THE KING OF NOTHING

  Chapter VI: The Price of the Flame

  The air over Oskara was cleaner, yes. The perpetual northern haze didn't reach here, or was swept away by the smoke of a thousand chimneys and forges. But the crimson light of the eternal sunset—that lie painted across the sky—was still the same. In the evening, it cast long, sickly, violet shadows from the west that stretched like dying fingers over the slate rooftops and marble towers of the capital, reminding everyone that the same dying sun watched them here, in the heart of the Empire, as it did over the smoldering ruins of Grey Cleft.

  Irina had settled, grudgingly, into the minor injuries wing of the Main Barracks. It wasn't a hospital, but a warehouse turned dormitory: long rows of canvas cots, the air thick with the smell of sour disinfectant, pus, and resignation. The pain of her broken ribs was a constant presence, a cellmate that breathed with her, sharpening with every movement, every cough, every deep breath she dared to take. But forced rest, regular food—a greyish but hot gruel—and the absence of the need to fight for the next second of life kept her afloat. It was a truce, not peace.

  Vael, for his part, had declared with his laziest smile that he needed "strategic rest to optimize future efficiency" and had cloistered himself in his room under the roof of The Silver Swan, supposedly sleeping the sleep of the just. No one had seen him leave all day.

  ---

  I. The Filth on the Marble

  House Vane wasn't a mansion; it was a statement carved in white stone and held up with ebony beams. It rose in the District of Domes, where every fa?ade competed to be the most imposing, the most intricately sculpted, the most alien to the mud of the real world. The high garden walls hid marble fountains and geometric flowerbeds, but also the cold silence of calculated relationships.

  Elara was received in the main foyer, a space so vast and high its echo returned their footsteps like a whisper of ghosts. It wasn't her father who awaited her, but her mother, Baroness Seraphina Vane. Seraphina stood by a spiraled column, dressed in a pearl-grey silk robe, so impeccable and static she seemed another decorative element. Her face, beautiful and cold as a porcelain cameo, reflected, upon seeing her daughter enter, a meticulously measured disappointment, not a sliver of relief.

  —Elara. —Seraphina's voice lacked warmth, vibration. It was a clear, cutting sound, like crystal striking marble.

  —Mother. —Elara stopped at a prudent distance, keeping her back straight despite the dull ache in her shoulder. The contrast was obscene: her, in a torn, still-dirty military uniform, her skin marked by bruises and scratches, her hair washed but dry and unruly; and her mother, a monument to static neatness.

  The Baroness didn't even approach. Her eyes, the same icy grey as Elara's but without the inner storm, scanned her daughter's figure from head to toe. They weren't looking for wounds, nor signs of suffering. They assessed aesthetic damage, the break in decorum.

  —Your room is prepared —she declared, as if giving an order to a servant—. You'd be a walking disgrace if you present yourself at the family dinner like this. Go. Clean yourself. Appropriate clothing is in the wardrobe. Try not to be late.

  Elara bowed her head in an automatic, ancestral gesture, and climbed the broad marble staircase, feeling each step like a mile. The portraits of Vane ancestors, with their severe gazes and hands on ceremonial sword pommels, seemed to watch her with disapproval from the walls.

  Baron Alaric Vane found her later in the main hall, a room paneled in dark wood and tapestries narrating past glories of the house. He sat in a high-backed armchair by a fireplace where perfect logs burned without a crackle. He drank spiced wine from a cut-crystal glass. He didn't even rise when she entered.

  —Ah. The heroine has returned —he said, not taking his eyes off the flames. His voice was grave, saw-toothed, the voice of a man accustomed to his words being orders or sentences—. The news from the frontier is confused. Losses, they say. Setbacks. Your name does not appear in the official dispatches. Only in the servants' rumors. —Finally, he turned his head toward her. His eyes were dark pools, inscrutable—. We lost the engagement to Merchant Grizel due to your… exhibition of independence. An alliance that would have secured the eastern routes for a decade. That, my daughter, is a tangible loss to this family. One measured in caravans, not anonymous corpses.

