Chương 161: Chapter 22: It is Impossible to Skip the Game

A few minutes later, she arrived. The old, mossy stone mill rose beside a small waterfall, its wheel turning with a lazy but implacable slowness. Before entering, Selena sat in the tall grass of the riverbank and pulled out one of the simple sandwiches sold in front of the Atrium of Knowledge; the food consisted of rye bread, smoked cheese, and thin slices of roasted ornitura. She ate it calmly, savoring every bite as an anchor to the tangible, to the everyday.

Then, with a satisfied stomach and a deliberately empty mind, she entered the mill. Inside, the air was cool and damp, heavy with the scent of wet wood, cold stone, and the fine flour that still floated like fantasy dust in the sunbeams filtering through the crevices. She sat on the stone floor, leaning her back against a rough beam, and closed her eyes.

She slowed her breathing until it became a slow, deep flow, synchronizing it with the monotonous, powerful sound of the river, with the creak-turn-creak of the wheel. She let the external noise fill her consciousness, drowning out the internal chatter, the memories, the questions. An hour passed like this. Perhaps more. Time lost meaning in the resonance chamber of sound and darkness behind her eyelids.

Until, finally, when her mind was as still as the surface of a lake on a windless night, a question emerged from the depths, clear and sharp, like a bubble breaking the surface: Do you seek the truth? The answer was immediate, almost visceral: I seek it. I desire it. I suffer from it and I live it. It was a clear, honest response, but upon formulating it, Selena knew it was not the correct one. It was not the root. A long, heavy sigh escaped her lips. She resumed, this time digging deeper: The truth is...

that I want to know how I ended up in this world. I want to know what I am, or who Isabella Elizabeth Selena de Solendra really was. I want to know who I am now, or what I am becoming. I want the origin and the destination, the before and the after. I want the complete story, not the fragments. This time, the answer was liberating. Not because it brought answers, but because it formulated the correct question. A thread of clarity drew itself in her mind, taut and bright.

That thread led her not toward the memories of Earth; what assaulted her this time went straight toward her notes from Anselmo, toward the meticulous study of medicine, of anatomy, of herbs. It led her to the silent gratification she had felt when helping Samira with her spring allergy, when offering medicine to Lykos, when helping Fjora heal her chest wound, when seeing how simple, applied knowledge could alleviate suffering. It led her to the tangible promise of the silver bracelet on Maya's wrist.

It led her to the creation of the earring, to the transformation of matter with her own hands. Selena opened her eyes. The gloom of the mill appeared to her with crystalline sharpness. She already knew. She knew what she had to do with her object, with the earring she had created. It moved away from the question of power, of dominating an element. It was something more fundamental, more intimate. With sure movements, she pulled out the small hand knife she always carried in her bag, a practical tool, not a weapon.

Without hesitating, she pricked the pad of her left index finger. A droplet of blood, bright and crimson, welled up. Then, she removed the earring from her right ear, the one of dark silver and garnet, her creation, and held it in the palm of her wounded hand. She closed her eyes again. This time, she did not seek the void, but the memory. She freed her mind from the horror of the dungeon, while simultaneously drawing it closer to the clear and pure sensation of relief.

The relief of seeing Fjora healed in her chest, of seeing Lykos healthy again, of seeing Samira breathe without wheezing; the relief in Maya's eyes upon receiving the bracelet; the relief of creating something beautiful and tangible out of nothing. Relief as an antidote against chaos, as a balm against loss, as an anchor in a world of nightmares.

Moving her wounded hand above the earring without touching it, she traced a pattern in the air, sign she had not learned from any book, but which arose from her own understanding. It was not a mute word of power, but a silent intention, a desire carved from will and memory. Upon opening her eyes, the droplets of blood suspended in the air vanished, not as if evaporating, but as if absorbed by the atmosphere itself, dissolved into the fabric of reality.

And immediately, Selena felt something inside her: a slight but perceptible emptiness, as if a small portion of her vitality, of her time, had been extracted. She calculated, through her studies and the strange internal economy she now perceived, that the cost had been approximately two years of her natural life. It was the price, trade paid with blood and time for intention and form. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

She looked at the earring in her palm. Externally, it was exactly the same: the dark silver, the deep garnet. Yet, upon touching it, she felt it warm. A sensation distinct from the heat of the sun or metal exposed to light; it was closer to the internal warmth of a happy memory that wraps around you in cold moments, feeling of fullness and subtle, yet unshakeable protection. It was an object that, now, radiated an echo of well-being. Selena put it back in her right ear.

