Chương 81: Chapter 14: The Mistress of Steel

When she opened her eyes, the dawn light was already filtering through the window, painting the room with pale and promising tones. She stood up with an energy she hadn't felt in weeks. Today, driven by renewed determination and an almost defiant desire to reaffirm her identity, she did not choose the practical comfort of trousers and a vest. Instead, she donned a deep red dress, a color that screamed presence and contrasted brutally with the simplicity of the Forest Cloister.

It was not the opulent scarlet silk of the Solendra mansion, but the fabric was fine and the cut, elegant. She applied a few drops of perfume with spicy and woody notes, a scent that felt empowering to her, like olfactory armor. Realizing the time on the courtyard's sundial, she cursed silently and ran out of her room. Her flat sandals tapped against the stone path toward the Orb Tower. She arrived panting in room B-8, just as the medicine instructor, impeccable in his white robe, began his greeting to the class.

She slipped into the seat closest to the door, hoping to go unnoticed. The class, however, was a profound disappointment. The man, whose voice the previous day had resonated with the authority of one who fights against death, dedicated the entire session to a dry treatise on medical ethics. He spoke of ancient oaths, of conflicts of interest, and of the sacredness of life with a monotony that could extinguish the fire of the most ardent motivation.

A complete waste of a morning, she thought, suppressing a sigh of frustration as she left the classroom. Tangible knowledge herbs, ointments, healing techniques, all of that would have to wait. Upon leaving, she consulted the central hourglass in the Atrium of Knowledge. The metallic sand indicated that there was still quite a while before the start of her first real class in the path of the resonants. Her stomach, now empty and protesting, reminded her that she had ignored breakfast and yesterday's meals.

Near the entrance of the Atrium, a small stall attended by a man with a kind face offered simple sandwiches. She approached and ordered one. The vendor gave her the price, and Selena, almost by reflex, pulled a bronze crown from the pouch tied to her waist. As she handed it over, a bitter and lucid thought crossed her mind like a flash of lightning: The price is astronomically expensive. With this bronze crown, a family in Terracanto could have eaten, modestly, for nearly three days.

Here, in this bubble of stone and knowledge, it only buys an insipid roll with a slice of cold meat. She nibbled on the sandwich without much enthusiasm; her gaze lost on the well-dressed students swarming through the courtyard. The Royal University, she thought, only for the rich, nobles, and the bourgeoisie. A sanctuary of knowledge and power, built on foundations of inequality that she, from her new and privileged pedestal, could now see with a clarity that burned her soul.

It was to be expected she told herself, but the certainty did not mitigate the bitter taste that invaded her, an aftertaste mixing dry bread with a guilt that did not belong to her and, yet, felt like her own. The last crumb of the sandwich caught in her throat, not because of its dryness, but because of the bitter flavor of the reality it represented. Selena stood up from the bench and headed to another one closer to the imposing Hourglass, ready to wait.

About ten meters away, like two perpetual shadows, Fjora and Samira kept their watch. I'm even starting to get used to it, she thought, and the idea was born out of nowhere, taking root with a disturbing naturalness. From her seat, she observed the coming and going of the students. Most talked in animated groups, their laughter and discussions formed a vital murmur that filled the vast space. Time flowed lazily, marked by the slow and constant fall of the metallic dust in the clock.

Suddenly, her attention fixed on two young men who, absorbed in their books, collided head-on with a loud "thump!" A heap of parchments and volumes scattered across the stone floor. Selena instinctively put her hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh that bubbled in her chest. Nobles, yes, she thought, with a clarity that surprised her, but they are still people. It was a simple but profound reminder, a flash of shared humanity beneath the clothes and the coats of arms.

Little by little, as if an invisible plug had been pulled, the Atrium of Knowledge began to empty. The voices died down, replaced by the echo of receding footsteps. Selena understood it was time. She stood up and headed to the base of the clock, where the contained impatience, the silent company of fear and expectation already awaited her. She was the first to arrive. The other five appeared gradually, one after another, with faces that still bore the paleness of the previous day's revelation.

Fern, the hunter, looked at his hands with almost reverent fear, his eyes widening. Maya and Ren exchanged a look of nervous complicity with Selena. But Valerian, the theatrical and ominous master, was nowhere to be seen. The wait stretched on, charging with a silent tension. Until, finally, a figure was outlined at the entrance of the Atrium. It was not Valerian. It was a woman. Slender, of svelte bearing and a height perhaps ten centimeters greater than Selena's.

