Chương 197: Chapter 56: The Authority of Blood

That day, she returned with the King to the surface, the monarch's words alongside those of the book resounding in her mind like a persistent echo. Within the lavish yet impersonal quarters assigned for her stay at the palace, Selena immersed herself in a forced stillness. She had to wait, patiently, until Thaerón found the appropriate moment for the rank advancement ceremony a ritual that would officially elevate her to Arcane Resonant, Initiate.

The surprise, uncomfortable and revealing, emerged over the following days: she could not access the Book of the Joined Flesh on her own. Only when the King had time and the monarch's time was a resource as scarce as power itself, and only once they were together could she descend once more into the sealed chamber. She was bound, yet again, to the rhythms and priorities of the throne.

With the free time enforced by the wait, Selena resumed the discipline Remo had ingrained in her through fire and sweat: deep meditation. Not mere quietude, but that state of empty alertness where the senses sharpen and the mind liberates itself from its own noise. Fjora, with her martial background, became an active part of the training once more, now tasked with acting as a disruptor of peace.

Master Khelganor understood the essence of the exercise, and though her own style diverged from meditation, she aided her disciple. Thus, while Selena sat on the floor with closed eyes in search of inner peace, Fjora would poke her with the tip of a blunted dagger, toss breadcrumbs at her to shatter her focus, or simply pace around her in heavy armor, ensuring every piece of metal produced a deliberate clatter. It was annoying, exasperating, and, as Selena knew all too well, completely effective.

Remo would have been approved. One day, after hours of this subtle torture, her concentration pushed to its absolute limit by Fjora's constant sabotage, Selena managed to sink into a state deeper than usual. The palatial room, the distant hum of the court, even the watchful presence of her companions faded away. Only the rhythm of her breath and the dark pulse of her own blood remained. Then, a word surfaced. It was neither a thought nor a conscious memory.

It was a pure vocal form that emerged from some deep fold of her memory or perhaps from something beyond memory and rested upon her tongue. She uttered it in a low voice, a whisper laden with a strange, alien quality. The word was"Мгла". It was addressed to no one. It simply existed within the still air of the room. Beside it, projected with absolute clarity onto the screen of her closed mind, appeared the image of the black stone ring from Ashkharum the priest's artifact.

The word belonged to medieval Russian, an archaic language, yet preserved in the modern tongue, meaning deep mist: a fog so dense and palpable that it obscured not only sight, but certainty itself. It was pronounced Mgla, with a guttural, marked stress on the final "la" a sound that seemed to pull along dampness and gloom. When she opened her eyes, the world returned to her in a soft blur. Fjora and Samira were watching her.

The Nordic woman, as ever, observed with an impassive expression, evaluating without revealing a thing. Yet Samira's face was a map of pure curiosity, her dark eyes gleaming with the spark of knowledge confronted by the unknown. —My lady —Samira said, with the reverent caution she never fully abandoned— what does that word mean? I have never heard it. It was revealing.

Samira, the scholar educated in one of the vastest libraries in the world, the wanderer of stacks who spoke of forgotten manuscripts as others spoke of neighbors, did not recognize it. To Selena, that ignorance felt like a quiet personal tremor. It was obvious when she thought about it: the word belonged to Earth, not to this world, and she knew it. —It means deep mist —Selena replied.

She made a studied gesture of indifference, a shrug she hoped appeared convincing— To be honest, I cannot recall where I heard or read it. My mind may have simply fabricated it during meditation. It is not uncommon for the mind to create patterns, sounds... ownerless words, under conditions of sensory deprivation. Samira nodded slowly. Her diplomatic expression accepted the explanation, yet her inquisitive, eager eyes betrayed that her intellectual curiosity was far from satiated.

Selena braced for the next question, the inevitable inquiry that would dig into its impossible origin. Yet it never came. The Sandstrohm native closed her mouth and lowered her gaze to her folded hands, falling into a sudden, respectful silence that was somehow more eloquent than any interrogation. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

It was then that Selena, feeling the weight of that charged silence and the invisible thread binding them, master and servant, countess and companion, and something subtler, almost akin to friendship, shattered the quiet herself. What left her mouth took all three of them by surprise. —I would like to grant you both your freedom. The phrase fell upon the room with the raw impact of an axe severing a taut rope.

