Chương 19: Chapter 18: The Cost of Being Elma

A day after learning to weave water, Elma turned the same method on air. Under normal circumstances she wouldn't need to weave something so abundant, but she wasn't willing to leave anything to chance. A book she'd found also listed dozens of Flow compositions she had no natural access to. She weighed whether to simply ask Valerius for them, or whether the request itself would draw suspicion. She needed the power. She also needed her cover intact until she was strong enough not to.

The Altheris Manor had been purged of its quiet, academic sterility. In its place was a sensory riot: the heavy, cloying scent of roasted boar, the sharp tang of spiced wine, and the rhythmic pulse of a string orchestra. The banners celebrated the "Victory on the Shore." The allied Lords who had fought alongside Valerius were already gathered. Lords in title, sovereign rulers in practice. Men and women who commanded nations and armies, still wearing the exhaustion of the front lines beneath their tailored silks.

They hadn't taken a day to rest, a day of rest was a day your rivals used to sharpen their knives. They were here for two reasons: to claim their share of the glory, and to gauge exactly how much Valerius had learned about the attack on his own estate. Jorm moved through the press of bodies with a silver serving tray, her posture slumped into the perfect, invisible insignificance of a domestic worker.

In the past three days, they'd tried every kind of ambush to catch the boy, but it was like he always knew where they'd be. Not once had he shown himself. If he was this good at hiding, Elma wasn't worried about anyone else catching him before her. But she still needed to find him. Elma stood on the periphery, her small back pressed against a cold marble pillar. She cataloged every face, every nervous tic, and every field that hummed in the room.

Her gaze locked onto a figure being wheeled through the crowd by two stone-faced attendants. The man was now a prisoner of a mahogany chair, his legs covered by a heavy quilt that couldn't hide the missing mass beneath. The Red Shore seemed to be more dangerous than Elma had thought. The heavy doors groaned, and the room's temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Lady Nina Kresnik entered, the Kresnik banners trailing in behind her—a black spider nested over a pale, full moon.

Silver-haired and draped in a slate-grey gown that looked heavier than mail, she was exactly as Elma remembered her: a monument carved from granite. Behind her filed a line of women in guard's plate, each one silver-haired in turn, as if the color were less a trait than a uniform." She hadn't stepped a single foot onto the Shore. She hadn't bled for the victory everyone was currently toasting. Yet, as she moved, the crowd parted like a red sea.

The war-torn Lords gave her a wide berth—not out of love, but out of a deep-seated respect for the power she held behind the scenes. Beside her, a tall, thin lady with the Kresnik silver hair walked in perfect synchrony with her. She mirrored Nina's measured stride so precisely it felt as if the motion had been rehearsed in a mirror-world. Behind her, however, were the variables. The first was a man.

He was a study in fragility—shoulders hunched, eyes darting, moving with the agonizing tension of someone who expected the air itself to shatter against his skin. The second was his counterweight. A woman clad in silver-slim armor that caught the flickering torchlight like running water. Adjusting her pace and her perimeter to every jittery step he took. Her walk looked oddly familiar. Elma watched them pass, her mind already weighing the threat. Nina Kresnik didn't need to fight in the mud to be a goddess of war.

She owned the people who did. Elma let out a thin breath. No more. She was no longer the pathetic creature who struggled to roll over on silk sheets. She had compressed her field, mastered the Mutual Negation, and survived an assassination. Her power was growing at a rate that surprised even Sable. And she needed to get stronger still. Valerius was too gullible to suspect a thing, and even if he did, she could redirect him easily enough.

She scanned the shifting sea of nobility, her eyes cutting through the haze of perfume and wine, searching for the gold-draped silhouette of Valerius— Her heart seized. Fenric was standing twenty feet away. He was speaking to Christa, his posture relaxed, his tone seemingly light. The light from the chandeliers glinting off those same angular features and gray eyes that had been the last things D-66 saw before the void claimed her. He hadn't seen her yet.

