Chương 75: Chapter 8: The First Gift

The answer arrived, not as a flash of genius, but as the only weapon with which her heart leaped, that heart which had belonged to the man of Earth, the academic, the seeker of truths hidden between the lines of ancient texts. It was the only thing she could wield in a world of swords and magic, of conspiracies and blood: knowledge. —I want —she said, and this time her voice held a slight tremor. A small shiver of anticipation ran down her back, a mixture of fear and excitement she could not control.

—That everything I do or seek regarding the acquisition of information... has no hindrance at all. Unlimited access to archives, libraries, records... without censorship, without supervision. That no wall stands between me and the truth. The words floated in the hall, charged with a meaning that transcended simple curiosity. It was a request for power. The only power she craved. The keys to every paper castle, to every secret kept under lock and key for centuries. Valerius observed her for a long moment.

His gray eyes scrutinized her with an intensity that was almost a physical touch, as if he could read the most hidden thoughts in her pupils. Then, he nodded once, slowly, with the gravity of one who seals a pact of unpredictable consequences. —The King shall grant it. Without another word, without a gesture of farewell, without the slightest show of the tenderness that had emerged moments before, he turned around.

His steps, firm and resonant, receded over the marble as his figure vanished into the shadows of the vast hall, leaving her alone, standing on heels she could now barely feel, floating in a sea of uncertainty. The minutes crawled by. Selena remained motionless, wondering if she had committed a monumental error or if she had just secured her only card for freedom. The silence was so dense she could hear her own heartbeat, a war drum in the stillness of the hall. Then, the footsteps returned.

It was not the solitary echo of the Grand Duke. It was a different sound, multiple, syncopated. He reappeared at the threshold, and behind his imposing figure, two silhouettes glided into the light with a silent grace that was both elegant and haunting. The first was a woman who seemed sculpted from ice and steel. Tall, at least five-foot-nine, her build was slender but sinewy, every muscle defined beneath her skin like a bowstring.

Her skin was like snow, pale and flawless, and her ash-blonde hair was gathered in severe braids that coiled over her head like a war crown. Her eyes, of a piercing glacial blue, scanned the room with the precision of a predator, evaluating every corner, every possible threat, in a single sweep. She wore light armor of hardened leather studded with metal rivets over functional male-cut clothing, and at her waist, resting with the familiarity of an extra limb, sat the sober hilt of a longsword.

Beside her, the second woman was no taller than five-foot-five, a smaller figure but no less imposing. Her skin was the tanned color of sand under the midday sun, and from it emerged a mane of hair as dark as the deepest night, gathered and partially hidden under a subtle veil that allowed a few rebellious strands to escape. Her eyes, large and expressive, the color of honey, watched with intelligent curiosity, a spark of life that contrasted with her companion's lethal coldness.

She was dressed in a tunic of vibrant colors —vermilion, sapphire, and gold— that flowed with her movements like silken water. It was then that Valerius spoke again, his voice breaking the spell of that silent introduction. —They are Fjora —he pointed to the blonde warrior. Her blue gaze was fixed on Selena with an intensity devoid of emotion, like that of an anurhy awaiting orders from its new master. —And Samira —he indicated the woman with honey-colored eyes.

She tilted her head slightly in a gesture of profound respect, her exquisite courtly manners evident. If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. —Both are your slaves now. The word, slaves, fell into the hall with the casualness of someone naming a piece of furniture or a trophy. There was no hesitation, nor the slightest hint of discomfort in his tone. It was the raw reality, the naked truth of this world where people could be possessed as objects.

—Fjora is of the northern race, captured as a child in a border raid. She was trained by the Royal Guard —Valerius explained. Each word painted a story of violence, loss, and forced indoctrination, a catalog of horrors summarized in a few sentences. —Samira is from the great southern deserts, a former archivist of the Great Library of Al'Miraj. She was sold by her father to settle debts.