  For the following hours, Elara was systematically erased. She sat on the edge of a velvet sofa while her father discussed the future price of winter grain with an administrator, speaking of her and the frontier instability as if they were an unfavorable weather factor. Her mother supervised the cleaning of a Persian rug, scolding a maid for an imperceptible stain, while Elara, seated three meters away, was as visible as the air. No one asked about the Shades, the stench of death on the northern wind, the sound of walls collapsing, the gurgle of her friend bleeding out beside her. Nor about the shoulder that still ached when she moved. Her trauma was invisible, a defective product that didn't fit on the immaculate shelves of House Vane.

  In the end, she felt like a ghost, but not the kind that haunts—the kind that is ignored in the one place that, by blood and name, should be her home. She retreated to her room—a luxurious suite with a balcony, mahogany furniture, and imported silks—that felt like the coldest, emptiest cell she had ever set foot in.

  She sat on the edge of her bed, her back to the perfectly pressed linen sheets. Her hands, clean and soft now, gripped the edge of the mattress. She took a deep breath, and the air smelled of lavender and wax, not mud, blood, or strong coffee. She bit her lower lip, hard, until she felt the metallic, warm taste of her own blood on her tongue. The loneliness that flooded her then wasn't that of the dark forest; it was deeper, more treacherous. It was the loneliness of not being seen, of not being understood, of not mattering. But the Vanes don't cry in public, and barely in private. She forced herself to swallow the knot of emotion, to straighten her back, to maintain the composure that was her second skin, as rigid and suffocating as armor.

  ---

  II. Oskara: The Subtle Encounter

  At midday the next day, the gilded confinement became unbearable. The mansion's silence was more deafening than the battle cries. Elara composed herself. She put on a simple traveling dress of thick wool in a discreet color that wouldn't draw attention among the city's bourgeoisie. She left the mansion through the service door, without saying goodbye, without anyone seeming to notice her absence. She walked at a brisk, almost furtive pace, through the cobbled streets. Her only intention was to breathe air not perfumed with the incense of disdain, and to distract her mind from the cold indifference she'd found where she had, foolishly, expected warmth.

  She walked so lost in her thoughts, observing with a mix of scorn and envy the blind arrogance of the city of marble, that she almost didn't see the figure emerging from a military apothecary on a more modest commercial street.

  Irina was there, standing under the faded sign of a white cross on a black background. She wore civilian clothes: loose trousers of coarse cloth, a simple shirt, and a dark, threadbare cloak over her shoulders. Her face, though more rested than in the barn, was marked by a grimace of contained pain, a small rictus at the corner of her lips betraying the internal struggle. One hand pressed against her left side, over the cloak, and in the other she carried a small canvas bag that smelled faintly of camphor and cheap menthol.

  —Irina —Elara said, stopping short, surprise washing away the grey fog of her thoughts for an instant.

  —Elara. —The lieutenant looked at her, without startlement. Her tone was flat, practical, that of someone expecting to meet acquaintances in a city. Her blue eyes, however, performed a quick assessment: the simple dress, the rigid posture, the shadows under her eyes that rest hadn't erased—. You look awful. Worse than in the forest, and that's saying something.

  Elara recovered her composure, the slight arch of the eyebrow of the educated noble, but inside, a wave of almost shameful relief washed over her. Here was a face that knew. That had seen the same nightmare, breathed the same air poisoned by fear.

  —Irina, what a… coincidence —she said, and her voice sounded less broken than she expected—. Truly, I needed air. Too much marble, too much silence. —She paused, then, with a hint of her old shyness mixed with resolve, added—: Would you like to accompany me on a stroll? Without a destination. Perhaps… we can find a decent pastry shop. Buy something sweet that doesn't taste like campaign rations.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Irina looked at her own bag of useless ointments, then unconsciously pressed her side, where a sharp twinge reminded her of the fragility of her truce with pain. A slow walk would do her good to stretch her legs, avoid stiffness, and distract her mind from the constant discomfort. And Elara's company, now free of military hierarchy, was preferable to her own company in the barracks cell.

