the university, nobility carries far more weight than the word of someone like me. His final words came out with a subtle hardness, the resentment of someone who knows the invisible yet insurmountable boundaries of the hierarchy. Selena took up the conversation again. —There is no problem, but do not call me Isabella; I am Selena to those who know me.

Einar nodded immediately, while Maya and Ren could only exchange complicit glances. However, the countess added: —We will go in an hour. I will wait for you at the Atrium of Knowledge, right next to the hourglass. —She looked up at the ceiling, as if calculating the passage of time by the shadows— I am sorry to take up time from your classes. Selena stood up, slowly wiping away the sweat from the combat with a cloth, but the boy then added: —Do not worry.

Sometimes, helping a countess is worth more than a lesson in stone carving. Later, after Selena took a quick bath and changed into a simple yet neat outfit, loose linen trousers, a cotton blouse, and a light, unadorned vest, she made her way to the Atrium of Knowledge. The afternoon sun, already low, cast long golden shadows over the cobblestones. She sat on one of the stone benches next to the massive central hourglass, watching the constant, hypnotic, and eternal flow of the silver dust.

Around her, university life went on. Students passed by in groups, laughing, debating, carrying stacks of books that looked on the verge of toppling over. Others walked alone, absorbed in their thoughts or in the parchments they held with hands trembling from exhaustion. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, fresh ink, and the sweet aroma of pastries sold by an old woman from a nearby cart.