The biography of both was a record of plunder and submission, a reminder of the foundations upon which the world rested, of lives sacrificed at the altar of power and wealth. —The King gives them both to you as his first gift —he concluded. His gaze softened as it rested on Selena, though the harshness of the situation remained. —They are entirely yours, for anything, my dear and beloved niece.

He brought his fingers to his chin, a thinking gesture searching for one last detail forgotten in the tumult of preparations. His eyes, gray and deep, clouded for an instant with the mist of memory before clearing again. —I have arranged your guards—he continued. That voice was both bulwark and sentence, promise and threat, but also undeniable authority. —Your bags and luggage have already been prepared. You must depart as soon as possible, as His Majesty determined.

Furthermore, the King said you will find the other two gifts at the Royal University. A shadow of sadness, slight but genuine, crossed his face like a lightning bolt in a clear sky. —The university city is a month's journey away, my dear —he said, almost letting out a sigh. This time his voice was a harsh whisper, loaded with a tenderness he rarely allowed to show—an echo of the man beneath the title. —Just remember your uncle when you are far away. Do not fail to write to me. There was no time for more.

Valerius bid farewell with a slight bow and kissed the back of her hand. As soon as the formalities ended, the corridor behind them filled with the hurried murmur of maidservants parading in a well-organized procession, carrying numerous suitcases and trunks embossed with the House Solendra crest: the golden hawk, the silver spear, the three waves.

It was a silent exodus of luxury and possessions, the tangible evidence that her departure was not a suggestion, but a fait accompli, a royal order that admitted no delay. With a sharp movement of liberation, Selena shed the heels that she still felt as instruments of torture. She left them there, on the cold marble, two small, empty thrones of a princess she never wanted to be, two mute witnesses to her passage through that hall of power.

She walked barefoot over the stone, feeling the icy texture beneath her feet, pure and honest contact amidst so much artifice, a connection to the earth she had missed so much. At the end of the hall, like two loyal sentinels, Anne and Clara waited for her. In their hands, they held another pair of shoes, as exquisite in craftsmanship as the scarlet dress, made of soft leather with golden buckles, but with a low heel and a kind design, meant for walking, not for parading.

Without a word, Selena slipped them on, noting with relief how her feet settled into a soft and generous interior, the contact with the leather was almost an embrace after the torture of the heels. She continued on her way, flanked by the two maidens, while the echo of her now comfortable steps resonated in the gallery, marking a new rhythm, firmer, more secure.

Upon reaching the great door of the mansion, the outside world opened before her with a promise of movement and distance, with the fresh air of freedom barely glimpsed. There, in the cobbled courtyard, three carriages waited. The first, modest but solid, made of dark wood and without ornaments, was intended for the maidens who would accompany her on the journey.

The second, a carriage sculpted from noble woods and golden details, with silk curtains in the windows and an interior that promised every comfort money could buy, was clearly prepared for her and her two new companions. The third, sturdier and heavier, with reinforced wheels and iron axles, was loaded only with luggage, a mute testament to the life she was leaving behind and the one she was, perforce, taking with her.

But what truly captured her attention, what made her stop for a moment with her mouth slightly open, were the beasts pulling them. They were insects with segmented exoskeletons, with shades ranging from moss green to amber yellow, shining under the sunlight like living emeralds, like jewels set in a mechanism of flesh and chitin.

Their six powerful legs moved with the mechanical precision of giant ants, each placing itself in perfect synchrony, but their heads were those of majestic beetles, with still mandibles and compound eyes that reflected the sky with a haunting placidity, as if contemplating secrets that humans could never understand.

It was a flash of the familiar, a reminiscence of a memory that came to her suddenly, like a flare in the dark: they were those coleoptera she had so often seen in documentaries, feeding on tree bark on Earth, small and anonymous, insignificant in nature's grand scheme.

But here, magnified, transformed, turned into beasts of burden by centuries of domestication, they were one more reminder that, although some forms repeated, everything here was imbued with a different, alien logic, an evolution that had taken paths her Earthling mind was only beginning to glimpse.