Chương 179: Chapter 39: Where the Town Ends

The days of travel passed with a monotony that was at once exhausting and therapeutic. They followed the Royal Road, sleeping in noisy inns where the air smelled of smoke and ale, or camping in clearings beside streams that sang with the melting snow. They were attacked a couple of times by bandits desperate, poorly armed men, but it was nothing like the horror of their first journey, that one which had ended in blood and fire.

Fjora dispatched them with a cold, silent efficiency that left no room for grand tales, only the relief of remaining alive. Spring painted the world with a palette that contrasted brutally against the memory of winter and sporadic violence. The trees burst with green buds and blossoms of white and pink. The air, still crisp, carried the sweet perfume of damp earth and early herbs. It was a colorful existence, a simple and happy emotion creeping into the crevices of Selena's resolve.

Until one night, at an inn near the foothills of the Rualfis, where the air smelled of zintel and cold stone, something different occurred. Selena went to sleep exhausted by the jarring motion of the road, sinking into the straw mattress as if into a deep embrace. But that night, sleep was no rest. It was halom pure, clear, unmistakable. And then she dreamed. Everything appeared immediately, without transition, as if a curtain had been yanked back all at once.

Selena stood inside a cave: the air smelled of damp stone, lamp oil, and a subtle scent of old paper and fresh ink. She looked all around, her eyes sweeping over crude bookshelves filled with scrolls, and worktables holding strange tools that resonated in her memory of another world: rollers, plates, trays of movable type. It was a workshop, a clandestine workshop. No one was in sight, until a voice made her turn.

There they stood: a young woman with a solemn face and eyes filled with the same fervent determination Selena had seen in believers, though devoid of fanaticism; it was hope. Beside her stood an older man with a graying beard and hands marked by heavy labor. Both wore simple pale gray robes, the color of unadorned stone. Selena knew it instantly: they belonged to the Path of the Inner Voice. Then the young woman spoke, her voice a whisper laden with practical concern rather than ideological doubt.

—Selena, are you sure this will work properly? I understand philosophy; I comprehend what we are fighting for... but people do not know how to read. They barely... well... She left the sentence half-finished, as though the weight of reality were too much for words. The man, with a calm that seemed carved from the mountain's very rock, placed a hand on her shoulder. —The symbol, the knowledge, and the few who do know how to read are the ones who will spread enlightenment like fire.

—His deep voice conveyed incredible, almost tangible determination and faith— She already explained it to me. The printing press is ready, and with it, we possess an absolute advantage over oblivion and silence. The word printing press echoed through the dream-cave like a hammer blow upon the anvil of fate. Selena felt a chill that had nothing to do with cold. Then, the dream blurred, losing visual shape to become a whirlwind of brutal, sequential sensations.

First, the rhythmic, hypnotic sound of paper being printed: the clack-clack of the press, the rustle of fresh paper. A sound of hope, of truth multiplying. Then, suddenly, the sound of armor bursting in: the metallic clash of chainmail, the heavy thud of boots against stone, the harsh shout of a military order. The smell of cold iron and frozen sweat invaded the cave, sweeping away the scent of ink. The dream turned crimson with urgency and danger.

As a final echo before the nightmare spat her back into wakefulness, a desperate voice which could have belonged to either the young woman or the old man screamed: —Use magic! Selena woke abruptly, sitting upright in the inn bed, her heart pounding violently against her ribs. Yet there was no paralyzing fear, no outburst of panic. She was already accustomed to the sudden intrusion of halom; it was a familiar price, a side effect of the power she carried within.

Every True Resonant suffered it from time to time, like a distorted echo of their own essence brushing against other threads of fate. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. She rose with the first rays of the morning sun filtering through the murky glass window. The dream, rather than distressing her, had solidified her resolve.

They ate a light breakfast, eating what had become almost a travel tradition: stale bread, aged cheese, dried meat, and a bitter tea of mountain herbs. Only once they were satisfied did they resume their journey. They were only a day's ride from Murks, and now Selena wanted to reach the town more than ever. Whether the dream was a premonition, a projected desire, or a simple reflection of her anxieties, one thing was undeniable: her future, her mission, was somehow bound to the Path of the Inner Voice.

