The Code That Does Not Bend

  The wind began to blow again.

  But now there was no tension.

  There was recognition.

  Sarya remained standing, the blood on her shoulder already drying, the six Rubros slowly releasing the force that had held her down.

  Aurelius Rowan observed her like someone rereading an ancient manuscript.

  Not as one facing an enemy.

  But as one who has found something long awaited.

  He spoke.

  Without imposition.

  Without aura.

  Without crushing authority.

  — Nine years.

  Silence drifted between the leaves.

  — Nine years since the day your village fell.

  Her eyes did not waver.

  — I was not there.

  No excuses.

  — I failed to protect them.

  Valen lifted his gaze slightly.

  The Patriarch rarely admitted failure.

  Aurelius continued:

  — When I read the reports… I remembered the First Bearer of Indomina.

  The wind moved through the branches.

  — She also never bent.

  The Rubros stood completely still.

  — That is who we are.

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  — We do not bend to corrupt nobles.

  — We do not bend to lustful tyrants.

  — We do not bend to those who buy lives like merchandise.

  His voice grew firmer.

  — We do not kneel to force.

  He looked directly into her eyes.

  — We respect honor.

  — Character.

  — Dignity.

  — And above all… strength in combat.

  He touched his chest.

  — That is the Code of the First Bearer.

  — And it survives to this day.

  A pause.

  — Today felt like watching a passage from the Patriarchs’ manuscript come alive.

  He breathed slowly.

  — You chose death rather than kneel.

  Silence.

  — You are sixteen by the human calendar, correct?

  — Yes.

  — Why do you use the human calendar?

  — Humans do not understand elven foliage.

  — If I said I had lived seven hundred and thirty-two seasons, a human would be confused.

  A few Rubros smiled faintly.

  — We simplify when communication may cause noise.

  — And in the South, the official calendar is the human one.

  — Counted by annual seasons.

  — A method the Empire has adopted quickly.

  Sarya simply watched.

  Distant.

  As if she stood there physically…

  but not emotionally.

  ---

  Valen stepped forward.

  1.95 meters tall.

  Shoulder-length red hair.

  The posture of an heir.

  He carried food.

  — You must be hungry.

  She looked.

  — Hm.

  Nothing more.

  Safira approached.

  — Does your shoulder hurt?

  Silence.

  Safira smiled softly.

  — Your mother was incredible.

  Aurelius raised a bluish stone.

  Alcairum.

  Energy vibrated.

  — Let us go.

  Light enveloped them.

  ---

  Silent Leafroot reappeared.

  Rebuilt.

  Alive.

  Protected.

  Sarya walked to the hill.

  To the gravestone she had built with her own hands.

  Facing the Capital of Whispering Leaves.

  She placed her hand upon the stone.

  — Hi, Mother.

  — I’m back.

  — I found the Rubros.

  No tears.

  But her core trembled like a contained volcano.

  ---

  Valen revealed the Anchor of Autumn.

  Red.

  Intense.

  He pointed south.

  — No slave trader dares step into elven territory.

  — Those who try… die.

  — We are the example.

  She did not react.

  He stepped back.

  But he thought:

  If Father wants her as a Rubra…

  Then I will surpass her.

  I will prove my strength.

  To everyone.

  Including her.

  ---

  At the capital, before the Red Angelim Tree,

  she saw the grandeur of Autumn.

  The castle carved into the very tree.

  Levels descending.

  Patriarch.

  Rubros.

  Houses.

  Valen spoke too much.

  She disappeared.

  ---

  Mount Nidrel.

  Two graves.

  Nidrel.

  And beside it…

  another grave, carefully maintained.

  A single human letter carved upon it:

  L.

  And below it, small:

  Idiot.

  She frowned slightly.

  — Strange.

  Valen appeared.

  — Found you.

  Holding an Autumn apple.

  She thought:

  Insistent.

  — You are being too persistent.

  — Stop trying to impress me.

  He answered quickly:

  — You only respect strength, don’t you?

  He pointed toward the castle.

  — The Rubro Castle will be mine.

  — Not because of inheritance.

  — But because of merit.

  — I will be chosen for my strength.

  — And if you lose?

  He hesitated.

  — When a Patriarch falls…

  — All his Rubros fall with him.

  — A new generation rises.

  — We follow our leader until death.

  He smiled.

  — Beautiful loyalty, isn’t it?

  He spoke of Akatsushime.

  Of rare books.

  Of the Library of Forest Echoes.

  Of nobles who tried to burn them.

  He lifted his chin.

  — There is no threat to my position.

  — My Anchor is the strongest of my generation.

  — No one wishes to challenge me.

  — They will follow me.

  Sarya shook her head.

  — You understood nothing.

  He frowned.

  — Good luck.

  He stepped forward again.

  She turned slowly.

  Her gaze was cold.

  Ancient.

  And she spoke in the elven tongue:

  “Critiant perit drebi te Metis granbi dapi.”

  The wind stilled.

  Translation:

  — Restrain yourself.

  — This is the last time I ask politely.

  — Do not be irritating.

  — Prince of Autumn.

  — I speak in the language you respect, since you do not seem to understand when I ask you to stop in the human tongue.

  The wind rose stronger.

  For the first time…

  Valen felt something unfamiliar.

  Not rejection.

  Not contempt.

  Challenge.

  Pure.

  Unyielding.

  She did not see him as a prince.

  She saw him as an obstacle.

  And for the first time…

  Valen smiled.

  Not from pride.

  But because he had finally found someone who did not bend before him.

  End of Chapter 7.