He was playing the part of the guest—calm, polite, a ghost of a smile dancing on his lips as he charmed her mother. Elma staggered back, her heel catching on the base of the marble pillar. She didn't look down. She couldn't. Her entire universe had narrowed to the man who had unmade her. The movement caught his eye. The Strategoi's gaze shifted, peeling away from Christa with the slow, inevitable grace of a predator. He turned. Their eyes met. He began to walk toward her.

The ballroom noise collapsed into a single piercing ring, the kind that used to scream through the vats when the restraints locked. Roasted boar and spiced wine curdled into the copper-salt reek of her own blood on dry sand. Every step he took was a hammer blow to her heart. Tunnel vision set in, blacking out the lords, the ladies, and the banners until there was only him. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. She couldn't breathe.

Couldn't even make the child's lungs hitch properly; they fluttered like a dying moth against her sternum. He was the same mountain of a man. The same hands that had once lifted her severed head for the world to see. All she could do was stare up at Fenric as he reached into his coat—the same measured motion he'd used before the sword took her head. Elma's mind filled with the phantom scream of steel. She felt the spatial distortion of his spear before it even manifested.

She braced for the cold bite of the blade, the heat of the gutting, the finality of the dark. He unsheathed— A brightly wrapped candy bar. The crinkle of the gold foil pierced the ring in her ears like a lance. Elma could only stare. Her body remained a cage of tensed muscle, locked in an agonizing wait for an impact that never came. Fenric held the candy bar steady. The wrapper was bright, loud, and utterly mundane.

"Here," he said. His voice wasn't the cold decree of an executioner; it was calm, approachable, and horrifyingly warm.

"Don't be afraid. Your father will be here soon." Her hand moved of its own accord. The gold foil crinkled under her touch. He reached out and patted her on the head—a light, casual gesture of affection—before turning and vanishing back into the sea of silk and laughter. Elma stood frozen. The phantom pain in her gut began to recede, leaving behind a cold, hollow nausea. The hall slowly bled back into focus—strings tugging at the air, roasted meat heavy in the nose.

She waited, her gaze fixed on the spot where he had disappeared, until she was certain he was gone. Then, she turned and bolted. She didn't stop until she reached the darkened edge of the terrace, far from the light. She doubled over, her small frame heaving as her body violently rejected the encounter. She threw up until there was nothing left but bile and the metallic taste of terror. She looked down at the candy bar still clutched in her trembling hand. She snarled and hurled it into the darkness of the gardens.

Elma clawed at her chest, her heart still roaring against her ribs as if she was suffering from blood loss. Four years, she thought, the words a bitter venom in her mind. Four years of promises, just to be paralyzed by a crinkle of gold foil? She dropped to her knees in the dirt of the garden, the wide skirt of her dress blooming around her like a dying flower. She struck the ground with a small fist, the impact jarring her shoulder.

"Weak," she hissed. She had played the part of the child so well that she had actually become one. This wouldn't have happened in the vats. She looked at her trembling hand. The realization hit her harder than any strike. Back then, courage cost nothing because she had nothing to lose. Death was just a transition from one dark room to another. But now, she had a name. She had a future she was beginning to crave and a life she didn't want to end. It was a trade. The cost of living…

The cost of being Elma was the sudden, suffocating weight of fear. She forced her fingers to uncurl. She forced her heart to slow. This was his fault. For it to never happen again, she needed to surpass him. If he could kill her, the outcome would always remain uncertain. He needed to be eliminated. She steadied her breath and looked back into the glare. I will not let him die ignorant. The vow threaded through her thoughts and pulled taut.

The celebration spilled out onto the manor grounds. The air was thick with the scent of pine smoke and expensive spirits. Torches flickered in the breeze, casting long, dancing shadows across the long tables where the Strategois and Lords sat. The dirt was still packed beneath her fingernails when she took her seat beside Valerius. He glanced at her hands once, something moving briefly across his face that she didn't have a name for and didn't want one. She ignored it and looked at the table. He didn't know.

To Fenric, she wasn't the experiment he had surgically dismantled four years ago. She was just Valerius's daughter. Her gaze shifted across the table. Fenric was seated comfortably beside Lord Teyrn. On the opposite side, Varik sat next to his father, Lord Thorne, their resemblance unmistakable even across the length of the table. Was her assessment wrong? A sudden commotion shattered the rhythm of the feast. A teenager, draped in arrogant burgundy and carrying the sharp, hungry features of House Teyrn, stood up.

