Chương 188: Extra Chapter: Broken Forever

The clinking of the canteen against the floor was the first sound to be heard. The metallic noise echoed in the room with a peculiar cadence that betrayed the liquid within a hollow echo speaking of content nearly spent. The second was the sharp reek of alcohol, that strong, penetrating aroma of burning spirits, or perhaps a woody Varlof from Tali, bearing the taste of banchi, of sweet and fresh balao mixed with the harshness of distillation.

The jester collapsed onto the bed once more, utterly surrendered to the alcohol. There was moisture in his eyes, that crystalline wetness reflecting the chaos surrounding him a shattered mirror of a world he could no longer hold together. His nose leaked fluid like trickling water, yet despite the grief of that tormented man's soul, no squeal or whimpering escaped him.

There was only the weight of his body against the mattress, the creak of straw beneath his back, and the dull thud of his heart marking the tempo of his downfall. His mind dragged him back to his childhood while the room spun around him. The throbbing head, the heat in his chest, and his ragged breathing made every single memory hurt twice over not merely in his soul, but in his body as well. It was as though the alcohol, rather than numbing him, opened the floodgates of a past he had spent decades trying to drown.

Yet before the shadow of unconsciousness claimed him, he uttered a single word. —Crimson —he sighed deeply, and the name escaped his lips like an echo from another era, like an incantation he could not refrain from reciting. The alcohol then transported him. There was no transition, only a gentle slide into memory, like falling into deep, warm waters. The sun irritated his eyes despite his eyelids being shut. The breaths beside him were many a chorus of inhalations and exhalations filling the chamber.

Outside, the singing of beautiful lirenios provided the melody so characteristic of mornings on the outskirts of the city of ovin, Sangreal. The scent of freshly baked bread and wildflowers drifted through the cracks in the window, mingling with the smell of child sweat and poorly washed bedding. —Valerian —a hand touched his shoulder insistently, small but firm fingers— Wake up, Sister Alishe will beat us if you stay in bed much longer.

The boy shook his head repeatedly, pulling the rough blanket back over his eyes, a blanket that smelled of ash soap and sunshine. His pitiful, wordless groans were the only protest he could offer against the brutality of dawn. Until Lucian persisted even faster, shaking him harder, jostling him as if his very life depended on it. —Leave me be, damn it —little Valerian said, his voice heavy with an irritation ill-suited to a child his age.

But what he felt next was a sharp cuff to the head, the dry impact echoing in his skull— Lucian, leave me alone or I will hit you again. Lowering the blanket from his head, all he saw was the stout woman standing before him. Though her features possessed a harmony that would make any man sing of beauty, the boys did not do that; they trembled. The woman was tall, broad-backed, with hands that appeared capable of splitting timber with a single gesture.

Her brown robe, adorned with soft green trim, supple and immaculate, was the complete opposite of her soul, which seemed carved from stone and bitterness. —Holy mother of compassion, grant me strength to correct these boys —Alishe said, and the dusaut rod sliced through the air with a high-pitched whistle that curdled the blood— Their flow, children, must be channeled no matter what. Especially yours, child who loves chaos, one so warped that even animals cannot tolerate it.

She then seized the boy's hand and yanked him from the bed with a single, powerful pull. Valerian felt his arm stretch at a complaining joint, and the world spun around him before his feet touched the cold floor. She forced everyone to line up swiftly; ten boys stood before her in a row, a line of pale faces and frightened eyes that reflected terror like a shattered mirror.

Then she walked slowly before them, her footsteps echoing in the silence of the chamber, the rustle of her robe against the wooden floor the only sound. —Just as the flow of a river grows murky if a landslide occurs at its source —she quoted from memory, her voice adopting the cadence of one reciting holy scripture— so shall the child grow murky if one interferes in his upbringing. All must be corrected by one alone; only in that manner can they be cleansed. The boys glared at the jester with hatred.

Their eyes, as always, flashed with the red of anger whenever they looked upon him. But Lucian did not; he merely let out a deep sigh and looked at him with pity, a pity so profoundly it seemed to come from a place beyond compassion, a place where love and sorrow fused into a single emotion. —I see you have yet to learn to see the obvious, Lucian —Alishe said, pointing the rod at him— You shall go first once more.

