Chương 220: Chapter 77: A Deeper Horror

She could no longer keep crying, nor cursing the fate she had. Instead, the fury condensed into a point of cold determination. With precise, almost surgical movements, Selena took the dagger she had used before. Without hesitation, she pricked the pad of the index finger of her left hand. A drop of blood, red and bright in the lantern light, welled up like a small scarlet pearl. She moved closer to the rough desk of the room; its unpolished wooden surface marked in small parts by scratches.

The blood welling from the pad of her finger was the ink; her hand traced symbols, both intertwined geometric shapes and disconnected irregular forms. It was contradiction itself, the only way the written touch existed; it was its purest and most visceral form: life as ink and will as pen.

As her finger traced the symbols on the wood erratically, the blood did not dry or stick; it simply disappeared upon contact, absorbed unnaturally, as if the wood were a hungry parchment devouring the meaning and power of the vital fluid. No visible trace remained, no stain, no gleam. Only the memory of the gesture and the intent impregnating the wood. The process ended abruptly, completing the resonant's intent. The symbol, though invisible and perfect, was in the center of the desk.

Selena stopped bleeding after a few seconds due to natural coagulation. Her hands were steady, and with them, she took out the small glass vial where she had kept Scargoth's drop of blood, obtained during the interrogation in the cave. The baron's blood, dark and thick, moved slowly inside. Without ceremony, she unstoppered the vial and let fall a single drop, right into the center of the invisible circle her blood had drawn. The drop hit the wood with a soft plof.

Then, Selena placed both palms on the surface of the desk. She closed her eyes and let flow, through the contact, the entire torrent of emotions that had consumed her: the rage at having been used, the disgust for Scargoth's crimes, the desolation over the truth of her origin, and the cold, imperturbable decision that justice, as she understood it at that moment, be served. It was the imposition of a logical, almost natural consequence, like a poison that finally takes effect.

The drop of Scargoth's blood, in the center of the circle, reacted instantly. The vital liquid began to boil; it was a dense, reddish, and evil vapor rising, hissing with a sharp, strident shriek that sounded like the smothered scream of a soul in agony. The vapor did not disperse; it remained concentrated, spinning on itself for a few seconds before dissipating completely, leaving only a faint metallic and sweetish smell, like iron and rotten honey, which was soon absorbed by the stale air of the room.

Fjora, who had witnessed everything from her post at the door, did not move, but her face, normally carved in Nordic impassivity, reflected for the first time a different horror. It was not the instinctive fear of magic that could tear a body apart, nor the martial respect for a clean death by the sword.

What the Khelganor warrior felt was a deeper, more visceral horror: the fear of what had happened, of the cold and methodical application of a power she did not fully understand, but which she sensed played with the most intimate essences of life and death. She had seen Selena cry, she had felt her turmoil, and now she saw her act with a ruthless precision that left no room for regret. It was the fear of the transformation happening before her eyes, in the woman she had sworn to protect.

—It is done —Selena said, her voice was flat, without echo, as if the words had been constructed in an empty place inside her. From the moment she had taken Scargoth's blood in the cave, in the depths of her mind, she already knew what she would do if the answers were those she feared. The man was a cancer, a source of suffering and corruption hiding behind a facade of fallen nobility. The world would not mourn him. She simply… accelerated the purging process.

A silent judgment, executed from a distance, with blood as witness and the touch as executioner. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. No more was said about the matter, despite Fjora's glances, despite the strange atmosphere surrounding them, despite the discomfort between two women who had been close. That same afternoon, after burning the Crimson Duchess's letter to ashes that she scattered to the wind, Selena and Fjora departed.

They left the village in an ordinary, un-marked wagon, pulled now only by two titanopods with a weary but steady gait. It was an anonymous vehicle for an anonymous journey, moving away from Scargoth's fields and from the truth that lay buried there, both in the letter and in the earth. The return journey was a litany of monotonous days and silent nights. Selena, who used to converse with Fjora about tactics, languages, or the landscapes they crossed, now kept an almost absolute silence.

