Chương 98: Chapter 31: The Pulse of Power

She headed directly to the Atrium of Knowledge, the beating heart of the university. Beneath the immense and silent presence of the Hourglass, a familiar figure awaited her. Valerian, strangely punctual, seemed to blend into the elongated shadows of the afternoon. —My bloody duchess —he greeted with a bow that bordered on mockery. His smile was like a scar across his face. —Your punctuality is as bad as your reputation. I am glad to see that at least one of the two has improved today.

Selena did not reply to the sarcasm. Valerian, without losing his air of a macabre jester, opened the hidden passage with a fluid gesture and preceded her. The room they arrived at was different from the previous ones: smaller, more intimate. It contained only a chair and a table for the student, and facing them, a simple wooden lectern for the master. The oppressive whiteness had been replaced by a stone gray, austere and cold. Valerian placed himself behind the lectern, and suddenly, his attitude changed.

The mocking grimace vanished, replaced by an unusual solemnity that chilled the atmosphere. —Now that the wretched ones lacking potential are gone —he began. His voice grave and now completely devoid of its usual theatrical tone. —I must present myself properly, according to my rank. He paused, and a flash of his old personality peeked through in a quick wink. —I myself like to call myself Valerian the Wretched, but His Majesty, in his infinite grace, granted me the title of Valerian the Red.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting with manifest curiosity for Selena's reaction. But there was no surprise, no question, only an impassive gaze observing him from the chair. —Not even mysteries interest you, it seems, crimson —he continued. Only then did a shadow of genuine disappointment cross his face. —That means you already know the titles of other resonants. It is no fun when you behave like this. You take the grace out of the game.

Selena held his gaze, and then, with a calmness that sounded like a challenge, responded to the resonant's unspoken desire: —They call you the Red surely because of fire… or perhaps because you are a bloody mass murderer. The words fell into the room like stones into a frozen pond. Valerian broke down completely. His theatrical posture shattered; color seemed to leave his face for an instant.

It took him several seconds to recompose himself, and when he did, his expression was more serious than any Selena had ever seen on Isolde. —Murderer —he repeated, and the word came out as a hoarse whisper, laden with a meaning that transcended the insult— You cannot even imagine it, crimson. A dense and heavy silence settled over the room, making the gray walls seem to recede, expanding the vacuum between them. Valerian passed a hand over his face, as if wishing to erase a mask.

When he lowered it, the jester's smile had returned, but it was a fragile, forced thing. —Blood and fire, but also war and love, anger and unrest —he said, recovering part of his rhetorical cadence. He leaned his hands on the lectern, his gaze resting once more on Selena. —We resonants are shaped by parts that not even we ourselves fully know. So, after weeks of study, answer for a second and I shall measure you: What is born of speech and writing? Selena drew a deep breath.

It was not the rhetorical question from before, but a demand for truth, a test. Eliud's words, the poem of the tablets, her own experience with the green fire resonated within her. —Imagination —she said, her voice firm despite a slight trembling in her hands— Transfiguration. The unbound echo… a new way of seeing reality and the worldview of the whole. Valerian observed her, and for an instant, something akin to respect shone in his eyes, before being drowned by his habitual sarcasm.

He clapped, a blunt, mocking sound that echoed in the small room. —The theoretical philologist understands basic psycholinguistics! —he exclaimed— Not even a blind man would have missed it after my clues. He stopped clapping, and once more, the mask of solemnity fell over his features. —His Majesty wants you to learn the spoken echo first, and then the written touch. You must strive. The path will be shorter for you than for the others, but also more… intense.

Then, being the jester once again, he leaned forward, a playful and cruel smile on his lips: —Tell me, little wretch… have you spent years after the practical exercises in class? Have you already felt the price of the echo in your own time, in your own days? Selena meditated for a few seconds, her hand passing over her chin; only then did she speak.

—In addition to water, I have already been able to create fire —Selena confessed, a small and strange pride, warm and sharp, stirring in her chest, like a ember that refuses to go out. Valerian approached immediately. He did so with a supernatural fluidity, closing the distance until he stood right in front of her, so close that Selena could distinguish the tiny cracks on his lips and the unsettling glow in his eyes. The air between them grew scarce.