Her hair, a pale ashen blonde and straight, pulled back in a bun, immediately reminded her of Fjora, but on her, that color seemed like frost on a sheet of steel. Her eyes, of a clear and piercing gray, scrutinized them all with a cold efficiency that left no doubt about her character. Without preamble, without the slightest ceremony, she stood before them. —Come —she said. Her voice was soft but possessed a resolute quality that cut the air like a well-sharpened blade.

She passed between them with a natural elegance and, with precise and rapid movements that defied the eye, triggered the secret mechanism at the base of the clock and inserted her key. The door slid open, revealing the darkness of the passage. She guided them through it, but the path was not the same as yesterdays. The turns were different, the descents steeper, and the air smelled of older stone dust, of a guarded silence. The room they reached was not the same either.

It was smaller, more intimate, with walls lined with empty shelves and a single long dark wood table in the center. Seven chairs flanked it. Without a word, everyone took a seat, the creak of the wood sounding strident in the silence. It was then that the woman stood before them. Her hands showed her long, slender fingers, then she rested them on the edge of the table. —I am Isolde —she announced. Her voice, though it maintained that soft quality, now had the edge of tempered steel.

—Graduated with honors as an arcane resonant mistress of the written touch and part-time royal advisor. She made a brief pause, and her gray eyes swept the group, evaluating, measuring. A flash of irritation, cold and contained, crossed her gaze. —I understand that the imbecile Valerian gave yesterday's class and let you go early. The word "imbecile" left her lips with devastating naturalness. —So, surely, he skipped some explanations. Again. There was no doubt. Isolde was evidently annoyed.

Not with them, but with her colleague. And that annoyance, serene and icy, promised a lesson that would have no room for theater or half-measures. —Magic, or the echo, as I assume you know, comes from a higher dimension —she began. Her words, measured and clear, left no room for fantasy. —There is no deity that controls it, nor any proof that the deities we believe in are real. A dull sound, the thumping of a quickening heart or the cracking of a knuckle clenched too tightly, reverberated in the stony silence.

It was a heresy spoken with the matter-of-factness of someone stating a geometric theorem. She was dismantling the foundations of faith upon which many of them, undoubtedly, had built their world. —But the echo is real —she continued, without blinking. Her gaze traveled across each one, searching for a reaction, but each one held back as best they could. —Magic is a replicant of reality. And to replicate, one must understand. It is not enough to merely comprehend or know.

She made an infinitesimal pause, laden with meaning. —If your reasoning is false, a backlash could leave you with every bone in your body broken. She then pointed to her own left arm with a minimalist gesture. —To me, specifically, it happened when I was studying my first written spells. A compound fracture in the ulna and radius. Pain... is a very effective teacher. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The confession, so dry and personal, had a greater impact than any grandiloquent warning. It was not an abstract threat; it was an invisible scar on the woman of steel before them. —That is why the first thing resonants learn is to feel the Whispering Void. That branch of study we know as 'Void Perception.' Her gray gaze rested on each of them, evaluating their capacity for absorption. —History of magic might interest those who always believed in myths more.

In the myths of an animal healed by a person who loved it. In the legends of our first king, Volgthar, who they say called the sleeping titanopods to raze and conquer, in exchange for a pact with Aelthra. A shadow of something that could be disdain or perhaps just weariness at human foolishness hinted at her lips. —They were all correct. The legends have a real basis. The admission was as cold as the previous denial. —But forget it.

The resonant echo, as I hope Valerian explained to you yesterday, is not so elegant or benign. She cleared her throat, a dry sound that broke the spell of the legends. —Basic physiology is necessary for any sensible resonant. It's not all power, and that's it. Get that erroneous concept out of your heads. Her tone was that of a military instructor. —An injured resonant will die.

It doesn't matter if they know the concepts of healing; if they don't understand them in their essence, they won't be able to heal themselves. The void is not a patch for incompetence. That is why it is necessary for you to know how to treat your wounds in a traditional manner. She poured water into an unadorned wooden cup and took a sip. The act, mundane and practical, reinforced her message: even they, the supposed chosen ones, needed water, food, and bandages. —Magical first aid.