The little boy closed his eyes and stepped forward slowly, his bare feet dragging across the dirt floor. But Valerian grasped his hand tightly, his small but firm fingers closing around the wrist of his friend and only brother. At this, the woman frowned and raised the rod once more. With all the force in her arm, she brought it down squarely onto the children's hands, the impact resounding with a dry crack that seemed to freeze time. He did not open his grip.

His eyes were bloodshot and his hand throbbed hot with pain a searing heat spreading from his knuckles to his elbow, yet he did not let go of his brother. Alishe raised the rod once more, but as she brought it down this time, the boy held it fast. His fingers, small yet terrifyingly strong, had clamped around the wood, stopping the blow mid-air. Something in the charity sister's eyes changed. The certainty of her authority cracked, replaced by a spark of surprise that soon twisted into fear.

The boy's eyes were no longer those of a fearful child, but those of a thirsty monster a creature that had been sleeping and was now stretching with ancient hunger. Valerian, pulling with the full weight of his body, yanked it from her hands and brandished it straight at the woman's face. The tip snapped right into her eye the sound wet and dry all at once as wood struck soft flesh causing hot, iron-scented blood to gush forth, staining her immaculate robe.

—You will never touch Lucian again —his voice was that of a monster, a creature of pacts, of something that slept and had awakened, and now rose in all its fury— Not him. If I am to be a damned creature, I will be the worst of them all. The boys who had been whispering until then fell instantly silent, turning their heads in unison toward him. The air in the chamber grew densely, heavy with the smell of blood and fear. He took the rod and this time swung it against the woman's other eye.

The whistle came first, the cutting of the air before the impact. Alishe's uncontrolled wailing came second, an outcry that tore through the morning quiet. She clutched both eyes with her hands, squirming in the agonizing pain that burned her face like acid.

—Only a Zarvok would take the sight from someone who speaks the name of the goddess —the boy said with resignation, the rage in his body causing every muscle to quiver, a vibration coursing through his skeleton like an electric current— We shall see if Aelthra's compassion will allow you to cleanse the murkiness of your sight's flow ever again. But he managed to say no more.

All the small hands, just like his, surged to restrain him with force a tide of child bodies immobilizing him with the desperation of those who fear being dragged into chaos. The boy fought; the young jester screamed in desperation as he saw Lucian shaking his head while staring at Alishe's body, and with that alone, Valerian finally yielded to the strength of the children. What followed were the other charity sisters arriving on a run, evident by the sweat on their brows.

Their brown robes, stained with flour and dirt, moved with the haste of those summoned by an alarm. They halted at the door's threshold, the scene before them speaking far more than anything in the children's eyes: the blood on the floor, the red-stained rod in Valerian's hand, Alishe's body writhing in pain.

—It was him —Alishe said, her voice a thin thread of sound as she pointed toward where she heard the voices, her blood-stained fingers pointing blindly— He said he would blind me because he was a Zarvok and that not even the goddess could stop him. Tears of blood ran down her face carmine furrows vanishing into the collar of her robe, while the children held Valerian so tightly, he could not move at all.

Two of the three sisters rushed straight to Alishe, wiping her eyes with white linen handkerchiefs that quickly turned red. The third ran off hastily, and when she returned, she brought a formidable man with her. His dark brown robe, almost black, contrasted with the sunlight streaming through the doorway. He was the guardian in charge of "The House of Foundlings."

Brushing the children aside with rough slaps, the man grabbed him abrasively, his large, calloused hands closing around the jester's small, bruised body. Little Valerian, however, did not fight at all. But he lost consciousness the moment the man lifted him the last thing he felt was the heavy blow to his neck, the world fading into a blur of light and shadow.

Three weeks later, from the wooden grates separating the basement from the main floor, on that night of a full moon, a blonde, blue-eyed boy approached with methodical silence. Valerian turned upon seeing a shadow move through the moonlight a silver glint sliding across the dirt floor. However, what was heard next was a soft whisper, barely a breath cutting through the quiet.

—I brought you everything I could, brother —Lucian said as he lowered a cloth filled with barley bread to Valerian's bound hands, the smell of fresh bread mingling with the stench of dampness and confinement— I am sorry it isn't more, but three days ago I heard the wet nurse in charge say they are going to take you away. The little jester, who had been beaten over the three weeks by the immense guardian Lethon, had a body covered in contusions.

