Quando a porta da cela se abriu pela segunda vez naquele dia, Leo acordou de seu cochilo — não havia nada mais a fazer.
E, para seu azar, não foi Mariano quem abriu os portões, mas dois guardas.
Mesmo na penumbra, ela conseguiu identificá-los pelas vestimentas: longos casacos de lã azul grossa, abotoados até o pescoço, ombros largos, golas rígidas e fileiras de botões de prata que brilhavam à luz bruxuleante das lamparinas a óleo. Os capacetes altos, de construção sólida, tinham viseiras curtas e tiras de couro sob o queixo, escondendo parte do rosto e conferindo-lhes uma aparência mais austera.
Nem sequer lhe desejaram bom dia antes de invadirem a cela. Sem cerimônia, um deles se agachou para destrancar as correntes que prendiam os pulsos de Leo à parede. O metal tilintou contra a pedra fria ao cair.
Com as duas mãos livres, ela esfregou os pontos doloridos e os encarou com aquele olhar que sempre parecia avaliar e zombar ao mesmo tempo.
"Levante-se. O arquiduque deseja falar com você."
"Sério? Que gentileza da parte dele. Devo me vestir para impressionar?" Ela se levantou lentamente, estalando as juntas e esfregando as nádegas dormentes. "Hum..." ela olhou em volta. "Acho que não tenho muitas opções aqui... leve-me ao meu closet."
— Silêncio — disse a outra friamente. Ela o reconheceu à primeira vista e, a julgar pela postura de ambos, nenhum dos dois gostou da brincadeira.
Mas o que ela poderia fazer? Ficar presa naquela cela o tempo todo era suficiente para azedar o humor de qualquer um.
Antes que ela pudesse sair, um dos guardas se aproximou, algemou suas mãos na frente do corpo e, em seguida, vendou seus olhos com um pano grosso.
"Sério?", murmurou ela, arqueando as sobrancelhas por baixo do tecido. "É mesmo necessário seguir esse protocolo? Eu não sou estrangeira aqui."
Sem resposta.
Guiados por um leve empurrão no ombro — como se lhe dissessem que era hora de caminhar — eles a conduziram. Normalmente, quando um prisioneiro era levado para lá ou trazido de lá, seus olhos eram vendados e ele era conduzido por vários caminhos para que se perdesse e acreditasse não haver saída.
Mesmo sem enxergar, sua memória do lugar era quase tátil.
O som das botas no chão ligeiramente irregular, o rangido fraco das grades antigas da terceira cela. A leve inclinação antes da escada, a posição de cada lamparina a óleo… Ela conhecia aquele lugar como se ela mesma o tivesse projetado.
"A parede do segundo corredor foi rebocada novamente?", comentou ela casualmente, percebendo uma brisa que trazia o cheiro de cimento. "Que bom, essas rachaduras poderiam ser um problema sério no futuro."
Silêncio.
"Nada? Nem mesmo um elogio? Vocês dois formam um casal encantador."
Ela conhecia bem o caminho, assim como poderia ter se libertado daquelas algemas e saído da cela há muito tempo. Mesmo assim, era melhor esperar pelo que estava por vir do que correr um risco imprudente em vão.
Afinal, o que ela poderia fazer além daqueles muros? Para onde ela iria?
Lowering her head, she took a deep breath and stretched her neck. At least being locked in a cell for a few days could be a more effective calming agent than fifteen cups of chamomile tea.
All her life, she had had only one clear goal: to become a Silver Herald. Even if her curse made that desire impossible, Leo had not given up.
Dreams are unreal things we run after and try to grasp. There was no room for other paths, so she had done everything to chart the best route to where she wanted to be.
She had surpassed many candidates, stood out in the trials, and shown she was superior in many aspects—even if that had earned her looks of disgust and envy up to that moment.
But isn't that what everyone does to achieve their dreams? Be willing to do anything to get them?
Since she was young, she had counted down the days to her ceremony and imagined what her life would be like afterward. How she would have stories to tell about her hunts, about surviving the harshest environments, about the scars earned in battle, all accompanied by barrels of beer.