Damian, the son of the Lord, began to cross the grass toward the high table. He moved with a swagger that spoke of mid-tier talent and high-tier ambition.

"Lady Elma, I've been wanting to meet you." He offered a courteous nod.

"Word of your encounter with the assassin has spread farther than you might think. Holding your ground at your age is impressive." His eyes gleamed with interest.

"Would you be willing to spar with me?" Elma watched him approach. She sat perfectly still, her small hands resting on the silk of her dress. She said nothing.

"Don't worry," Damian continued, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

"I'm not challenging you to a real fight. It's only a spar." His smile softened slightly.

"You've already proven your courage. I just thought it might be a good opportunity for us to exchange a few moves. There's no need to be nervous." A ripple of interest passed through the gathering. Across the tables, Strategoi exchanged amused glances, while several Lords leaned forward in their seats. The prospect of seeing the famed "Little Jewel" of House Altheris test her mettle was enough to draw every eye. Elma looked toward Valerius.

Her father threw his head back and laughed, the booming sound rolling across the terrace.

"A spar?" he said, grinning broadly.

"As long as it's only a spar, I see no issue." Several of the gathered Lords relaxed at the response.

"My lord?" Commander Thiyya murmured from behind. Valerius waved a hand, his grin unbothered.

"It's only a spar," he said to Damian, "but be careful with her. She's still young." His eyes flicked to Elma, something sharper than pride glinting beneath the smile. He hadn't actually seen her fight—only heard the secondhand account of the assassin, filtered through reports. Now here was a stage, and an excuse, handed to him for free. He turned to her, grin widening.

"Go on, little jewel. Show everyone what an Altheris is made of." Elma stared at him, disbelief flashing hot and bright. How could he allow this? The boy was nearly three times her age, larger, stronger, and almost certainly trained for years. Yet Valerius had accepted the challenge without a moment's hesitation. Reckless.

"I admire your enthusiasm, Damian," Nina Kresnik said, her voice a cool blade of reason.

"But she is still far too young for such displays."

"Relax," Damian said with a good-natured smile.

"It's only a spar. From everything I've heard, Lady Elma can handle herself just fine."

"Have a little faith in your own granddaughter, Lady Nina," Valerius said, glancing toward her. Nina said nothing. She only sighed, the sound carrying more weight than any argument would have. Elma's gaze flickered. She saw Fenric pausing, a shadow of curiosity on his face. She saw Jorm across the grounds, her serving tray forgotten, her eyes wide with terror. Elma's gaze snapped to Christa, and the moment their eyes met, Christa was already rising so abruptly her chair toppled backward.

"She's too young," she said immediately.

"Damian is nearly a decade older than her. This is absurd." Lady Nina Kresnik closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Christa took a step forward, then doubled over in a violent fit of coughing. The words dissolved into ragged gasps. Elma's eyes widened. Christa was still healing from whatever the attack on the manor had done to her ribs, and the strain of standing this fast had torn something loose.

The frail man seated beside Lady Kresnik lurched to his feet at once, alarm flashing across his face—a half-beat faster than a stranger's courtesy would explain.

"Christa," he said, catching her arm before she could stumble.

"What's wrong?"

"You have to stop this," she wheezed, trying to pull away.

"You—" Another cough cut her off. The man gently but firmly guided her away from the table despite her protests. Christa looked back over her shoulder, panic plain on her face.

"Stop it," she repeated, her voice thin and shaking as she was led from the gathering. The terrace fell into a suffocating silence. The air thickened with anticipation, heavy as wet velvet. They were waiting for tears. For trembling. For a child to break. Elma rose. The silk of her wide-skirted dress hissed against the grass as she stepped away from the table. She stopped in front of the boy. Their eyes locked. She was not standing for the Altheris-Kresnik image.

Not for banners, not for legacy, not for the brittle pride of men seated at long tables. She was standing for herself. For the girl who had knelt in dirt and sworn she would never freeze again. And beneath the calm, beneath the silk and torchlight— She missed the sound of cracking bones.