She carried within her in the memory of another life knowledge that could alter the rules of the game: the printing press. She did not recall how to construct one, nor entirely how it functioned, but halom was always precise. Most importantly, it would be used as a weapon, a tool to ensure the philosophy she sought to protect would not perish in silence or at the stake. As they drew nearer to the range, the mountains grew ever more imposing, displaying their frozen majesty against the spring sky.

The mountain of Kaelburg was formidable, yes, but here on the border with Khelganor, the Rualfis formed a natural wall so vast and ancient it seemed to hold the breath of the world. Jagged peaks vanished into low clouds, and deep valleys remained stained with snow in their shadowed recesses. After a long ascent where she had to rely more than once on medication for altitude sickness, the wagon entered the mining town of Murks. Selena observed it with sharp attention.

Most of the houses were not built upon the soil, but embedded in the rock itself, carved into the mountainside like the nests of giant birds. Those that were not built of solid wood, darkened by cold and time, with low, steep roofs designed to shed the weight of winter snow. Some even possessed open side gables for ventilation, but their roofs were sturdy; unlike the poor thatch roofs of Terracanto, these were made of solid, overlapping timber waterproofed with layers of dried moss and resin.

The streets, paved with irregular stones drawn from the mountain itself, were not as meticulously maintained as the university's immaculate cobbles, but they were solid and practical. The best cared for, Selena noted, was the one running in a straight line from the dark mouth of the main mine to the town's exit: the artery through which flowed its reason for being, its wealth. They found an inn near the town square, a two-story building constructed of wood so dark it appeared black.

The establishment was named"The Sleip's Breath". Selena, after securing rooms for the three of them, turned to Fjora and Samira. —I must attend to something —she said, her voice low but firm— I require discretion. Stay here and rest. I will return before nightfall. Fjora made a slight gesture of surprise, and Selena understood it instantly. She wanted to accompany her, to go and watch over her from afar, but the countess could only say: —I must do this alone; I am sorry, my faithful guardian.

—She looked at her, noting only sorrow upon the Khelganor's face— Afterward, we will practice norrun with Samira, alright? The Nordic warrior said nothing, but her posture indicated she had yielded to those words. Samira, more curious, inclined her head in acceptance, though her gaze promised questions later. Selena stepped out into the street, wrapped in a thick cloak of dark wool. She was grateful it was spring; although the air remained cold and icy, cutting like a blade of mountain wind, it was bearable.

Had she come in the dead of winter, she would have frozen in minutes. The town breathed with the slow, steady rhythm of a place living off the depths of the earth: broad-backed men with faces dusted in grey powder entered and exited the mine, the metallic clatter of tools echoed from a nearby smithy, and the market, though small, bustled with the exchange of raw minerals, tools, and scarce provisions.

She asked around for more than half the day, traversing the metal market stalls and approaching miners drinking thick ale in a tavern, uttering the name with a calm that concealed her growing urgency: Alaric the blacksmith. Some shook their heads; others looked at her with suspicion. She knew what went through their minds, she could practically hear them saying: —A noblewoman, alone, asking for a blacksmith in a mining town.

It was the mistrust that exists only in those kinds of glances when you are a complete stranger on the ground where you stand. Until, at last, a man with distinctly Khelganian features, high cheekbones, slanted dark brown eyes, and black hair tied in a thick ponytail, listened to her. He spoke flawless Erahari, with only a slight guttural drawl revealing his origin. —Alaric —the man said, chewing a piece of dried meat as he evaluated her— Yes, I know him.

He doesn't work in the singing forge of the main mine; he has a small shop of his own. At the southern tip of town, right where the town ends and the mountain swallows the road. Look for the sign of an anvil with a crack painted red. That's where he's at. She thanked the man with five bronze crowns and headed south, following the path that soon found itself literally cut off by the mountain. The slope rose so sheer and abruptly that the track ended against a wall of grey, mossy, impenetrable rock.

There, looking to her left where the evening light began to gild the edges of the stone, she saw a house that seemed less constructed than sprouted from the mountain. It was set within a natural fold of the rock, its unhewn stone walls blending into the cliff face itself. Above the sturdy wooden door, a rough but clear sign displayed the promised mark: an anvil with a crack painted in a dark, almost blood-like red. Above the drawing, words carved crudely yet proudly read: The Red-Hot Anvil Forge.