Chương 70: Chapter 3: The Pent-up Rage

A sound broke her brooding, cut short by the creak of the door's hinge. She didn't even manage to rise from the stool when they entered, but Selena saw nothing but the man in the black armor. It was that executioner, the hand that had killed Nyssa with a cold, precise stroke. Time stopped. Reason, questions, fear, trauma, everything blurred at the margins of her vision, replaced by something older, more primal.

An instinct that belonged neither to the merchant's daughter nor to the heiress duchess, but to the wounded creature that every human being carries inside when injustice becomes flesh. Her body moved before she could even think to speak. She ran toward him. A cry of rage escaped her throat, an animalistic, torn sound that she did not recognize as her own.

And with all the strength her slight body could afford her, with the weight of Nyssa's blood and Kaela's pain accumulated in every fiber of her being, she landed a punch on his nose, right above the helm. The impact was a dull, painful crack against her knuckles. Pain shot through her hand like an electric shock, a stinging echo reminding her of the fragility of her bones against the armor. But the soldier didn't even flinch. His head, however, tilted slightly, a minimal, almost indulgent movement. Completely calm.

Yet a thin thread of blood began to flow from his nostrils, staining his face beneath the helm, tracing a scarlet path over the weathered skin. Immediately, two maidens from behind the soldier took her by the arms, gripping her with a force that seemed rehearsed and implacable, until she was immobilized. Selena struggled, her breathing ragged from the rage she could not contain, a broken bellows panting fire and pain.

She limited herself to screaming at him, the words erupting like lava from a volcano that had been dormant for centuries. —Bastard! Her voice was now a whip of trembling ire, a shriek that tore through the silent opulence of the room. —Moralless murderer! Her deep green eyes filled with tears. Tears of helplessness for being unable to do more, for being unable to satiate what she felt in her chest, that beast hungry for justice, roaring without finding an exit.

Tears that were not of sadness, but of pure, uncontaminated fury; the fury of one who has seen the irreversible and cannot accept it. The soldier was unmoved by the scream or the scene. Instead, a gesture of almost-relief formed beneath the helm. With a serene, deliberate movement, as if he had all of eternity ahead of him, he removed it, revealing a face weathered by years of sun and battle, and a scar that crossed his cheek from his ear to the corner of his lips, a whitish trace of ancient violence.

He opened his mouth in a wide, genuine smile that contrasted brutally with the blood still flowing from his nose, tinting his teeth pink. —You are back, my lady! His voice was harsh, like the scraping of two stones, yet laden with a deep, almost reverential satisfaction. He wiped the scarlet thread with the lining of his black cloak, a gesture to which he was well accustomed. —It is the best news I could have after these three weeks of distress you gave us.

He continued, and in his tone, there was a veiled reproach, that of a faithful pet that has waited too long for its owner. —I thought you would never recover. He paused, and his gaze hardened with a contempt so evident it felt tangible, a layer of ice over his pupils. —Anyone would end up like that, living among the beasts in that hostel. The rage burning in Selena was a fire, a volcano consuming every trace of fear, every calculation, every prudence.

The blood, the pain, the betrayal that now stained her very existence, the weight of a name she hadn't asked for and a guilt she didn't deserve... it all converged into an act of pure disdain, as instinctive as the punch. With a guttural, deep sound that was born from the depths of her being, she spat directly into the soldier's face. The saliva, warm and heavy with all her loathing, mixed with the dried blood, sliding slowly down the weathered skin.

—There is only one beast, and it's the one standing in front of me! The words came out in fits and starts, shreds of voice forcibly torn from a throat that threatened to close, while tears of rage began to fall, hot and salty, down her cheeks, tracing paths parallel to those of her fury. —Nyssa did not deserve to die at your hands —her voice broke, but she did not stop. —She was... she was only... a sick woman.

She continued to struggle against the implacable strength of the maidens, her slender bones fighting against a hold that felt like steel. But she did not yield. She could not yield. To yield would have been to betray the woman who lay decapitated in the hostel's courtyard. The soldier remained still. The saliva dripped slowly down his skin; a glistening thread was lost in the tangle of his budding beard. But it wasn't fury that clouded his gaze, nor offense, nor wounded pride.

