Chương 157: Chapter 18: A Piece of Soul from a Faraway Place

The next day, Selena was to resume her complementary course in Practice and Handling of Weapons, a subject she had neglected during her weeks of travel and recovery. The training ground, a courtyard of packed earth surrounded by low stone walls, smelled of dry dust and youthful sweat. The students, mostly young nobles or those with martial ambitions, were already lined up when she arrived; she stood in silence beside her usual companion, Loren of Corpsum.

The instructor was a broad-shouldered veteran, his face marked by a web of scars that spoke of decades of service. His eyes, a cold brown like untempered steel, settled on Selena as soon as she formed up alongside the others. —Isabella de Solendra! —he roared, his voice cutting through the students' murmur— You have missed your training for a long time. Skill rusts faster than poorly maintained iron. I will measure you. Take your wooden weapon.

Without the slightest preamble, Selena took a practice scimitar of balanced weight and hard wood and faced a series of eight rapid bouts against opponents chosen by the instructor. She had to test her technique, agility, and endurance. Selena won. Not overwhelmingly, but consistently: six victories out of eight. Her movements had lost some of the beginner's abruptness; now there was an economy in her gestures, a way of redirecting her opponent's force that spoke of a deeper, more internal training.

When the final bout ended, with Selena deflecting a lateral strike and placing the tip of her wooden sword against her opponent's neck, the instructor paused. Then, he nodded slowly, a gesture of respect forged on the battlefield. —You did not neglect your training —he said, his voice still grave but now tinged with stoic approval— Well done. The memory of the body is the most faithful. The training continued. Selena faced the spear girl once more; Gisella was tall and agile, she had been her nemesis months ago.

This time, however, Selena defeated her with relative ease, using the lancer's own charge to unbalance her and disarm her with a fluid movement that would have made Alistair smile. She was only defeated by the boy who used the bow; Albert was a slender youth with feline reflexes who managed to keep her at a distance, releasing training arrows with felt tips with an exasperating precision.

Selena dodged and deflected several with the swift movements of her wooden scimitar, but one finally found her flank, marking the point. If I could use the echo, none of them would have beaten me, she thought as she recovered her breath, cold sweat sticking her light clothes to her back. But immediately, a sigh of self-discipline escaped her lips. —I must not rely on it. This is a game of flesh and bone. Of sweat and reflexes.

Strange as it seemed, there was a purity in that, an honesty that magic, with its brittle power and its price of blood, would never possess. By the end of the session, her muscles sang with fatigue, but her spirit felt lighter, more anchored. There were two worlds now: that of the hands learning to create, and that of the body remembering how to defend itself. In both, Selena was determined not to be just a spectator, but an artisan.

The days went by, each marked by the patient and repetitive rhythm of apprenticeship. The daily work with Meilan became a sacred routine: the early hours dedicated to the theory of jewelry forms, the properties of metals, the types of gems and their degrees of polishing; and the long afternoons of intense practice, where knowledge turned into movement, gesture, and sweat.

—To solder two pieces, you need to use the blowpipe —little Meilan pointed out with her fingers— Create a mix of silver, gold, and copper so that it yields to the greater alloy of the jewel; that way they melt faster.

Selena nodded, learning bit by bit to handle the tools without endangering her own hands: the jeweler's hammer, light yet precise; the blowpipe, with its blue and dancing flame; the fine-tipped pliers, which felt like extensions of her fingers; and the files of different grits, which whispered as they slid over the metal. —These are the jewelry designs from my land.

—Meilan pulled out some parchments with motifs of flowers, vines, fish, and waves— These vines are from the current dynasty; they are tremendously valuable and only destined for the nobility of the empire. The designs had to remain in her mind, in the patterns her hands had to remember, thus learning the art of filing that transformed rough edges into smooth curves, the secrets of soldering with liquid silver, and the delicacy of engraving patterns with chisels finer than hair.

Finally came the most feared and rewarding magic: the setting of stones, where a mistake of a single millimeter could ruin a gem or make an entire setting snap. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. The spring heat gave way to full summer; the air of the workshop grew heavy with the thick smell of hot metal, soldering acid, and the faint scent of beeswax that Meilan used for polishing.

The sunlight, now intense and vertical, streamed through the windows and illuminated the floating dust like diamond powder. After two full months, when the leaves of the nearby trees were in their maximum green splendor and the song of insects filled the afternoons, Selena finished her first complete piece. It was far from being a masterpiece, but it did not pretend to be one either.

It was a fine silver bracelet, without intricate patterns, just a simple but well-crafted chain with uniform links and a secure clasp. Yet, it was undeniably her creation: from the first sketch to the final polish, every gesture had been hers. She held it in the palm of her hand, feeling the cool weight of the metal, its matte but honest shine, and a wave of tangible, earthly, physical, and incontestable achievement flooded her. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Meilan approached without haste, wiping her hands on a rust-stained rag. She took the bracelet with her expert fingers, turned it under the light, and subjected it to a silent, exhaustive inspection. —Good work —she said at last, without embellishment, without flattery— Very fast, even for a novice with noble hands. She paused, pointing to a spot near the clasp, and furrowed her brow noticeably, though she relaxed it instantly. —It still lacks a bit of polishing here, on this link.

