Chương 30: Chapter 29: Sister

Elma woke to the unsettling sensation of her own mass. Her body felt solidified, heavy, and entirely unresponsive. Jorm had carried her most of the way back. With the older girl now utilizing Internal Reinforcement, Elma must have felt as weightless as a pebble in her arms. Throughout the journey, Elma had attempted to trigger the reinforcement herself, but to no avail. It was as if her Resonance Field flatly refused to invert, stubbornly radiating outward rather than permeating her body.

She couldn't manifest even a fraction of a percentage of it. She glanced to her side. The bedside table was bare. Breakfast hadn't arrived yet. Rita. She swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Her muscles felt steeped in lactic acid. She delivered a few sharp, measured strikes to her thighs to force vasodilation and stimulate blood flow. After several calculated attempts, she stood. Her gait was atrocious—she marched toward the bedroom door with the disjointed, waddling mechanics of a malformed duck.

Just as her hand closed around the handle and she pulled it inward, a figure nearly crashed into her. Her host mother stood in the hallway, gripping a wooden tray laden with breakfast. Christa looked... better. Her respiratory rate was steady. Capillary refill in her face indicated healthy, warm circulation. But a bulge—the familiar shape pressing against Christa's collar—caught Elma's gaze instantly. Beneath the fabric was the distinct, circular outline of the same worthless trinket. A new sun pendant.

Why did she get a new one? Elma's mind raced. What did I do this time?

"Sorry," Christa stammered, her knuckles white as she balanced the tray.

"I almost hit you. I came earlier, but you were still asleep, so I asked the maids to warm it for you." She stepped closer, lowering the tray and scanning Elma's posture.

"Are you all right?" Elma said nothing, her nails digging in her palm. Another one? Elma wore the pendant Christa had given her, why did she get another one? Elma looked at the fading smile that Christa wore, like she was an angel herself. The adrenal glands resting above her kidneys pulsed, dumping a chemical flush that waxed over the rust in her joints, forcing her legs to straighten.

Her legs carried her past the woman before the calculation finished, ignoring the tray entirely, and leaving a single, highly inefficient phrase hanging in the air.

"It's none of your concern." By the time she managed the distance to the corridor, the irritation still lingered. She knew she was making a tactically poor decision. Sable would likely strike her again for this defiance, or worse, and her phantom nerves twinged at the memory. But the moment she had seen that new pendant… She filed the emotional anomaly under unresolved and kept moving. She was too physically drained to parse it.

Her pride flatly refused to touch the peace offering Christa had carried, but her cells still demanded fuel. Elma forced her uncooperative legs down the hall toward the kitchen. Inside, the morning rush was in full swing. She spotted Jorm immediately. The girl was leaning against a prep table, her eyes glassy with exhaustion. Next to her was Rita. Rita's gaze flicked to Elma. The two held their gaze for exactly five seconds before the maid quickly lowered her eyes and returned to her work.

Jorm noticed Elma and perked up just enough to slide a plate of bread and fruit toward her. They sat together at the small wooden table tucked into one corner of the kitchen.

"Did you tell her about last night?" Elma whispered, her voice barely audible over the clatter of pans. Who? Rita?" Jorm yawned widely.

"Not yet."

"Don't tell her anything," Elma said quietly.

"She stays in the dark." Jorm looked at her for a moment.

"Why?"

"Just don't do it."

"Alright. Me no tell Rita. Got it." Elma took a bite of the bread, her eyes scanning the room for eavesdroppers.

"The weapon?"

"Somewhere safe, trust me," Jorm said, a faint, tired spark of pride returning to her eyes.

"I have to go back now." Elma chewed her bread, her peripheral vision locked on Rita. Extracting intelligence from the maid presented a logistical hurdle. Delegating the problem to Valerius was an option—she could simply inform him of the hidden exit and let him handle it. No. That would most likely result in unnecessary collateral damage and Jorm would be caught in it. Jorm was still a required asset. She watched Rita slip out of the kitchen and immediately moved to follow.

Just as Elma established a trailing distance, the worst occurred.