As they climbed, Leo counted the flights. Four, then the corridor, left, another left turn, then a straight passage until reaching another flight of stairs.
Those who had passed must have been very happy that a creature like her hadn't mixed with them.
She sketched a scornful smile before they reached the top floor of the Silver Base.
Then they stopped. One of the guards knocked three times on the door in front of her, and by the smell, there were two more guards stationed there as well.
How many times had she imagined herself standing before those doors—doors she could barely see through the blindfold—entering to report some incident or follow protocol?
It must have been quite a scene to witness: a woman bound like a fugitive criminal or something of the sort. Leo lifted her arm slightly and sniffed herself. Well, she didn't smell that bad, so she smiled beneath the blindfold.
"We're here, aren't we? I bet he's sitting there with that arrogant posture, waiting for a speech of repentance."
Ignored again.
She squared her shoulders.
All right, she thought. I'm ready. Go ahead and open it.
The door creaked softly as it slid aside, as if afraid to disturb the authority held within the room. Guided inside, she felt the soundless softness of a luxurious carpet beneath the soles of her shoes and the warm air from the fireplace, inviting her to curl up somewhere and enjoy a good sleep.
A tempting option—but first, she had unfinished business.
Without resistance, just as along the rest of the way, she allowed herself to be led to the sofa. From the texture, it was cushioned and framed with golden details—no, silver ones. That suited Montreal better.
She sat carefully, and when the blindfold was removed, Leo had to blink a few times to adjust to the late-afternoon light. The guards who had brought her in left after greeting the person seated at the desk in front of her.
The room was familiar. The walls were covered with old portraits and expensive works of art. Tall shelves lined part of the room, crammed with books and documents. On the floor, a deep red carpet formed a silent walkway to the lit fireplace at the center of the opposite wall.
Then the door closed behind her with a muffled click.
Leo shifted on the sofa to get more comfortable, observing the three already in the room.
"It's a pleasure to be in the illustrious presence of my judges," she said, "but the role of dangerous criminal doesn't quite fit me. Did you really need to follow this protocol? This is usually done for war criminals or murderers—and I can confirm I haven't killed a single soul to this day. So is expressing my dissatisfaction a crime now?" Leo said with a crooked smile, glancing at the two highest authorities of Montreal: Archduke Carmelius Monteiro and Alphonse Melione.
There was no reply. For a moment, Leo felt like a child being sent to stand in the corner for bad grades.
To her left, the leader of the Heralds, Alphonse, remained standing with his hands behind his back, his expression somber as he watched her. The dark cloak with silver insignias draped perfectly over his shoulders, and his ever-attentive eyes assessed her every movement as if she were a wild creature about to bite.
Part of her wanted to spit on the carpet to show her contempt, but her upbringing wouldn't allow her to be that childish.
And to think she had once admired him enough to want to follow in his footsteps, to be the best candidate, the most perfect one.
Not even he had been able to recognize that.
In front of her, seated at the desk, was Archduke Carmelius—fifty-five years old and still insisting on defying time the same way he defied enemies: with sheer stubbornness. He remained in excellent shape, the kind that made subordinates suspect he trained more than he governed. He ran his fingers through his black hair, once immaculate, now threaded with gray.
His fair skin, marked by subtle lines, made it clear that not even an archduke was immune to time. At the moment, he wore his Herald attire, far more elaborate than Alphonse's. Every embroidery, every symbol seemed to shout: too important to follow common standards.
Carmelius seemed more occupied with the papers before him than with her presence. His face held an icy neutrality that matched the silver color of his eyes—and the Monteiro temperament. It was very difficult to rattle that man.
In the corner of the office, Idan, the head butler, finished arranging a tray with tea and buttery biscuits on a small table in the center. He was a man of indeterminate age, slender and graceful even in his advanced years. He was the only one who acknowledged her with a faint smile.
"Miss Bellius. Would you like some tea? Or perhaps something to go with it?"