The silver does not shine enough; it looks tired. But as a whole... good work. It works. It is solid. Selena nodded, accepting the judgment with a sigh of relief. The little master had never given praise until that day, and she had earned it. She had learned that jewelry had to be a craft, one that sought its own truth, and Meilan always gave it, raw and precise. —Thank you, Mei —the countess said, and then, on a spontaneous impulse— I invite you to eat. As a thank you.

The little goldsmith looked at her, and a warm smile full of mischief lit up her face. —No, thank you. Unless the food comes set in jewels, or it is fresh sea fish straight from the waves. Ah, of course —she added with deliberate sarcasm— we are in the mountains. I forgot. The fish here tastes like... fresh water, terribly sweet. She paused, measuring Selena with her dark eyes. —But if you want to thank your teacher, you could get me an emerald. One as beautiful as the green of your eyes.

That would be worth it, imagine an emerald from Solendra. She held her chin, almost imagining the gem in her hands, her fingers moving with almost tangible shapes. —Ha! —Selena's laugh was dry, laden with genuine affection— I might not have sea fish, but... She dragged out the vowel while observing Meilan, who in those two months had grown at least a centimeter, gaining a height that was still minimal but perceptible. —... I could perhaps offer you something better.

She then pulled out a small package, wrapped in a piece of clean, simple cloth that she carried in her bag. —You might like it. I suppose. With careful movements, she unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay a dozen pieces of dough, crescent-shaped, relatively flat with delicately sealed pleats. They were steamed, still warm, and gave off a complex, comforting aroma: of fine dough, seasoned meat, and fresh vegetables.

—I filled them with mollucapra, cirrofis, some river quilmar, rock onion, and bórulo, along with other herbs. —Selena turned a little red and looked down— The book didn't say what to replace the ingredients with. Selena explained, then looked up to observe Meilan's reaction. —I knew you would refuse to eat anything that wasn't a trade, so I thought... this might count. Meilan stood motionless. Her eyes, always so expressive, widened immensely, and then misted over with a sudden film of tears.

—Gau-Zi —she whispered, her voice trembling, as if pronouncing a sacred incantation. Selena extended the food, offering it, and the scent wafted toward the little girl. Yet it was Meilan who spoke again. —I can't believe it. How did you know? A tear escaped and traced a clean path down her metal-dusted cheek. Selena stood astonished, thinking she had made a mistake, but a now-smiling Meilan interrupted her. —I hadn't seen them since I arrived in this country. They appear in some books, in memories...

but I never thought... you are incredible. Selena smiled, warm and slightly sad smile. Dumplings, she thought. If it serves for anything to remember these things, seeing her happy is the best part of these two months. She had searched for food books in the library for a long time but found nothing like it, until her intuition of the void had guided her to a book with similar recipes. It was something that transcended worlds, universal language of home and memory.

—You are quite a character, little Mei —the countess said in a tone that oscillated between affectionate mockery and tenderness— Anyone would say you are still a child, getting emotional over a bit of stuffed dough. Meilan made a face of annoyance, wiping away the tear with the back of her hand in abrupt gesture. —I will turn fifteen in the spring of next year. I am almost an adult, Selena —she protested, but her voice lacked conviction.

Then, her expression softened, and a flash of deep, ancient nostalgia for someone her age crossed her eyes. —Besides, we all miss our homeland. I don't think you understand, but it is something so deep... as if a piece of your soul stayed in a place so faraway that you can never reach it again. Yet, it is still your soul, and you love it no matter what. You miss them without even fully remembering their face.

Selena looked at her, and on her own face was reflected a sorrow so deep, so absolute, that the King's expression months ago, laden with duty and disappointment, seemed like a light smile by comparison. It was the weight of a distance measured not in miles, but in existences. In entire lives left behind. —I suppose that is true —she murmured, her voice barely a whisper laden with echoes of another world, another sky, another memory she could never share— I will never be able to know.

Meilan finally took the food and added: —Hey! Enough whimpering —shaking her head as if clearing a cloud of feelings— Would you like me to give you a gift in return? Without waiting for an answer, she turned and rummaged through one of her cluttered drawers, pulling out something small and carefully woven. It was a beanie, simple but well-made, of a beautiful deep violet shade, almost iridescent under the workshop light. —I am not good at knitting, but here you have first-rate work... from one novice to another.

Accept it; it is bad manners to refuse a trade. Selena took it in her hands, feeling the softness of the fine wool, the regularity of the stitches, the modest warmth of the garment. —The color of nobility —she murmured with a playful smile— Don't you think it's a bit whimsical for a workshop full of metal and dust? Meilan only raised her chin slightly, closed her eyes, and then said firmly: —Sometimes whimsy is what gives the jewel its beauty.

—Then she shrugged with a practical philosophy— Why not give it to a hat as well? Does the head not deserve a bit of opulence in winter? She smiled, showing her small, perfect teeth. A smile that spoke of years of seeing the world through different eyes. —In my village, one accepts in silence and with a bowed head. It is a sign of gratitude, not submission. Selena nodded, lowering her head in a deliberate and respectful gesture, imitating the custom.

The beanie, carefully folded, found its place in her bag alongside the tools and sketches. A trade completed: dumplings for violet wool, effort for effort, memory for memory.