"Little Jewel! Haha, I was looking for you." Curses. Elma froze. Valerius—who apparently lacked any meaningful occupation and was actively avoiding his wife—had found the only available target. He scooped her off the floor, pinning her against his chest in that familiar, restrictive hold. She was dragged to his quarters, being deposited in a chair beside his heavy desk. Valerius immediately launched into a rambling monologue about the outside world.

There was nothing Elma wanted more in that moment than to reach across the desk and choke every last bit of air from his lungs. She detected a distinct undercurrent of nostalgia instead; he spoke of the Red Shore as if he were desperately searching for an excuse to leave the estate, cataloguing its deaths and its awful beauty with the reverence of a man who had genuinely loved it there. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Tuning out the auditory static, Elma ran a visual sweep of the desk. Her gaze locked onto a small, framed image. She hadn't realized photography—or its equivalent—existed in this nation. The picture captured three figures. On the left was a younger Valerius, eyes closed and mouth open mid-laugh—a typical, unguarded display. On the right was Varik, his intense gaze fixed on the center. Between them stood a woman with metallic gold hair.

She appeared slightly older than both men, with piercing green eyes—the exact shade as Elma's. The biometric resemblance was undeniable.

"Who is that?" Elma asked, cutting through his rambling. Valerius went quiet. The frame slid across the desk and into his waiting palm without him reaching for it. Geo. He looked at it for a moment before turning back to her.

"I never told you about her?"

"No." He was silent again. Then a faint, almost involuntary smile crossed his face.

"That's, uhm—" He paused.

"That's your aunt."

"Your sister."

"Yes." The word came out slightly stalled, like he'd meant to say more and misplaced it.

"Was she strong?" A small laugh escaped him. Then a larger one.

"Strong?" He set the frame down.

"Her name was Verena the Tempest. She took down a Strategoi at fourteen." He leaned back, something loosening in his posture.

"She was mine and Varik's mentor—though she never acted like one. I always said that. She'd laugh at us if we ruined a weave. And Varik would say it was simply a reflection of her teaching methods, very seriously, you know how he is—" He laughed again.

"And that would set her off worse, so she'd make things harder for us. It was a never-ending loop." His voice softened.

"Produced the two strongest Resonants in the world, so I suppose she knew what she was doing." Indeed. He leaned forward onto his armored elbows, the desk groaning under the weight.

"We were legendary. Hunting beasts that had terrorized this world for millennia. Then our parents were murdered." The laughter didn't leave his face entirely, but it quieted.

"She took the Sovereign's mantle at fifteen. Spent the entire first week doing nothing but taking counsel from every advisor she had. Second week—" He snorted.

"Replaced most of them. She'd played oblivious the whole time, letting them think they could steer her. Letting them show her exactly who they were." He shook his head slowly.

"Hahaha. Gods, she was something."

"What happened to her?" Elma asked. Valerius's expression went still. The warmth vanished from his face, leaving behind a familiar emptiness.

"Well," he managed after a heavy pause.

"She's dead. Betrayed." The word was spat out too quickly, defensive and raw. He sank into his chair, briefly lost in his thoughts. When he spoke again, the defensive edge softened into something heavy and solemn.

"She was the Lady of this house before it fell to me," he murmured. He looked up to meet Elma's gaze, and a proud, sudden smile broke through the melancholy.

"I wish she were here to see you. I think she would have liked you very much." Tempest. A Flow Strategoi. A good mentor. Elma would have wanted her here too. His posture straightened with a surge of genuine conviction.

"And you will take her place when I'm gone, Little Jewel. I look at you, and I am entirely certain. Verena's strength is living right inside you." He chuckled softly, shaking his head.

"Truth be told, there are times I think you're Verena reborn. She never was the sort of woman to let death have the final say." Elma stared back, unimpressed. Even if she managed to sever the Shepherd's control and reclaim her autonomy, ruling a territory was the last thing on her objective list. Why trade subjugation under a single entity for subjugation to the masses? It was an entirely inefficient expenditure of her existence.

She watched Valerius project his expectations onto her and felt nothing but cold indifference. Taking the chance Elma pressed her own inquisition.

"I want to learn how to weave other things." Valerius blinked, pulled out of his reverie.