She enumerated, raising one slender finger. —Of vital importance for you, novices. How to contain backlashes in the best way. A second finger rose. —How to stabilize the Void so that it doesn't take more years than it needs. A third finger. —And finally, alarm signals. These are the three fundamental pillars for looking after new ones. She lowered her hand and leaned slightly forward, her voice dropping to a whisper laden with urgency.

—Brand it into your minds, repeat it to yourselves even in your dreams: 'The echo is mortal.' The phrase hung suspended in the air, as tangible as the cold of the stone. —Finally, and not least important. She added, straightening up. —Emergency protocols. What to do when everything goes wrong. Because believe me, sooner rather than later, everything will go wrong.

The sheet of parchment in front of Selena remained impeccable, virgin of ink, a rectangle of silence in the midst of the murmur of quills scratching the air around her. The others, with heads down and pale knuckles, scribbled frantically, as if by capturing Isolde's words on paper they could domesticate the horror they contained.

Fern gnawed at the end of his quill, Corin traced trembling letters that scattered like terrified ants, and even Maya, with her serenity, had already filled half a page with tight, urgent calligraphy. Selena, however, had noted nothing. Her hands, small, rested on the table, still. It was not lack of interest; it was concentration so fierce, so absolute, that it absorbed every syllable, every nuance in Isolde's metallic voice, and branded it directly into her memory.

Words were fragile, ink could be erased, but the echo of a truth pronounced in this subterranean chamber… that, she knew, was indelible. Isolde concluded her silent walk behind them. Her shadow, long and thin, loomed over Selena's empty sheet. The mistress stopped. Selena felt, rather than saw, the gray gaze rest on the immaculate parchment. The slight arch of an eyebrow, almost imperceptible, was the only sign of surprise or perhaps disapproval.

Isolde continued, scrutinizing the notes of the others with the same cold efficiency with which she would evaluate a specimen on a dissection table. Having finished the review, she returned to her place at the head of the table. The silence thickened, laden with dry ink and the fear of the six young people. —We are all cursed resonants —Isolde declared. The phrase did not sound like a lament, but like the reading of a sentence long inscribed in the annals of reality. —It is an undeniable truth.

Along with it, we carry three curses that we all bear since the void marked us. She paused, letting the weight of the word "cursed" settle in their bones, mixing with the air they breathed. —The first of them is the inevitable death granted to us for being resonants —she proceeded. Her voice was an edge of ice, one that now cut through lies to reveal truths. —Things we must not see, echoes of realities being torn apart, or things we must not hear, whispers of the Void that cross the threshold of sanity…

sometimes they will kill us faster than the rest. It is not a glorious death. It is extinction, a premature wearing away accelerated by forbidden knowledge. Selena thought of Valerian, of his somber theatricality, and sensed the monumental fatigue, the stolen years, hidden behind his jester's grimace. —The second —Isolde continued. The atmosphere grew quieter; the quills no longer moved across the parchments. —Is that animals will flee from us if they have the chance.

If there is no way for them to flee, they will tremble, making themselves small, with the instinctive terror of one who perceives a fracture in the natural order of the world. It is a lonely curse. You will not know the loyalty of an anurhy, the affection of a nimora, the trust of a titanopod. Only fear or flight. The image of the anurhy she had petted with Kaela, its semi-damp skin and serene curiosity, pierced her chest with a sharp pain.

Now she understood why Maya, an animal lover, spoke of them with such deep sadness. —The third, and no less important. Isolde lowered her voice until it became an almost stony whisper. —Is that our soul is bound to the Void from the moment we are born. Upon dying, there is no paradise to accept us, nor a rest in the bosom of any god. Only the Whispering Void, waiting to reclaim what was always its own. A sigh, long and laden with millenary heaviness, escaped her lips.

It was not a sound of self-pity, but the exhalation of one who has been breathing a bitter truth for too long. —That being said. Here, a subtle change, a slight straightening of her spine. —We resonants have innate advantages. The first of them, you surely know and have never spoken of with anyone, for we have had it constantly since birth. It is Halom: the advantage of seeing the future through our dreams. Several students held their breath.

Selena immediately remembered her nightmare: the dungeons, the collective weeping, Corren's warning. Was that Halom? A fragment of a possible future, entangled in her fears? She questioned herself. —A fragmentary future. Isolde specified, as if reading her thoughts. —That is indistinguishable from a nightmare or an instilled fear. Sometimes it even presents itself as a common dream of mundane worries.

