Chương 71: Chapter 4: The Privilege of Being Young

A deep sigh, then the feeling of having a goal, of heading straight toward the pillars that would sustain her. She raised her gaze; her green eyes now filled with determination as she looked at both maidens. —I need both of you to tell me everything you know about me —she said, her voice serene but with a disguised urgency. Her expression remained grave, imposing an invisible barrier of authority born from the desperation to understand herself in this new and disconcerting context.

In her mind, the question had always lingered, a persistent echo even amidst the chaos of her consciousness transplant. Even Corren, with his heretical knowledge in that cave, had been unable to offer her anything more than enigmas and the vague vision of a dream. That man, as wise as he was trapped, could only glimpse shadows. Now she needed contours, details, the raw and simple biography of the life she now inhabited. Anne was the first to break the expectant silence.

Her voice emerged with restrained emotion, as if she had been waiting for this moment. Her honey-colored eyes widened, filled with a reverent fear that could not dull a spark of loyalty. It was the kind of devotion that was not taught but born from years of service, from having seen too much and having learned to remain silent. —My lady, you are the Hereditary Duchess of the Great House of Solendra —she began, and the words sounded like a creed learned by heart, a litany recited from her very childhood.

—The only family and niece of the Grand Duke... She hesitated. She saw it. The seriousness on Selena's face did not yield; instead, it intensified, absorbing every syllable like thirsty earth. Anne swallowed and continued, her voice fading slightly. —You are twenty-two years old. Your uncle... Lord Valerius... says you often run away from home. The last comment was whispered, as if she were revealing an open secret that was, nonetheless, dangerous to utter.

Her fingers hooked nervously into the folds of her apron, a childish gesture that betrayed the tension of speaking about the lady in her own presence. When silence once again took hold of Anne, Clara took over with her usual composure, though one of her hands, treacherous, rose to calm an almost imperceptible tremor in the other. Her voice was clear, practical, as if she were listing the properties of an object valued by experts. She was the kind of woman who had learned that objectivity was her best shield.

—You have always been a woman of strong character —she stated. It was evident that she had contained her fear of Selena for years, that she knew the limits of what could be said and what should be kept silent. —Your youthful beauty is considered by the nobility to be a jewel in itself. She paused briefly, almost uncomfortably, and then added with a visible effort that tensed her jaw muscles: —And... you... are known for your severity. The final words fell into the room like a river stone "Severity".

It was not just a character trait; in Clara's mouth, and after what had happened at the hostel that still haunted Selena, it sounded like cruelty, like a contempt for the lives of others. It sounded like that abstract quality that allowed a head to roll through the dust without the hand wielding the sword trembling.

The confirmation that the body she inhabited was the same one that had ordered massacres for a look of disapproval, the same one that had caused Nyssa's death and the pain of the others, could only trigger one feeling in her. Guilt ran through her thoughts, a worm in her brain eating away at the edges of her newly acquired identity. Blood felt hot as it pooled in her fingertips, a phantom sensation that threatened to overwhelm her. But then, like a lighthouse in the storm, the warmth of the bracelet calmed her.

The heat ascended her arm, slow and comforting, dissolving the knots of dread starting to form in her chest. The thought then arrived, crisp and cold as spring water: Torment is not the solution for a soul innocent of the crimes of the original body. She would not allow herself to sink again, not here, not now. There were more important things than self-pity. There was a route to chart, an exit to find, a friend to return to.

The awkward silence, that thick mutism threatening to solidify around her, prompted her to speak quickly, wishing to break the ominous air. She modulated her tone carefully, searching for the recesses of her memory for the echo of authority she had seen in others, to appear severe without being cruel. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. —The books in my room are boring to me —she declared.

Her gaze swept the wooden shelf with a disdain so perfectly executed that for a moment she believed in it herself. —I need you to change them all. I want history of the kingdom, ancient myths and legends, philosophy, even biology. The list was a slap to the frivolity surrounding her, a demand for substance in a world of appearances. Each word was a brick in the construction of her new identity: the capricious noblewoman who, instead of asking for jewels or dresses, demanded knowledge.

Having finished, Anne was the first to react. A slight spark of surprise crossed her freckled face before being quickly mastered by relief. It was the expression of someone who expected a punishment and received, instead, a comprehensible task, a mundane errand she could fulfill without fear. —My lady, it shall be done as you ask —she replied. Her voice was calmer now, and in her gesture, one could read a momentary gratitude for the normalcy the task implied.