"That wouldn't be a great idea right now, Little Jewel."

"Elaborate." He leaned back, lacing his fingers together.

"Some compositions share close resemblance to far more dangerous ones. A single misread pattern and you're making something that takes a wall with it." He shook his head.

"It's best left until you're old enough for Metherthrine."

"Metherthrine?"

"The largest Resonance institution in the world." A note of pride entered his voice.

"Once you're there, you can learn whatever you want, properly, with people who know how to keep you from blowing things in the process." Elma held his gaze. That was a considerable amount of time to wait. Following the briefing in the study, Valerius carried her to the dining hall. The environmental tension was stifling. Despite the number of people present—the Kresniks, Valerius, and the surrounding staff—the silence was even more deafening. Valerius didn't speak. Nina didn't speak.

Elma certainly didn't waste a single syllable. Christa sat across from her, her eyes rimmed red. She had been crying. Her gaze kept drifting to Elma with every bite, Elma's previous dismissal got her. Elma tightened her jaw. She was going to be slapped again. Anastasia sat between her and Nina, a composed buffer between two women who clearly needed one.

On the opposite side of the table, Lucien ate without any apparent awareness of the room, utterly indifferent to the suffocating atmosphere pressing down on everyone else. His silver-clad guard stood several feet away from the rest of the servants, her eyes fixed on him with the unblinking steadiness of a hawk that hadn't yet decided to move. The atmosphere was so heavily compressed that when a servant accidentally coughed, they immediately stammered a terrified apology, as if they had shattered a sacred law.

As soon as the grueling engagement ended, Elma executed a flawless retreat to the library for the remainder of the day. Arem was there, attempting to bait her into conversation by loudly dropping random fragments of esoteric lore, hoping her curiosity would force a question. Elma maintained strict silence, preserving her energy and ignoring the bait until the circadian rhythms of the house finally shifted. Elma slipped out of the library, the doors closing behind her with a barely audible click.

The circadian rhythms of the estate had fully shifted into the nocturnal cycle. Her physical frame had mostly recovered from the acid build up, though her gait remained sub-optimal. As she navigated the eastern corridor, her cognitive bandwidth was entirely occupied by Rita. Data extraction was an immediate priority. However, a massive logistical complication blocked the sequence: Jorm. The girl was currently waiting at the designated rendezvous point. Elma ran the probabilities.

Postponing the interrogation until Jorm was incapacitated by sleep was the optimal path. She would meet Jorm first, secure the sword's location, then she should plan the interrogation. A faint, muffled sound broke her concentration. Elma lifted her head. The sound was coming from the dimly lit corridor to her immediate left. Elma veered her path toward it, her steps slow and light. Three water drills silently spinning behind her shoulders. Could it be the boy? She thought, her heart racing.

The sounds grew louder and more frantic, until she rounded the corner. Lucien and his silver-clad guard were pinned in the alcove. The guard had her hand flat against Lucien's chest, their bodies pressed tightly together in the dark. Elma stopped, the Water Drills spinning faster.

"What is this?" The two broke apart instantly. Lucien gasped, gagging on his own spit as he scrambled backward against the masonry. He threw his hands up, offering a trembling, panicked smile.

"H-hey, little niece! Are... are you lost?" Elma ignored him. Her gaze flickered instantly to the guard. The woman's metal mouth guard had been removed. It lay discarded on the stone floor. Before the guard could dive down to retrieve it and conceal her face, Elma's vision locked onto her exposed skin. Carved deeply into the flesh of the guard's left cheek were three precise, violently intersecting scars. Something cold slid down Elma's spine. The corridor narrowed. The air thinned.

The sounds of the Pit echoed in her mind. Back when neither of them could heal properly. D-68 beneath her, wrists pinned against the stone. Blood and tears mixing together as D-66 stared down at the unmarked face that they all liked so much. Fingers lengthening into obsidian hooks. D-68 bucked violently beneath her, a panicked scream tearing itself from her throat. {Maybe if she looked like me, they'd stop.} Elma's heartbeat stalled.

The three water drills hovering behind her instantly shattered, collapsing into useless puddles on the floor. Sister.