  —Sure, Elara —she nodded, with dry pragmatism—. It's better exercise than pacing the barracks courtyard watching green recruits, and more pleasant than smelling disinfectant while a drunken surgeon mutters about my prognosis.

  They began to walk, and Oskara unfolded before them like a tapestry of brutal contrasts. In the District of Domes, the white marble towers gleamed under the crimson light, and the verdigris copper domes shone with a decadent opulence. The upper class strolled with whispering silks and deep velvets, utterly unaware of the black, frozen mud of the north, the dried blood under fingernails, the sound of teeth grinding in fear. They chattered about court gossip, fashions, the prices of southern spices. Every laugh, every frivolous comment, felt to Elara like a small personal grievance.

  They headed toward the canals, where the artificially clean water reflected the ornamental bridges. Elara pointed to a small pastry shop with a display case, where tiny, glazed pastries decorated with candied fruit were lined up.

  —Look —she murmured, and in her voice was a childlike longing, a desire for something pure, simple, and sweet, to erase for a moment the taste of ash and blood.

  They bought two small honey and nut pastries, with a crunchy crust and a spongy interior. They sat on the polished stone edge of a fountain where a marble mermaid spat a trickle of water. They ate in silence, savoring each bite, a simple ritual that, in its normality, was deeply subversive. They didn't talk about House Vane. They didn't talk about broken ribs. They talked about the pastry. About how sweet it was. About how expensive it probably was.

  As they moved away from the high district and entered the commercial and artisan zones, the city's color changed. The immaculate white marble gave way to soot-stained red brick and the dark wood of timber-framed beams. The streets narrowed, grew noisier, more alive. The smell of freshly baked bread mingled with that of tar, tanned leather, and the sweat of working people.

  —Here —Irina murmured, her voice lower, as if sharing a secret— is the rest of the Empire. Those who turn the gears. Those who forge the steel, bake the bread, weave the wool. These people… they will pay the price for what we saw. With their children, their homes, their lives. And they don't even know the bill is already on its way.

  —My father doesn't believe we've lost —Elara said, biting the last piece of her pastry, which no longer tasted so sweet—. He thinks it's a "logistical readjustment." An "inconvenience for trade." He only cares about the numbers in his ledgers, the caravans that won't arrive, the taxes that won't be collected.

  —They don't care —Irina said, and the bitterness in her voice was cold, crystallized by years of seeing it—. The Empire, to them, is like this pastry. The top part, the glazed, decorated part, is sweet and clean. They eat it without thinking. The bottom part, the dough, the part that holds everything up, is raw flour, fat, hard work. They eat that too, but grudgingly, and complain if it's not perfectly baked. They never wonder who kneaded the flour, who lit the oven.

  They walked a while longer in silence, letting the rhythm of the city—the shouts of vendors, the screech of cart wheels, the hammering of a blacksmith—wash away the tension accumulated in their bodies and minds. It was a strange balm, this mundane bustle, after the deathly silence of the north.

  —Irina… —Elara stopped by the window of a fabric merchant, feigning interest in a roll of brocade—. In the forest. When he reset my shoulder… Vael. I saw him. For a moment, when he grabbed my arm… his fingers trembled. It was just a slight tremor, but I saw it. —She lifted her gaze to Irina—. But in the cellar, when he stepped between that club and me… he didn't tremble. Not a muscle. He moved… with a cold precision. As if he calculated the angle, the force, the impact point. I don't… I don't understand Vael.

  Irina looked at their reflection in the shop window, two figures marked by a war no one else on that street seemed to be fighting.

  —Vael —she said, and a light, distant smile, almost of affection, touched her lips— is a riddle wrapped in a cloak of laziness and sealed with an idiot's smile. But for now, he's a riddle that steps between us and death. A peculiar… shield. But useful. Don't try to understand him. Just be grateful he's on our side, for whatever reason.