Her shoulders, previously tense as harp strings, dropped a couple of centimeters. Selena caught that flash of relief and, in an act of calculation that burned in her soul like red-hot iron, added with the same feigned seriousness: —Do not worry. I will not punish you if you bring me books that are at my level. The word "punish" left her lips with a bitter taste, a poison she felt forced to ingest to maintain the charade.

It reinforced the disguise of severity she now had to wear like a second skin, but every syllable was a betrayal of everything she had learned at the hostel and everything she carried inside but did not yet understand. When the maidens departed, carrying the first volumes of sappy romances and courtly intrigues as if they were offering a purification ritual, Selena let out a sigh that came from the very depths of her being.

The mask cracked for an instant, exposing pure anguish, the terror of the impostor who knows that any slip could be fatal. —Now I must play the part of a pedantic and severe young lady —she murmured to herself. Then she looked at her hands, those small, soft hands that had belonged to a murderer. She turned them, observing the palms, the lines of life and destiny she had not chosen. —It will break my heart slowly. —Another sigh, deeper this time, escaped her as her gaze wandered through the luxurious cell.

She drifted over the carpets that stifled footsteps, over the gauze curtains swaying with an obscene languor. —Locked in a golden cage like the most beautiful exotic bird, without the freedom to fly. The image of the caged bird felt so precise she could almost feel the coldness of the bars on her skin. But then, as always, Kaela's voice echoed in her memory:"Drowning in your own complacency won't solve things." She straightened her back. No. She could not afford the luxury of self-pity.

—I must find a way to flee from here —she told herself. Determination began to sprout, cold and clear, like an underground spring emerging after centuries of darkness. —Perhaps if I am a good person to them, slowly and carefully, I can do it. If I demand knowledge instead of frivolities, if I lower everyone's guard with a façade of a capricious intellectual… perhaps I can win a thread of trust, a lapse in judgment, an open door. With a renewed plan, the ghost of a smile.

It was not a smile of happiness, but a strategic smile, the grimace of the hunter who knows that patience is her best weapon. She watched as the maidens, now aided by two other servants she hadn't seen, moved in and out of the room in a constant flow, their arms laden with new exquisite leather-bound tomes, engraved with titles promising chronicles of kingdoms, treatises on natural philosophy, and compendiums of bestiaries.

It was a silent dance of efficiency; a choreography rehearsed through generations of service. Selena observed them closely, memorizing their faces, their gestures, the invisible hierarchies revealed in the way one gave orders and the others obeyed. When the work was done and the last maiden closed the door with a soft click that sounded like a final sentence, the opulent room was plunged into a silence charged with new meanings.

It was no longer just a cell; it was a battlefield where the war would be fought with words and knowledge instead of swords and blood. Selena found herself completely alone, surrounded by piles of books whose scent of leather and old paper began to displace the phantom of the aristocratic perfumes that permeated the curtains.

She slumped into the garnet velvet chair, her body still remembering the strange fatigue of rage and weeping, that heaviness that follows emotional storms when the body remembers what the mind prefers to forget. Then, she slowly reviewed the information the maidens had dropped, as if each word were a puzzle piece that had to fit with millimetric precision. —You are twenty-two years old —Anne had said. The number echoed in her head like a bell stroke.

An image came to her mind then, from when she was for the first time in Elara's office, facing the woman of steel and her severe bun. She remembered saying "eighteen years old" with the trembling confidence of someone making it up as they went. It had been a lie, the first thing that came to a body she didn't yet know. Kaela, however, had seen between the margins. With that gaze of hers that scrutinized beyond appearances, she had come closer to the truth, yet still, neither had been right.

The tanner had said nineteen or twenty, based on the experience of someone who has learned to calculate age by the mark's life leaves on a face. The appearance of youth was a testament to one thing more than any other: privilege. One that the Great House of Solendra could afford without breaking a sweat.

The privilege of living in luxury, of feeding delicacies while others scraped by on nothing, of preserving health with care that costs more than a year's wage, while teenagers like Kaela were already hardened by life, marked by a world that demanded the most visceral survival. A shiver ran down her back, a mixture of secondhand shame and a guilt that dug deeper into her intruder's soul. Twenty-two years old. The same age as so many women in the hostel who looked twice that.

Lyra, with her scar and her look of having lost everything. Kaela, sixteen years old with the wisdom of an old woman etched into every line of her face.