Chương 42: Chapter 41: Maestre Corren

Selena, with a step intended to be firmer than she actually felt, turned around and returned to the chamber where Elian was waiting. Upon her arrival, Elian, without a single word, made a gesture with his hand and guided her toward a natural stone passage that opened behind the rock formation where he had previously been sitting. The passage was narrow, the walls of living rock closing in on both sides. The air grew denser, heavier with humidity and that scent of deep earth that only caverns possess.

The torches were spaced apart but never disappeared entirely, as if someone had calculated with millimetric precision the exact distance required so that light would never abandon the traveler. They emerged into a chamber smaller than the last, but infinitely more revealing. Selena crossed the threshold and stopped, her eyes widening at the sight before her. It was a natural room, illuminated by tallow lamps strategically placed on stone ledges.

The yellowish, flickering light danced upon the irregular walls, creating an atmosphere of seclusion, of study, of accumulated knowledge. And against those walls stood bookshelves. The first she had seen in this world. Made of dark wood, simple yet solid, they held book spines of every imaginable color: brown leather, green, yellowish parchment, some with golden lettering that shimmered faintly under the lamplight. Selena felt her heart race. Books. Knowledge. Written words.

In a world where reading was a privilege of the few, this was an incalculable treasure. At the far end, a desk made of coralwood stood imposingly. The reddish wood, with its characteristic grain, had been polished to a shine, and atop it sat piles of more books, notebooks, and loose parchments. And seated amidst it all, like a king on a throne of paper and ink, was a man. He was thin, a thinness that bordered on the ascetic.

He appeared to be about thirty-five, though something in his eyes suggested a deeper, more lived-in age. His complexion was snowy white, the result of a life dedicated to study far from the sun. He had dark eyes, almost black, framed by deep dark circles that betrayed sleepless nights and hours of reading by the wavering light of lamps. His hair, dark and quite short, framed a face of angular features, marked by leanness and intensity.

He dressed in simplicity that contrasted with the richness of his library: brown trousers, worn from use; leather shoes that had seen better days; and a shirt of coarse fabric in an earthy tone. There was no adornment in him, no symbol of power, nothing that betrayed his position except for the books that surrounded him. Without a word, Elian vanished. He turned around and began the slow walk back, his gray robe fading into the gloom of the passage until not a trace of him remained.

Selena stood alone before the man at the desk. She took a deep breath. The air filled her lungs with the scent of old paper and dried ink. It was a smell she knew, one she loved, one that connected her to that other life that had been hers and now only existed in dreams. Urgency pressed against her chest; questions crowded her throat like an overflowing river. She could not contain herself. —I am Selena— she said, her voice ringing clear in the silence of the chamber.

—Or the green-eyed girl they say would come for answers. She crossed her arms —a gesture of both defense and defiance— and spoke again, without preamble or courtesy: —Tell me what those answers are. The man looked up slowly. His dark eyes settled on her with a calm that contrasted with Selena's urgency. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, as if every word had to travel from deep within before being uttered. —I am Maestre Corren. Or the Scribe, for those who prefer the function over the name.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work! He blinked slowly, a measured gesture that seemed to weigh every passing second. —I see you do not fear the Path of the Inner Voice. But I believe the woman accompanying you does— He paused, his dark eyes scrutinizing Selena's face. —I understand why. After all, the Church of the Eternal Sap has hated us since Hakim Marzuq, the former archbishop of their church, saw the truth of pure thought.

He brought a pale hand to his chin in a reflective gesture. —Five hundred and seventy years have passed since he wrote The Treatise of the Speaking Silence. Seventy since the appearance of the Path of the Voice. Society, manipulated by false deities, despises us— His voice grew heavy with a contained bitterness, centuries of persecution summarized in a few words. —We are condemned to ostracism.

He moved his hand away from his face and, with a broad gesture, invited Selena to sit in a simple wooden chair in front of the desk. —Gods do not exist— he said, and the declaration fell into the silence like a stone into a pond. —Divinity resides in human consciousness and in how we advance as a community. A hollow god is merely a drug for the soul: empty and blinding. He took a sip from a glass of water beside him, moistening his lips before continuing. —The greatest sin is to obey without thinking.

Our goal is clarity and critical self-awareness. It does not make us heretics, as they proclaim. It makes us people with open minds. The ideas echoed in Selena's head and chest with the force of an earthquake. It was exactly what she thought. It was exactly what her heart had been seeking since she woke up in this foreign body, since she saw the injustices of this world, since she understood that power structures were sustained by fear and blind obedience.

It was that, at the end of the day: a light in the profound darkness of a stratified, medieval society. A sharp pain shot between her eyes, powerful, agonizing, like an iron nail piercing her skull. But her need to respond was even stronger. The words burst from her lips before she could think of them, before she could filter them: —Without going out the door, one knows the whole world. Without looking out the window, one sees the way to heaven. Corren smiled immediately.

The impulse was almost electrifying: his eyes lit up, widening with incredulity, and an expression of genuine wonder crossed his gaunt face. Only then did he speak, and his voice, previously grave and controlled, trembled slightly. —Yes— The word was a whisper, barely audible. —It was you in my dream. He sighed. It was a deep sigh of relief, as if he had been waiting for this moment for years, for decades, never knowing if it would ever arrive.

—The green-eyed girl who would quote wisdom older than antiquity itself. His smile broadened, illuminating his features with a warmth that seemed out of place on such a haggard face. He continued, his deep voice taking on a tone of solemn commitment: —You seek answers, and I shall give them to you, so long as they are within my power. His subsequent silence was a bridge extended, an invitation to cross, to ask, to dive into the ocean of knowledge before her. Selena did not hold back for a second.

The questions, accumulated through days of uncertainty, sleepless nights, fragmented dreams, and half-revelations, poured out all at once like a rushing torrent: —What do you know about me? — The first question, the most urgent, the one burning her lips. —Does magic exist in this world? If you cannot answer, who can? Can I look for more detailed answers in your library? When she finished, she was breathless.

Her chest rose and fell with contained anxiety, with the urgency of someone who has been holding their breath for too long and can finally exhale. Corren's expression did not change. He remained relaxed, immutable, as if Selena's questions were exactly those, he expected those he had been waiting for years. His voice, when he spoke, reflected that same calm: —You are Selena. I know no more of you than the green eyes I saw in my dream and the quote I heard from your lips moments ago.

He paused deliberately, charging the next statement with the weight of a truth that had to be spoken clearly: —Magic only exists in storybooks or ancient folklore. There are no sorcerers, no enchantments, no supernatural powers beyond the capacity of the human mind to understand and transform reality. He touched his chin thoughtfully, his long, pale fingers stroking his nascent beard. —Perhaps I cannot answer everything you desire, girl. But Hakim Marzuq V, the master's successor, can.

He is still alive, thanks to having tamed both body and thought. His one hundred and five years weigh no more on him than the seventy years of our doctrine. He took another sip of water, moistening his lips before continuing. —The books— he said, gesturing broadly to the shelves surrounding them, —are shared knowledge for all those who seek to learn to question themselves internally. Take them and read them. His gaze locked onto Selena's with a new intensity. —Though only within this cave.

Nothing can leave this place that might be used against us. The Church has eyes everywhere, and its pyres are always hungry. Selena nodded, understanding. Knowledge was a weapon, and like any weapon, it had to be guarded, protected, and used with caution. But for the first time since she woke up in this foreign body, she had access to more than just fragments: she had a place to search, to read, and to understand.