But with the study of distinction, you can learn to separate the wheat from the chaff, to recognize the flash of truth in the midst of the dreamlike chaos. Some of the oldest resonant masters called this power 'the contradiction of fate.' Isolde approached her glass of water and took a long drink, as if the explanation itself had dried her throat. —The resonant, however, will never see their own death, nor a direct struggle in which they are the absolute protagonist. Fate, it seems, reserves that final mystery.

Selena was a mess of questions in her head, crowding one over the other, but before they could escape, she heard Isolde again. —The most well-known and already discussed by us —she continued. Then, setting down the glass, she finished the idea. —Is the ability to replicate reality with the Echo. I will say no more because it would be repeating what Valerian, in his infinite wisdom… The icy sarcasm almost fogged the air. —… should have explained to you yesterday.

Then she raised three fingers, and her tone became more serious. —The third of them. Her gaze became distant, almost reverent, a rare flash in her gray eyes. —Is one that few resonants achieve, and which neither I nor Valerian possess. The capacity to make a contract with a being from the Void. A collective shiver ran through the table. The idea was at once fascinating and monstrous. To contract with something… from there? From that dimension from which their curse and power emanated?

The mere thought made her skin crawl. —The data left to us by our predecessors are few and are restricted for novices Isolde cut her off sharply, closing that door with the firmness of one who knows what lies behind. —I will say no more. In a fluid movement, she took a sheet of parchment and a quill from one end of the table. Without sitting down, with excellent, precise, and elegant calligraphy, she began to trace titles. The scratch of the quill was the only sound in the chamber.

—Read these books —she ordered, without looking up. She seemed to seek everything to be as perfect as possible, rigid, fast, and efficient. —It is not necessary for you to read them all in the first month, but you must read them in full before the end of the semester. Your ignorance, from now on, is a luxury you not only cannot afford, but one that can kill you. She finished writing and set down the quill. An air of absolute silence surrounded her, a total contrast to the explanatory verbosity of moments before.

She sat down, crossed her hands in her lap, and lowered her gaze, as if she had completely disconnected from the room. The youngsters, almost in unison, leaned over the sheet she had slid toward the center of the table.

The titles, bulleted with that impeccable calligraphy, seemed branded with fire: Arcane Principles: An Introduction to the Void — Resonant Orin Chronicles of the Echo: Forbidden History of Magic in Erabergh — Archivist Typhoon Stabilization Protocols: First Aid for Body and Soul — Arcanist Lucius Resonant Physiology: The Vital Cost of the Touch — Mistress Galena Alarm Signals and Backlash Containment — Official Manual of the Royal Council Below, in slightly larger and underlined letters, an instruction that was at once a permission and a new barrier: From the fifth floor of the library to the sixth.

Selena traced the titles onto her own sheet with the same precision with which Isolde had written them, each letter an act of will against the vertigo she felt. The names resonated in her mind like bell tolls, each one a door to knowledge as dangerous as it was necessary. Looking up, she saw the same reflection in her companions' eyes; it was a race against time that would begin the very instant they left this chamber of stone and secrets.

Isolde remained seated behind the table, submerged in reviewing some documents she had pulled from her bag. The silence around her was so thick and absolute that the slight rustle of parchment being handled sounded like thunder in the room. Selena, motionless in her seat, observed the mistress's serene and sharp profile, the faint flicker of the tallow lamp caressing the bun on her head. Time stretched, elastic and heavy.

What seemed like an endless hour to Selena was perhaps only a few minutes of tense quiet, until Isolde stood up suddenly. The movement was so abrupt that the silence, until then a tangible entity, shattered like glass. Everyone stood up immediately; chairs screeched against the stone. —Today's class is over. Follow me —Isolde ordered, her voice a lash of efficiency. They followed her through the labyrinth of passages, a journey that this time seemed shorter, more direct.

The light at the end of the tunnel was not that of the Atrium of Knowledge, but the golden early afternoon light filtering through the canopy of a private garden. As they emerged, the fresh air hit their faces, laden with the scent of damp earth and exotic flowers. Above the tops of some blue-leaved trees, Selena made out the imposing silhouette of the communal dining hall.