The vast purplish bruises hurt even to speak violet blotches covering his torso and arms like a map of torment yet, he spoke nonetheless. —What did you hear? Will they finally release me? —Valerian inquired, looking into his eyes with a peculiar glint, a spark of hope igniting amidst the darkness— Tell me now, please, Lucian. The small blonde boy let out an audible sigh, his chest rising and falling with the weight of the news.

But he caught the sound of snapping twigs in the distance and the murmurs of several people the crunch of footsteps on dry leaves drawing near. —It must be quick, brother —Lucian said, his words an urgent whisper— Someone is coming. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. He extended his hands until they touched Valerian's brown hair, his small fingers passing through the tangled, dirty locks.

—Nurse Sarah says they will send you to a distant branch of the church —he continued, his voice breaking slightly— We won't be able to be together again. His fingers moved through his hair, slow and with restrained affection, almost an inevitable gesture of farewell, as though trying to engrave the texture of that moment into his memory.

—As mother used to say, my dear elder brother —Lucian said while hot tears fell upon his brother's face, gleaming trails lost in the shadow— "May the goddess be compassionate with you, may each of your step's lead to the right flow, and may every one of your decisions be a blessing to those you love." The footsteps drew closer with momentum, the rustle of grass and the whisper of trailing robes dragging across the dirt.

The voices were now distinguishable; they were women, women Lucian recognized and without another word, he blew a kiss to his brother before running as fast as he could into the bushes, his blonde figure merging with the darkness. The small blonde boy had expected many things, but what he did not expect at all was for the women to approach the grate. They were carrying Alishe; Marta and Lucy held her by the arms so the woman would not stumble, their firm hands guiding the blind woman.

They helped her crouch down, and once prepared, Lucy spoke with a voice laden with hatred. —Now you can do it, Alishe —she said, her words a poison dripping into the night— Do not worry, you know the law permits us. Khelan preached it in the streets of Mycograd: "Those who are not in the flow must be suppressed; the great lady shall redirect them." As soon as the woman finished quoting, all three, in unison, spat forcefully. But Alishe missed, spitting onto her own robe in her blindness.

The boy, with hatred in his eyes, glared at them from within. Valerian, soaked in saliva, projected his voice against them. —Remember what I said, Alishe —he mentioned while his hands trembled with rage, every word a whip— There is no way to cleanse the murkiness of your sight. Ask your goddess for it. He laughed.

The laughter grew in the basement and rose through the grates, a sound more animal than human, while the three charity sisters shuddered with fear, their bodies shrinking back as if the echo of that laughter could wound them. —Heretic —the three said in unison, the word a spit trying to extinguish the flame of his defiance— You are a truly malevolent heretic. They departed quickly into the shadows of the night where the moon could not reach, their dark brown robes swallowed by the blackness.

However, the boy raised his voice with power, his words an echo pursuing the women in their flight. —Among shadows walk those who do not attain compassion —Valerian quoted the sacred book of the Eternal Flow— for the lady has always been the light. The passage remained suspended in the night air, a defiance against the darkness surrounding him.

And the little jester, his body covered in bruises and his soul laden with a newly born hatred, knew that on that night, beneath the light of the moon, something inside him had broken forever. The following morning, before the first rays of the sun peeked through the cracks of his basement prison, what woke him directly was a loud noise: the creaking of the door's timber as it was forced open. This was followed by the deep voices of two men.

One was familiar: his captor and personal torturer, Lethon, with his dark, near-black brown robe absorbing the scant light filtering from above. Beside him stood a man in a moss-green robe, the color of a deep forest trimmed with earth-colored borders that ended in exquisite flowers of a thousand different hues.

They were a stark contrast to one another: the imposing guardian was a mountain, a mass of flesh and bone filling the threshold, while the man beside him was more like a delicate feather, a slender figure that seemed to float rather than walk upon the dirt floor. The air of the basement, which had always smelled of dampness, urine, and desperation, was suddenly suffused with a sweet, floral scent, as if the man in the green robe carried an entire garden with him.