When she, instinctively raised her hands to push him away, he did not step back. Instead, he said in a whisper that was more of a probe than a question: —It seems to be true. But how much did you lose? An eyebrow arched on his forehead, a gesture of pure and ravenous curiosity that contrasted with the invasive proximity. —I don't know —Selena replied, her voice tighter than she would have wished.

She was not only disconcerted by the question, but the physical discomfort, the violation of her space, tensed her every muscle. —I only felt… different. In both cases. Valerian then stepped away, little by little, like a nimora retreating after having caught the scent of its prey. His steps were silent upon the gray floor. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. —Then, you have the magical potential —he concluded.

A sigh laden with theatrical disappointment escaped his lips. —But the same wisdom to measure its cost as an anurhy has to count. He made a casual gesture, a movement of the hand that would have made a nimora jealous of its unnecessary grace. —I hoped that the blood on your hands… that having felt life slip away… would give you some advantage. At least a bit of awareness. He headed toward the hidden door in the stone wall but paused before opening it; something had remained stuck in his throat.

—Let us leave the class here for today. Find your books. Study. The challenge, my little crimson, is that you do not know which one I will ask about tomorrow. He turned his head toward her, and his smile widened into an arc of pure malice. —Or perhaps I won't ask about any. Uncertainty is a delicious seasoning, don't you think? Then he walked out through the door. Selena took the same path until finding one of the many doors the room had for leaving; Valerian finally opened it, disappearing down the path.

Once outside, breathing the fresh air of one of the lushest gardens, where the evening light filtered through gigantic leaves, Selena set her course for the library. This time, with the list of titles for the Spoken Way in mind, she found all the volumes without much difficulty:"Treatise on the Formed Word", "Arcane Restoration", "Advanced Perception". She stacked them on a table, feeling the weight of their promise and their danger.

But, knowing the "idiot Valerian," as Isolde called him with contempt, a certainty settled within her: he surely wouldn't ask about anything obvious. So, in an act of pragmatic rebellion, she did not open them. Instead of immersing herself in arcane theories, she let her mind rest in the dusty silence, guarded by ghosts of parchment.

The next morning, after a practical class on first aid in camps and settlements, where she learned to immobilize fractures with branches and to prepare disinfectant infusions with bitter herbs, she headed straight to the place of her sentence. The room Valerian led her to this time was of an earthen-brown color, warm and oppressive all at once. Ten empty chairs formed a semicircle in front of the lectern, a mute reminder of the absent, of the decimated group. She was the sole occupant.

Valerian, standing like a master of ceremonies in an empty theater, spoke without preamble. —Crimson, today's first question —he announced. His jester's smile curved into sinister territory. —Revolves around a book called The Imagined and the Understanding of the Echo. Selena felt the ground beneath her feet give way slightly. Eliud's book. A chill, swift and sharp as a needle of ice, ran down her spine. —What is a resonant artifact? —Valerian asked, locking his expectant eyes upon her.

The answer broke from her lips almost by reflex, driven by the vivid horror of her last reading: —An artifact is… the legacy of a resonant. More precisely, the one they leave behind upon dying, involuntarily impregnating an object with their essence of the void. She fell silent abruptly, as if she had bitten into a poisoned fruit. She had said too much, too soon. Valerian observed her, and a grimace of genuine annoyance distorted his face.

For an instant, his eyes seemed to turn white, devoid of all humor or interest. —Too prosaic —he spat with disdain. Selena grew pale for a second; her nervous gesture led her to rub her hands, to touch her fingers. —It is equivalent to telling you how paper is made but not explaining to you why. It is the definition of a child who has seen a corpse but does not understand death. He leaned back against the lectern, crossing his arms.

—Your punishment, for such a poor performance, will be to torture the commoners less with your ignorance and dedicate more real time to study. He kept silent, rocking slightly on his heels, letting the reproach settle into the heavy air. Then, he leaned forward again, his expression shifting like light on a puddle of oil. —Second question —he said, and his tone was now one of pure provocation— What is the name of the artifact left behind by the first king upon his death?

Selena opened her mouth, but only an empty breath of air came out. Her mind scrambled through the pages of Eliud's book, desperately searching for a name, a specific mention. She had read it greedily, but… a name? I don't remember it, she told herself mentally. Then, Valerian made a gesture of theatrical annoyance, as if he had just remembered something inconvenient. —Ah, that's right —he said almost with irony. A bubbling laugh, genuinely amused, began to escape his throat. —It is not in that book.