It was a deep confusion, almost bewilderment. He blinked once, twice, as if his lady's words were in a foreign language he couldn't decipher, as if reality had suddenly twisted and he couldn't find a way to straighten it. —You speak of her in such a disparaging way —he said at last, and his tone was one of genuine reproof, mixed with a hint of anger struggling to break through. —You are the Hereditary Duchess, my lady.

His expression turned hard, the scar whitening over his tanned skin, a grimace of offended loyalty that transformed his features into a mask of terrible devotion. —I will not let anyone, not even in a fit of rage, stain the name of the great House of Solendra. His voice was now low, contained roar, laden with fierce loyalty so absolute it was terrifying. It was the voice of one who would kill and die for a banner, of one who could not conceive of a world where lineage was not the measure of all things.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Selena, her chest thumping with indignation, her heart pounding against her ribs like a cornered animal, fixed her tearful green eyes on his. She did not look away. She did not look for the floor. She faced him with all the fury she had left. —There is no greater stain —she spat with hatred. It was as if she had hurled every word like a dagger forged in her pain, tempered in injustice.

—Then the blood of an innocent. The silence that followed the moment was intense, dense, and heavy as a marble slab. It expanded through the room, filling every corner, every empty space, until nothing remained but that mutism laden with all that was left unsaid. The soldier observed her for long seconds.

His expression was a silent conflict, a quiet battle waged behind his eyes: devotion pitted against the disturbance of what he was witnessing; loyalty to his lady clashing with the incomprehension of seeing her defend a stranger, a sick woman, a nobody. Then, making a resolution that hardened his features, he turned around without saying goodbye.

His black cloak spun like a raven's wing, and only his footsteps announced his departure in the corridors, a rhythmic echo that slowly faded, like the heartbeat of a receding soul. Selena, however, was still struggling with the maidens. It was an almost automatic movement now, a residue of the adrenaline still burning in her veins, a vain attempt to retain the control she had never truly possessed.

After a long while of ragged breathing, of gasps that gradually found their rhythm, the rage stopped pouring out of Selena. The volcano had emptied itself. But the tears persisted, a bitter flow cleansing her soul of helplessness, washing away the ashes of her fury. They were not tears of sadness, but of exhaustion, the body's surrender when the will can do no more. It was then, as the trembling in her limbs subsided and the spasms stilled like ripples in a pond after a storm, that the maidens loosened their grip.

The younger one, with a movement that seemed rehearsed over a lifetime, an existence dedicated to anticipating the needs of others, offered an immaculate white linen handkerchief. The fabric was soft, almost liquid, a brutal contrast to the harshness of everything Selena had known. Selena took it with fingers that still vibrated, still remembering the tension of the struggle.

The first thing she heard was the younger maiden's voice, trying to weave a bridge over the abyss that had just opened, a thread of normalcy amidst the chaos. —My lady do not worry about Darius —she said, and her tone was an attempt at calm. It was an attempt at forced normalcy, like someone talking about the weather after an earthquake. —He has always been blunt. It was only then that Selena raised her gaze and truly saw them both.

Until that moment, they had been functional shadows, anonymous extensions of the routine that kept her alive, hands that held her, voices that asked questions. Now, they emerged as individuals under the dim sunlight filtering through the glass, like figures stepping out of a fog. They were nearly the same age, though one radiated a fresher youth, a quality of a newly opened bud that the other had either lost or learned to hide. The one who had spoken was a redhead.

Her hair was a torrent of intense, rebellious copper, a waterfall of fire spilling over her shoulders, framing a face sown with a constellation of golden freckles. Her eyes, the color of honey fresh from the comb, shone with a mixture of genuine concern and ill-disguised curiosity. The other, slightly older, possessed the hieratic serenity of someone who has learned to keep silent, of someone who has discovered that words are a dangerous luxury.