It was the silence of a volcano before eruption, of a mind simmering over a slow fire, demanding logical answers to a reality that refused to be logical. The mental effort was so intense that at times she forgot to eat; she spent hours sitting in the wagon, staring at the road without seeing it, reconstructing every piece of the puzzle of her existence, from the death of the original Isabella to the fanatical letter, from the red wood ring to her own green fire.

It was the ancient remnant of the man from Earth, a scientist at heart, confronted with a bloody theology and a magic that functioned with rules defying his rational understanding. She skipped meals, neglected sleep, plunged in an introspection so deep that at times Fjora had to touch her shoulder gently to pull her out of the trance. It was upon arriving at a larger town called Falcutt, settled at a crossroads already baptized by commerce and constant transit, that the rumors caught up with them.

In the inn, under the pungent smoke of tobacco and the thick aroma of craft beer, the conversation revolved around news that had fired the imagination of merchants and caravan drivers. —They say that the despicable Baron Bernard was finally brought to justice —laughed the man between long gulps of beer— we all knew he made dirty drug deals, and the grand duke Egas Roger of Thyll always looked the other way. A second man of exquisite cloth garments lowered his voice a bit more, his tone more solemn.

—I am certain, Ralph, that it is a vengeance from our lord Solendri —he traced a complete circle over his heart and his companion followed him— the wrath of the son of the sun consumed him from within. A third joined their tables; he was dressed very distinctively with a long robe and a turban on his head, yet he had the snow-white complexion of Khelganor.

—May the peace of the sun be with you —the man bowed with humility— I am Muley ibn Farax, wool merchant from Ghanam, I come from the distant city of Nishapur in Sandstrohm. It was impossible for me not to hear what you mentioned about our lord Solendri. The men opened their eyes but kept their distance. Until Muley also traced on his chest the circle of the Order of the Lumen. —Let us make a deal: two rounds of beer for the information —Muley pressed with the cunning of a veteran merchant.

—It's a deal —both men said at once, but only one continued. —I am Stephen, son of Simon, I trade salt and various vegetables… —he pointed with his large fingers toward the inn window, outside his wagon loaded with grains and bórulos— I heard at the crossroads from an old wheat seller that everything happened out of nowhere. Ralph nodded at the words of his trade friend, but Stephen hastened to point out more.

—He heard the rumor directly from Baron Bernard's guards; he had given them instructions to find a kidnapper who had apparently succeeded —the three men looked at each other and nodded, none ignorant of Bernard Scargoth's reputation— only then did it happen, it was as if a pot placed directly on the fire said, "a red vapor came out of his mouth and eyes before his body fell." It can mean nothing other than he was cooked in his own corruption.

Our lord of light touched him directly with his fiery finger to punish him; it is the wrath of Solendri that gave divine justice to that man. The man took a long gulp from his mug of beer, but it was Ralph this time who took over for him. —Such a grotesque and instructive death attracted more eyes, and being a noble, the scrutiny of the guard is intensive from this point to the north.

—he ran a hand through his long hair tied in a bun— the local guard denied everything, but the real inspection was from the grand duke's guard. Following protocol, they searched the estate; what they found inside the granaries, the basements were not just wheat, fruit, or berries, nor mollucapra meat. What they saw was the evidence of a dark trade: drugs, records of kidnappings, chains for illegal slaves.

—They could not turn a blinder eye, for the summoner accompanied them —Stephen added now with growing justice in his eyes— everything came to light at last. For us, the faithful of the Order of the Lumen, it is clear that our lord brought justice to that corrupt merchant; a breaker of oaths was a stain on the solar paths that should be tolerated no longer. —It is divine justice —Muley said between sips of beer— I sometimes suppose it arrives wrapped in vapor and screams of horror from those who are unfaithful.