Fjora and Samira's expressions transformed entirely, becoming the clearest mirror of the magnitude of her words. Fjora blinked once, her blue eyes locking onto Selena with a sudden, unshielded intensity. Samira let out a choked gasp, her hands flying instinctively to her mouth. —Though the King granted you both to me —Selena continued, her voice clear, firm, and devoid of hesitation. Both remained speechless to their astonishment, able only to listen as the countess finished speaking.

—That means your freedom now rests in my hands. And given my principles... I can no longer permit you to remain as slaves. If I did not do this sooner, it was out of fear of insulting the monarch, of appearing ungrateful or defiant at a time when my standing was fragile. But now... —She paused, weighing her words with everything she had earned and survived—... now I am valuable enough to him that whatever I do with you will be, at most, a minor grievance. A pardonable whim. Therefore... you shall be free.

She looked at them directly, reading the whirlwind of disbelief, hope, and apprehension stirring in their expressions. Before the silence grew overwhelming, she added in a practical tone meant to ground the monumental offer in reality: —I still require a sword instructor. I shall pay for your service, Fjora a fair salary. And I still require a scholar. —She turned to Samira, whose eyes were already brimming with tears— But not to follow me everywhere.

I need you to conduct research for me in the library of Al'Miraj, the largest save for the royal library. A discreet, deep investigation into an organization. Into... the Omnipresent Shadow. Samira could contain herself no longer. The tears that had been welling in her eyes overflowed, cascading silently down her cheeks. A deep, ragged sob shook her chest. —My lady... —she managed to articulate; her voice cracked with emotion— Not only do you restore my freedom... you pay me, so I do not fall into ruin afterward.

What is more... you give me a purpose in the place I love most in this world. Another sob interrupted her. She lowered her head, her shoulders trembling. —You do not know... you do not know how deeply grateful I am for this. I never... I never believed I would breathe as a free person again. Fjora, in contrast, uttered not a single word. She remained standing, upright as a spearhead, her face a mask of Nordic stone. Yet in her eyes, those cold blue eyes like a winter sea, something had broken.

The warrior had likely forgotten how to weep entirely; what she felt was something else a fierce, contained emotion vibrating in the deepest depths of her gaze. For the Khelganor, raised amid ice and honor, the concept of freedom had perhaps never been a longed-for liberation. It was the royal guard that had taken her, forged her, and taught her to fight with disciplined ferocity. Her identity was built upon service and loyalty. What was a sword without a hand to wield it?

Selena was not merely offering her freedom; she was offering her the choice to bind herself once more, but this time with her own hands. In that charged silence, in that gaze that spoke volumes without uttering a syllable, lay an answer more eloquent than any oath.

After meeting with the royal palace jurist, arranging the legal requirements, paying the liberation tax, and compensating the public officials who served as witnesses, Selena signed and sealed the legal document, the seal of House Solendra gleaming now like a promise kept, the promise of freedom for both women. The sound of the stamp pressing into the wax was a sharp, definitive click that seemed to sever an invisible thread. Yet Selena did not stop there.

She knew that freedom without direction could become another form of exile. Thus, with the same meticulousness she applied to planning a surgery, she drafted two service contracts under House Solendra. For Fjora, she drew up a formal appointment as her personal guardian, with salary, rights, and duties clearly outlined, yet she went further. She penned a letter to Valerius, her uncle and Grand Duke, employing for the first time in a long while all the pomp and solemnity her rank as countess afforded her.

The missive was filled with formal protocol, sealed with the family crest, and within it she requested directly, she did not plead, she requested with the authority of her blood, that the Nordic warrior be incorporated into the ducal guard of Solendra, under the explicit and direct command of Duchess and Countess Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra.

It was a request that bordered on a command, a political maneuver within her own house, and Selena wrote it in an impeccable, cold script, conscious of its every implication. Upon reading it, Fjora said nothing, but her face, ever carved of granite, softened into an expression of profound peace. The uncertainty regarding what to do with a life that had known only obedience evaporated. She was granted not just freedom, but a new standing in a defined, honorable place within a structure she understood.

A new north for her martial compass.