Her hair was jet-black, smooth and pulled back into a severe bun that accentuated a complexion of porcelain paleness. Her eyes, a light and transparent brown, observed without revealing anything, like deep waters hiding everything at their bottom. Without delaying her examination for another second, without allowing herself the luxury of distraction, Selena spoke. Each word was a fragment of her broken soul, a shred of consciousness forcibly torn away and cast upon the carpet. —I hate him —she declared.

Her voice, still trembling from the crying, still raspy from the screaming, left no room for doubt; it admitted neither nuance nor negotiation. —He is a barbaric imbecile who believes that murdering is a moral duty, more powerful than the life of any person. She dried her tears with the handkerchief, the gesture brusque, angry with herself for the display of weakness, for having let emotion overflow in front of these strangers. —I will never forgive him for what he did. Never.

Her voice, which was now Selena's own, that high and melodious tone now forced to contain infinite bitterness, cracking at the edges, could not have emphasized the irrevocability of her words more crudely. They were an oath. A sentence. A wall raised between her and any possibility of forgetting. The silence that fell then was not empty, but heavy and elastic. It stretched like hot rubber, filling the room with its tangible presence.

The minutes crawled, each second another heartbeat in the chests of the three women. Neither maiden dared to breathe deeply, their chests held in a tension that petrified them. Selena felt the weight of her own words echoing in her ears, the echo of a defiance she didn't know if she could sustain, a promise made in the darkness that the real world would take upon itself to test. Until the voice of the older servant cut through the tense thread of mutism. —My lady, do you desire anything else?

She asked, her tone neutral, professional. It was the voice of someone who has learned to be invisible, to have no opinion. Selena didn't think about it. The answer emerged from the deepest part of her, the part that was still Selena of the stream, of the hostel, of Kaela, the part that yearned for freedom, the clean air of Terracanto, her friend's face, the noise of the market, the smell of fish and misery, everything that now, viewed from this luxury prison, seemed like paradise.

—I desire to leave this place —she declared. Her tone was sharp and firm, a hatchet blow in the conversation, a truth so simple and so impossible that it hurt just to utter it. The servant's reaction was immediate, a soft but inflexible refusal, like the closing of a door that should never have been opened. —That is not possible, your lordship. Lord Valerius made it clear to us: you cannot leave until he arrives from the ducal capital.

She paused briefly and added, with a shadow of genuine regret in her clear eyes, a flash of humanity that pierced through her professional mask for a moment: —I am sorry, my lady. A cold realization spread through Selena's veins, a freezing liquid that ran through her body from head to toe. The name sounded like authority, another prison within the prison, an invisible jailer whose orders were carried out even in his absence.

She was not only trapped in this body, in this room, in this cursed title, but under the orders of a man whose name evoked a longer, heavier, older chain. It was then that Selena, with a sudden lucidity that chilled her blood, understood that she needed anchors. Names to cling to in this sea of strangers. Individualizing these women, turning them from shadows into people, was the first step toward not losing herself completely in the vastness of her new reality.

Her expression turned serious, her gaze fixed on the older one, the one with the light brown eyes and the serenity of a statue. —Tell me your name —she ordered inflexibly. Then her gaze shifted to the redhead, looking directly into her eyes. —And hers. The woman hesitated for an instant. A slight tremor ran through the pale maiden, barely agitating the serenity of her hands, a minimal, almost imperceptible shudder, like that of a leaf in the first breeze.

It was evident: giving their names in the midst of that storm made them vulnerable; it individualized them before a rage that until then had been diffuse, a rage that could be attributed to the outburst of the moment and not to an enemy with a name and a face. —My name is Clara —she said at last. Her voice managed to remain stable, though the tremor had found an echo in her pupils. —And hers is Anne.

Anne, the redhead, lowered her head slightly, her honey-colored eyes seeking refuge on the carpeted floor, as if fearing that eye contact might turn her into a target. The last ember of rage died out in her chest. Not out of resignation, nor acceptance, but out of a cold and lucid understanding of the rules of this new game. The physical struggle had ended; her body, bruised and weak, could not sustain it.

Now the battle for knowledge began, the silent war of information, the quiet resistance of one who learns the names of her jailers to turn them, perhaps one day, into something more.