  ---

  III. The Doctor of the Impossible

  When the day began to tilt toward evening, the crimson sun staining the low smoke-clouds a dirty pink, they stopped near the river port. The smell of stagnant water, fish, and tar was strong, but to Elara it was a thousand times preferable to the perfume of the Vane mansion. She felt better, more anchored in reality, her mind had emerged, at least temporarily, from the cage of marble and contempt.

  —Thank you, Irina —she said suddenly, turning to look at her directly. Her voice was completely sincere, without the varnish of noble formality—. I truly needed this. To get out. To see… normal life. Someone who doesn't look at me like a miscalculation or a broken piece of furniture. I appreciate it.

  Irina nodded, a dry but genuine gesture. However, as she turned her torso to look at Elara, she made an involuntary grimace, a flash of pure agony that crossed her face before she could control it. Her hand instinctively pressed her ribs again, fingers sinking into the cloak's fabric.

  Elara noticed immediately. Her gaze went from Irina's pained expression to the bag of low-quality medicine hanging from her belt. Then she thought of her father's cold display of wealth, the gold coins gathering dust in the coffers, the money he refused to spend on decent equipment for her, the dowry he considered a failed investment.

  —Irina —she said, and her voice acquired a new firmness, a resonance it hadn't had even when she called the lightning—. You're suffering. You're not hiding it well. Those ointments from the barracks… they're colored water and cheap hope. They're useless for anything but fooling the accountants.

  —They're sufficient —Irina retorted, the stoicism of an old soldier hardening her tone—. Pain is a reminder. It keeps me alert.

  —No. It's not sufficient —Elara cut in, with a vehemence that surprised them both. She nodded her chin toward the north, toward the hills where scholars, alchemists, and independent mages lived, away from the bustle but close to money—. I know a specialist. A Doctor of Miraculous Arts. Not a temple healer or a military surgeon. He attends to the nobility when common magic fails and surgery is too… vulgar. He seals bones, repairs tissue, speeds up what the body would do in weeks.

  Irina let out a dry, short laugh that ended in a small gasp of pain.

  —And his consultation, I'm sure, costs more than my salary for the next three years, including battle overtime. No, Elara. I won't spend that. Not even if I had it.

  —You're not going to spend it —Elara said, and now there was a glint of defiance in her eyes, the same that had led her to reject the arranged marriage, but now tempered by the fire of experience—. I am. —She took a step closer, lowering her voice—. I have access to my father's money. To the gold he wouldn't spend on my dowry, or to buy me armor that wasn't an ornament, or to keep me from being sent to the slaughterhouse. I want to use it for something worthwhile. For something that isn't a transaction, but… a repair. —Her voice softened a little—. Please, Irina. Let me do this. It's my way of rebelling. The only one I have left that doesn't involve setting myself on fire in his parlor. And… I need you whole. Not broken. We can't afford that.

  Irina looked at the noble girl, the Baron's daughter she'd known as a frightened burden and who now had her eyes lit with the flame of a determination forged in horror. It wasn't charity she offered; it was an alliance. A payment of a debt Elara felt existed, but that Irina had never charged. It was, at its core, an act of war against the world that had scorned them both, in their own ways.

  Irina held her gaze for a long moment, evaluating, calculating. Then, she sighed. A sigh that was a surrender, but also an acceptance.

  —Alright —she conceded, her voice tired but with a hint of something that could be gratitude, or at least respect—. If you're determined to burn Baron Alaric Vane's inheritance on the battered ribs of a plebeian lieutenant… I won't be the one to stop you. On the contrary, I'll enjoy the show. Let's go.

  Elara guided Irina through a maze of increasingly steep and quiet streets, until they reached a dark, austere stone house, with no signs or heraldic shields on its fa?ade. There was only a discreet symbol carved into the dark wood of the door: an open hand, and in its palm, a five-pointed star. Elara knocked with a bronze knocker.