Of course it isn't! Do you think state secrets, the cursed legacies of the founders, are so easily labeled? He laughed out loud, a harsh, cheerful sound that echoed in the empty room, upon seeing the look of absolute bewilderment and frustration that clouded Selena's face. Selena managed to make a sound, an attempt at a protest that choked in her throat, but Valerian gave her no time. He cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand, as if brushing away an annoying fly.

—To pull you out of your intentional ignorance —he announced. His tone shifting to one of false pragmatism. —We shall do something much better than these useless questions. Take note, crimson: you will need the book you asked me about last time. That one, The Oneiric World of the Bandaged Mage. He paused, letting the title, strange and evocative, float in the air. Then, he added with a studied casualness: —When we leave class, go to my office. It is surely underneath the leg of a table.

A spark of malevolent amusement lit his gaze. —It is of utmost importance for the balance of that table's project. A treatise on dreams and bandages… perfect for leveling lame furniture, don't you think? So have the decency to swap it for something more appropriate. A treatise on geometry, perhaps. Valerian turned his head for a second, as if he had lost something in the air. —You are a wretch —Selena murmured between her lips. The sound was so low the words were barely a brush of air.

But then, indignation over the wasted time, over the constant mockery, rose within her like the tide. She raised her voice, clear and cutting: —You owe me at least three months of life. You have no idea what I invested in searching for it, in rummaging through dusty shelves for your whim. Valerian brought a hand to his chest in a gesture of feigned terror, but his eyes shone with glee. —Oh, how scary! The crimson duchess will take my head. His mockery was tangible, a sweet poison in the air.

—But rest easy, I will compensate you, girl. If you impress me enough… He made a dramatic pause, drawing a little closer. —I could tell you where to get another bracelet like that one. —He winked, a quick gesture laden with a dangerous promise. The mention of the bracelet, the link to Corren and his silent power, made Selena's heart skip a beat. But it wasn't enough. It couldn't be. Valerian always played with half-truths and poisoned favors. —I accept —Selena said, her voice recovering a calculating coldness.

The jester smiled, as if everything were taking the course his words mapped out. —But that is not a sufficient price. You charged Yarra those two hours that time, remember? Making her walk on her hands every day for ten minutes for a week. An absurd and humiliating punishment. She advanced a step, defying the distance he always imposed. —I also want you to tell me more about the dungeons. No vagueness. Something concrete.

Valerian stared at her, and for an instant, the jester's mask cracked, exposing genuine surprise, followed by a burst of contained hilarity. —Ha! —he exploded into a dry laugh. Selena arched an eyebrow; surprise reflected upon her. —What insolence, so typical of the nobility! Demanding, negotiating… I am your master, bloody girl. You have no power over me. He leaned in, his smile becoming wide and foolish, but his eyes were two pools of absolute darkness. —And what's more… I do have it over you.

Every heartbeat the echo steals from you, every secret you yearn for, every step you take on this path… passes through my permission or my detour. The rest of the class passed in a charged silence. Valerian dedicated himself to making exaggerated faces from his lectern: theatrical yawns, looks of extreme boredom, gestures of falling asleep. But he did not utter a single sound. It was a lesson in pure power, of demonstrating who controlled the rhythm, the sound, the knowledge in that space.

Selena remained motionless, observing him with an outward calmness that hid an internal boiling of frustration and determination. When the allotted time came to an end, Valerian did not utter a word of farewell. He simply stood up, adjusted the cuffs of his black tunic with red trim, and headed for the door. Selena followed him out into the filtered light of a small clearing between trees with twisted trunks and spear-shaped leaves.

There, on the threshold between the hidden architecture and the outside world, Valerian stopped. Without turning, he stretched his lips into a strange grimace not a smile, but a tense gesture that pointed with crystal clarity toward the direction of his office, hidden somewhere among the mossy stone buildings.

Then, bringing an index finger to his own lips in a universal gesture of silence and secrecy, he blended into the trees without making a single sound more, leaving her alone with the task, the promise, and the warning echoing in the still afternoon air.