The sensation was immediate: a slight tingling of warmth that extended from her lobe to the nape of her neck, a reassuring presence, like a friendly hand resting on her shoulder in the dark. She placed a small piece of gauze on her wounded finger, the mundane gesture contrasting with what had just occurred, and left the mill. Her steps had no fixed direction. She simply walked, letting herself be guided by that strange sensitivity to the Void that was now a finely tuned compass.

The "echo," as Valerian called it, drew her, directed her. A few minutes later, turning down a side path and venturing behind a dense grove of trees, she reached a small, hidden clearing. There, as if summoned by the very completion of the act, stood Valerian. He was standing with his back to her, observing the erratic flight of a swarm of luminescent insects dancing over a puddle of rainwater. But he turned at the exact moment Selena entered the clearing. —Jester —the countess, said serious, without preambles.

Her tone was not one of triumph, but of conclusion— I am finished. They were the exact words, only the ones she needed. Valerian looked at her, and a slow, complex smile drew itself on his lips. He walked toward her with silent steps, his black tunic with red trim moving like a conscious shadow. When he stood before her, his gaze of silver that was now strangely opaque, settled directly on the earring in her right ear.

—A twin —he murmured, his voice lacking its usual singsong affectation— For the misfortune that is losing life. Curious. A crimson and bloody girl like you... creating an object that emanates that feeling. He extended his hand and, without asking permission, touched the earring with the pad of his fingers. Selena suppressed an instinct to pull back, feeling her discomfort like a chill. —Little misfortune on legs. Little miss with the weight of death. My little apprentice...

—He paused, and his smile turned bitter, almost paternal— I will repeat it, because it never hurts. You are talented; and for a resonant, being talented is more of a condemnation than an advantage. They will see you. They will measure you. They will ask you for prices you don't even know you are paying. Then, as if an invisible switch had been flipped, his posture changed. He straightened, his shoulders squared, and his expression adopted the distant severity of a teacher.

—You may study with Isolde —he declared that his voice is now clear and projected— You have passed the minimum threshold. But remember that the academic year ends here. You must wait until the last week of summer, or the first of autumn, to formally begin. Until then... And a spark of his old humor returned to his eyes. —I suppose you could try not to ruin any more precious metals. Or at least, learn to sell your failures as an "experimental style." It has a certain tragic charm.

Selena, however, did not fall for the joke; she had spent too much time with the jester for that. Furthermore, under Meilan's watchful eye, she no longer saw goldsmithing as an experimental failure, but as an art. —What do you want me to do now, red resonant? —Selena asked, her tone oscillating between fatigue and determination. Then, she sighed deeply, as if she already knew the answer— Perhaps you could return The Oneiric World of the Blindfolded Mage to me. She looked directly at him, waiting.

In her eyes, there was no supplication; it was a demand. Valerian observed her, a smile of genuine playfulness illuminating his face, erasing for an instant the shadows of the previous night. —You seek something new, and it turns out that a few days ago, a letter addressed to you arrived. —He pulled a sheet of parchment from the fold of his tunic, showing the red wax royal seal with the felis of the dunes— But I suppose the oneiric world is much better, isn't it? His smile grew wider. —The book is...

But Selena did not let him finish. With a swift and precise movement, she snatched the letter from his hand. —I was expecting the King's response —she spoke, but without opening the envelope, keeping her gaze fixed on him— But even so, you can finish telling me where you hid it. The red resonant made a grimace of exaggerated annoyance, and Selena added: —It is important to skip the games sometimes, jester. Patience also has limits. Valerian sighed, a theatrical sound that ended in a soft laugh.

—I left the book in my office. On one of the many bookshelves. I figured out a dreaming book, one that speaks of visions and nightmares, needed an anchor to reality. And what is more real than being surrounded by history books, by dates and battles that have already occurred, those that cannot be changed? He smiled, a teasing gesture but with a flash of truth in his silver eyes. —Sometimes, Crimson, it is impossible to skip the game. Because the game is what keeps the pain at bay.

Without adding more, he turned around and stepped into the trees, vanishing into the shadows of the clearing like a daytime ghost. Selena remained in the clearing, sitting in the grass for a few minutes; the jester's words needed to be meditated upon.