  The Doctor of Miraculous Arts was an elderly man, thin as a wire, with a neatly trimmed white beard and eyes of a milky color, as if he looked through a veil. But his fingers, as he ushered them into a cabinet filled with glass jars, silver instruments, and the penetrating smell of herbs and ether, were agile and firm. He asked no questions about the origin of the injuries, only requested to see the affected area and, with a glance at Elara, inquired about the method of payment. Upon seeing the House Vane seal she showed on a medallion, he nodded once and set to work in silence, like a craftsman before a complex piece.

  He used an Ether Tincture that numbed the skin, and then, with long, fine silver needles, began to work not on the flesh, but in the space between bone and pain. Irina, lying on a leather examination table, watched, hypnotized and a little alarmed, as she felt not stabs, but a strange sensation of deep heat, as if molten metal were being poured inside her body—but a metal that didn't burn, it repaired. The sharp, stabbing pain that had accompanied her like an alternate heartbeat to her own began to transform. It didn't disappear, but became dull, distant, a manageable discomfort instead of constant torture.

  —It's not instant magic —the doctor warned, his voice a rough sigh as he cleaned his needles with a linen cloth—. The body must still do its work. But the bone will knit in two days, not the three weeks nature… or a barracks surgeon… would give you. The tissue will heal without adhesions that pull with every movement. It is… an optimization.

  An hour later, they stepped out onto the now-darkened street. Irina walked differently. Not completely upright—caution and the habit of pain were still there—but without the rigid stiffness, without the hand clutching her side. She breathed more deeply, testing the new limits with cautious disbelief.

  —I feel… —she said, searching for the word— human again. Not a bag of broken bones with legs.

  —I'm glad —Elara said, and her smile was wide, genuine, radiant inside and out. She had achieved something. Something tangible. Something good.

  ---

  They returned to The Silver Swan Inn when night had fully fallen and the street torches cast circles of trembling light. In the common room, now more crowded with patrons drinking beer and playing dice, they found Vael.

  He sat alone at a corner table, facing a candle slowly consuming itself in its own wax. He stared at the flame with an expression of absolute, transcendental boredom, as if contemplating the very uselessness of the universe through the flicker of a wick.

  —Vael —Irina called, approaching the table with a step that was no longer that of a walking death-wound.

  Vael looked up slowly, as if waking from a deep and uninteresting dream. His green eyes swept over Irina, and he noticed the change immediately. The absence of the defensive posture, the way she didn't clutch her side as she sat across from him.

  —You look less broken, Irina —he observed, in his usual flat tone—. Divine miracle, forbidden magic, or just a good menthol rub?

  —Money —Irina replied, curtly, and nodded toward Elara, who sat down beside her, still with a foolish, satisfied smile on her face—. And noble stubbornness. A dangerous combination.

  Elara settled into her chair, radiant at having been useful, at having made a decision that felt her own.

  —We're ordering dinner, Vael —she announced, with new authority—. House Vane is paying today. And no barracks gruel. We're eating real meat, with vegetables that aren't grey, and bread that can't be used as a projectile. And wine. Wine, not that foot-smelling vinegar they serve here.

  The death-laden silence of the fortress, the fear that smelled of iron and excrement, were left behind, replaced, for this night at least, by the rich smell of stew wafting from the kitchen, the sound of rough laughter in the tavern, and the tacit promise of a quiet night, no watches to stand, no shadows to listen for.

  The friendship between the two women, forged in mud and sealed with expensive ointment and shared rebellion, was now something tangible, solid as well-tempered steel. And Vael, watching them from his corner, with that gaze that sometimes seemed to see too much and other times nothing at all, understood without the need for words that the group—that accidental, mismatched trio—had ceased to be a coincidence forced by misfortune. It had become something. A nucleus. And in the world that was coming, having a nucleus to hold onto was perhaps the only miracle worth having.