The flowers embroidered on his trim seemed to come alive beneath the dim light, their vibrant colors contrasting with the gloom of his imprisonment. —Wretched monster, wake up already! —Lethon shouted, kicking the boy, the impact echoing against his ribs— Holy Cardinal Aníbal of Aelthria is here. The absolute least you owe his holiness is respect. The man seized him by his burlap clothes, hauling him up and letting him drop heavily onto his knees upon the dirt floor.

The impact was a dull thud that coursed up his spine, a pain spreading from his kneecaps to the base of his skull. Valerian's eyes welled with moisture, yet no whine escaped him, nor did tears fall from his eyes. He held them back with the strength of one who has learned that displayed pain is a weakness others exploit. Aníbal noticed and smiled, a deep smile that made every hair on the boy's body stand on end without even fully looking at it.

It was a smile that failed to reach his eyes, remaining suspended on his lips like a mask of mercy that failed to conceal what lay beneath. The cardinal, in his moss-colored robe, approached him slowly. Once in front of him, he paused, admiring the ferocity in the boy's eyes despite the beatings he had received. His rose-colored eyes, a shade reminiscent of dawn over a sea of blood, scrutinized Valerian's face with an intensity that was almost physical, a tangible weight pressing against his skin.

Then he raised a hand, and Lucy came running in carrying a cage containing a nirval. Its white plumage stood out in the dark environment like a patch of snow in a swamp, a flash of purity contrasting with the rot of the basement. Aníbal took it firmly, his long, pale fingers closing around the cage of the small, fragile bird, and brought it closer and closer to the boy. Every feather on the nirval bristled. A tremor began to course through its body, a shudder that intensified with every inch it neared Valerian.

Until it was so close that the shaking caused it to drop to the floor of the cage, letting out desperate chirps a sharp, pitiful sound that blended with the stench of fear now permeating the air. The cardinal smiled broadly once more, a smile revealing white, flawless teeth and handed the bird back to Lucy, who practically ran out, the sound of her footsteps fading up the stairs. —I see you are indeed cursed, blood-loving boy —the man spoke at last.

He brought his hand to the boy's face, squeezing his cheeks with a force that made his bones ache, inspecting him like one examining a piece of meat in the market— An interesting monster, as they call you. Though I was told you called yourself a Zarvok instead. He held the boy's face firmly, turning it from side to side until their eyes locked. Aníbal laughed a soft, deeply authentic chuckle that echoed in the basement like the ringing of a glass bell.

—Life is ironic —he said, his voice a whisper laden with ancient knowledge— So close to the truth, yet so far from it at the same time. He stood up with the fluid, elegant motion of a dancer. Only then did he place a hand upon the boy's head and pronounce a single word: —Aelthra. From one of his sleeves, a radiance like sunlight burst forth. A warm, fluid, pure light so blinding that everyone except the boy shut their eyes.

The glare filled the basement, dispelling the shadows, revealing the cracks in the walls, the scraps of rotten food, the patches of dried blood on the ground. It was a light that seemed to possess weight, pressing against Valerian's skin like a searing caress.

—I grant you, before taking you away, wretched and unhappy little thing —Aníbal said, his voice now an echo that seemed to originate from everywhere at once— the grace of the lady to follow us to where only the light of she who flows with justice is capable of guiding. The boy could not close his mouth at all. The light had paralyzed him, his body rigid as a pillar of salt.

Yet upon hearing those words, his gaze turned defiant, filled with hatred, and within his mind was a single image: Lucian being beaten, his friend, his blood brother from another mother, lying on the ground with a bloody face. —I am not going without my brother —he spat directly onto the cardinal's robe, saliva mixing with dust— and I won't fall for your tricks. Lethon's fist to his ribs knocked the breath out of him.

As he lay on the floor, pain burning in his chest, he muttered through gritted teeth: —You can kill me if you want, but I won't leave him behind here alone. It was then that the man who seemed to carry infinite mercy on his face turned back toward the boy breathing heavily from the floor. He looked down at him, and in those rose-colored eyes of the cardinal, Valerian did not see the compassion of a second ago. He saw something far more ancient, far hungrier.

Instinct moved the boy, causing him to crawl toward a corner, trembling as if all the heat of the summer morning were the harshest winter. But he was not the only one. The giant Lethon, beside him, was on his knees with his back against a wall, trembling as well, his massive hands clutching the dirt as if seeking an anchor in reality. —In lucht im-tiagaim-ni in n-aidche, ad-oram-ni í; In lucht im-tiagaim-ni in solus, caram-ni ó; In lucht ro-fessam-ni in fírinni, marbam-ni í.

