Chương 187: Chapter 47: Treasures in Her Arms

That night, back in the quiet of her room at the Cloister of the Forest, Selena sat beside the open window. The night air, somewhat cooler now, entered laden with the scent of hay and wild blossoms. Outside, the full moon hung like a polished silver coin against a velvet sky. Selena raised her left hand, examining the bronze ring the King had given her, the one that allowed her to conjure pure light.

In the dim moonlight, the Volg-Thûr inscription carved into its surface seemed to shift, a circular enigma that had always intrigued her. Uluas was right: a name... was no foolish thing. It was an intimate ritual, a way to claim ownership over power, to establish a conscious pact with the instrument that extended her will. Her mind, trained in the intricate nuances of several languages and the etymologies of two worlds, began its search.

She remembered Old Spanish, that language of her past life, full of forgotten words and profound meanings. Then, as if springing from a clear wellspring in her memory, it came to her: Acendrar meaning to purify, to cleanse, or to bestow clarity. Yes. Acendrar, because the light emanating from this ring was neither fire nor scorching heat; it was pure clarity, an illumination that dispelled darkness without burning, revealing without destroying. It was, in its own way, an act of purification.

A name that spoke of its function, but also of a hope: that knowledge, once revealed, might cleanse the fog of ignorance and fear. —Acendrar —she whispered softly, testing the sound in the still air. The word resonated gently, a pledge between herself and the cold metal encircling her finger. A name, an anchor and a first step, small yet significant on the path toward mastering not only power, but her own place in relation to it.

The following morning, with the summer dawn air still crisp, Selena made her way to Anselmo's office. The master received her with a tired but warm smile, a gesture that had become increasingly frequent in recent months. His room, always immaculate and orderly, filled with books, jars, and scrolls, smelled of herbal tinctures, old parchment, and that distinct scent left only by the accumulation of knowledge. There, they discussed the lessons Selena had missed during her expedition.

Anselmo, with the patience of an old tutor, handed her a stack of notes meticulously transcribed and set aside for her, each annotated with marginal comments in his neat, economical handwriting. After reviewing the essentials, the master invited her to sit and poured two cups of a bitter, invigorating tea made from mountain leaves that, according to him, "cleared the mind and strengthened the memory."

His demeanor turned more serious, however, as he placed his own cup on the desk between a pile of treatises on fevers and a wooden anatomical model. —Isabella —he began, lacing his gnarled, ink-stained fingers together— I have finished the manuscript. A week ago, before your return. Selena was surprised. Despite the immense workload borne by the head of the way, he had not only provided her with personalized notes but had completed the entire treatise; the old man sitting before her was a truly tireless worker.

Anselmo paused, allowing the weight of his statement to settle. —I thank you in advance for the rigor, the vision, and that noble obstinacy you have poured into improving the health of this kingdom. Perhaps it is not seen as such today, amid court protocols and grumblings, but in a hundred years, or more, we will be remembered as the pioneers of the standard. As the hands that, guided by experience and vision, carved out a path to save lives that would otherwise be lost to negligence and ignorance.

—He looked at her directly, his aging eyes gleaming with a spark of pride that was not merely professional, but almost paternal— You are an intelligent woman in my eyes, as I have mentioned more than once. But today, rather than merely saying it, I wish to give you something. In recognition of what you have done, and what I know you will do. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Without haste, he pulled a book from a locked drawer, and it was no ordinary book.

Its cover was crafted from polished white marble, bearing golden lettering that appeared to have been applied with genuine gold leaf. The spine, flexible yet robust, was decorated with intricate patterns of spirals and leaves, engraved with a precision that spoke of hours of dedicated craftsmanship. It carried the aura of true luxury, but also of authority.

Selena looked at it, and the title, set in elegant calligraphy, read: Principles of Internal Medicine, and beneath it, in smaller script: By Teodorus of Svarland, Royal Physician. Then the master spoke again, his voice a reverent whisper. —It is an edition published fifty years ago. I was barely a youth then an intern full of doubts and wonder. Teodorus himself gave it to me when he taught here in Kaelburg. It contains his own marginal notes, corrections, reflections... and his personal signature on the first page.

—He ran a finger carefully over the cover, his eyes looking back into the past— It is a true relic that I have guarded with my soul. For decades, this book served as the standard, the foundation upon which everything we teach today was built. But now, I give it to you. He looked up, and a broad smile laden with hope and the passing of a torch illuminated his lined face. —I hope, young Isabella, that our treatise will prove just as influential, if not superior.

—He paused, his tone growing more intimate, as if sharing a sacred secret— As my master told me on the day he handed me this very volume: "Surpass me. You possess the potential to be a mere commoner but remember: your blood is worth less than the knowledge that truly revolutionizes." Selena reached out and took the book. It was heavier than it looked; its weight was not merely physical, but historical and emotional. She held it with a mixture of awe and a deep, restrained emotion that tightened her throat.

She stowed it carefully in her bag, feeling the residual warmth of the old paper through the fabric, along with the weight of the legacy she now carried. The meeting concluded gradually, with a few more words regarding the next steps for presenting their joint work to the court. Before Selena departed, Anselmo handed her another volume, freshly bound. It was the tangible fruit of months of labor: Hospital Code: The Geography of Care, by Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra and Anselmo Wick.

A thick tome bound in dark brown leather, its title stamped in silver. It weighed at least a kilogram, perhaps more, and as she held it, Selena felt the weight of a new responsibility along with a quiet, profound satisfaction. Carrying both books like a scholar bearing her most prized treasures, she made her way back to the Cloister of the Forest.

The morning sun warmed the stones of the path, the weight in her arms serving as a bittersweet reminder of all that had been gained, and all that still remained to be done. In the afternoon, she resumed her complementary studies. Lady Dinael, in her study filled with linguistic maps and stone fragments, received her with her customary academic serenity.

She scarcely asked about what had transpired at the ruins; it was clear that news of Selena's specific discovery had not yet reached her, or she would have bombarded her with detailed questions. —Did you learn anything from Sulic? —The teacher glanced at her for only a second before returning her full attention to examining a tablet— He was my finest student fifteen years ago; surely that airhead was able to help you in some way.

She smiled deeply, her eyes almost nostalgic for those simpler days when the boy had been clumsy with the language. —His advice helped me immensely —Selena pulled out the notebook he had given her and showed it to the teacher— It was extraordinarily enriching. Thanks to the context of the ruins, I found far more meaning than in stone symbols that remain silent. Lady Dinael was surprised to see the notebook, her face reflecting the satisfaction of a master seeing her teaching bear fruit. —That notebook...

he used it for everything. —Her features spoke of nostalgia far more than her words— The first time he visited the ruins, I brought him along on an expedition. I bought ten of those notebooks... and look at it now, in the hands of a young woman with a future in paleography.

The conversation drew to a close as the woman, satisfied with the response, offered a faint smile and nodded, devoting the remainder of the lesson to a complex study of possessive declensions in Volg-Thûr, and how Veritasilba though distant served as its linguistic mother.