—Aníbal's voice turned melodic, elevated, almost divine in its evocative recitation in Aelthëa. The words echoed through the basement, multiplying into reverberations that seemed to arise from the walls themselves— There is something you must learn, little apprentice ignorant of the nature of the world. It is that in the hearts of those who are like us, there is no room for love.

He raised his hands to the air once more, and his face filled again with the pity possessed only by those who have been elevated to sainthood, a perfect mask concealing the void Valerian had glimpsed in his eyes. —I am taking the boy, Lethon —he said, and a deep sigh escaped his lips as he climbed the stairs toward the door, his moss-green robe brushing the wooden steps— If he resists, drug him and I shall take him. May the lady have mercy on a soul as corrupt as this creature's.

Lethon rose carefully, his legs still shaking, cold sweat beading on his forehead. He brought his hand to his chest, drawing the symbol of infinity over his heart, the automatic gesture of one seeking protection in faith. —As your holiness wishes —he said, his voice a barely audible murmur— May the compassionate lady hold the boy in her bosom. Then he turned toward Valerian, who was still staring at him with rage, his eyes burning with a fire that beatings had failed to extinguish.

—The drugs or the blows, boy —Lethon said, his voice having recovered some of its usual harshness— You decide the proper method. After forcing the boy to drink from the canteen without striking him, sleep claimed him completely. It was a gentle descent, like falling into deep, warm waters, the darkness wrapping him in an embrace that asked no permission.

The giant guardian Lethon hoisted him over his shoulder, carrying him through the House of Foundlings, his small, bruised body hanging limp over the man's shoulder. The cardinal's pearlescent white carriage awaited outside. Its panels gleamed with a luster reflecting the light of the rising sun, and the titanopods moved their six legs, already restless, their compound eyes catching the light in multicolored flashes.

But the coachman calmed them, stroking their carapace with rhythmic motions, whispering soothing words. Lethon tossed him onto the seats facing the cardinal, the boy's body landing on the silk with a dull thud. But before closing the door, the giant turned, looking down at the ground. —Your holiness —he said, his voice now a whisper heavy with genuine concern— I understand that the lady is merciful, but taking this thing so close to you...

He gestured toward the boy with his chin; a movement conveying all the contempt and fear he felt. —He will stain your flow. Aníbal smiled, air escaping his nose for a second. It was a soft sound, almost a suppressed chuckle floating in the air like a feather. —Aelthra has a better plan for him —he said, his voice now that of a shepherd speaking of a stray lanquirio. He touched Lethon's shoulder with compassion, a gesture that seemed to bless and condemn at the same time— Do not worry.

The lady provides for us and sees all. The boy shall be taken to pay for what he has done, but also to be redirected. May the divine lady fill your soul with blessings, and by the way... look after his brother. Lethon stood straight, his face a mixture of relief and confusion. Aníbal closed the door carefully, the sound of the metal latch snapping into its frame like a seal of destiny. Then he sat beside the boy, stroking his brown hair with a tenderness more disturbing than any blow.

His long, pale fingers slid through the tangled locks, and with his right hand he knocked against the wooden wall behind his seat. The carriage set off immediately. The jingling of the harnesses and the rhythmic clatter of the titanopods' legs against the dirt road filled the interior, a lullaby of iron and chitin marking the start of a new journey into the unknown.

—Welcome to the game, little assassin —Aníbal whispered, his voice an intimate murmur, laden with a promise that was neither good nor bad, merely inevitable. He took alcohol from his canteen, the dark liquid shimmering in the light filtering through the curtains and traced the symbol of infinity on the boy's forehead with the tip of his finger dipped in the liquor. —The Rotten Sap shall have many uses for another Resonant like you.

The words faded into the air, mingling with the aroma of alcohol and incense that suffused the carriage interior. Valerian, plunged into drug-induced sleep, could not hear them. Yet his body, his soul, his essence absorbed them as parched soil drinks in the first rain. And somewhere deep within his being, a seed of hatred and rebellion began to sprout, nourished by the promise of a cardinal who called it a "game" and by the memory of a brother he had left behind.