Leo turned slightly toward him, her smile returning like a sheathed blade.
"That would be lovely, Idan. I just… think I'd enjoy it more if I weren't shackled like a beast about to bite the porcelain."
Before the butler could reply, the archduke's voice cut through the air.
"Considering your current position, being shackled is the least of your problems," Carmelius said without lifting his eyes from the papers.
Leo raised an eyebrow. So now he speaks. Interesting.
"So I assume the list of problems will be delivered with the tea? Not that you have the right to talk after what I went through."
"Actually, I do. But as for you—what authority do you have to speak?"
Alphonse snorted quietly, rolling his eyes.
Idan simply inclined his head respectfully and served a cup as if nothing were happening.
No one seemed bothered by their exchange. Leo and Carmelius were not on the same level in the hierarchy, yet by her demeanor no one would believe she was still maintaining such pride in the face of a death sentence.
No fear. No forgiveness.
She had nothing left to lose—so why not?
Alphonse moved then, approaching Leo with firm steps. Without a word, he removed her shackles, which fell to the floor with a sharp clatter.
"You may take the biscuits now."
She snapped her fingers and leaned forward to grab a few from the table. She couldn't deny her hunger. The food Mariano had brought was good, but freshly baked biscuits with chocolate chips and vanilla filling were practically food of the gods.
"How gallant. I'm almost touched," she remarked without looking at him.
"No need to thank me," he replied indifferently, returning to his previous position.
That was when Carmelius pushed his chair back and stood, walking to the window to watch the snow falling, darkening the sky even more. As if the bland white landscape of the Nevarra mountains were encouragement for him to begin speaking. By his estimation, it wasn't past three in the afternoon.
"Let's get straight to the point."
"Please, begin your monologue," Leo said, crossing her legs, her tone still sharp. "I've waited long enough being treated like a problem."
Even from a distance, she could see the wrinkle forming as he narrowed his eyes—was he searching for patience? Or for a better way to justify the situation?
Whatever it was, Leo had come here with every intention of rejecting it. There was nothing good enough to justify what had happened.
"You want to know why you were failed?"
"No, I came just to keep you company at tea time," she replied sarcastically. "Because, you know, being publicly humiliated, drugged, and thrown into a cell seems far less important, don't you agree?"
He took a deep breath, his jaw tightening slightly.
"You didn't awaken."
She froze, her hand halfway to the teacup Idan had served.
"Wait… what did you say?"
His neutral tone faltered for the first time as he walked toward the sofa.
"During the final test, your body did not respond. There was no manifestation of your Aura—no instinct, no pain, no reaction. It was as if you were shut down."
"That's impossible," Leo whispered, genuinely surprised—more to herself than to him—as she looked at him for the first time. "You're lying."
"At first it seemed so, but we attempted your Awakening more than once—even using the maneuver with my Aura. Absolutely nothing happened. As if your body rejected my Aura."
"And that means I don't have an aura…?" The question sounded absurd even as it left her lips.
Leo couldn't understand it. Normally, every human has at least a small fraction capable of developing an Aura, and when that fraction cannot withstand an Awakening, it explodes. None of it made sense now.
"Yes, you do," Alphonse Melione added. "You have a potential fraction like anyone else. Otherwise, there would have been no reason for you to participate in the Awakening."
Of course—Heralds are able to see the aura of other Audreans after their own Awakening. An 'extra ability,' so to speak—not particularly useful at first glance.
Leo opened and closed her mouth, swallowing hard. Her turquoise-blue eyes shone as she searched tirelessly for an explanation.
"This doesn't make sense."
"No—and no one can explain it, just as no one understands your curse. It's believed to be connected to it."
The curse. The one everyone whispered about without knowing what it truly was—everyone except the archduke and the healers.
Still, the label of "dead weight" was enough to ensure that, over the years, only a few people had been willing to train beside her.
Considering that only made her more frustrated, so she erased the thought from her mind. It had to be some external factor—anything.
Clenching her fist, she returned to the core of the conversation.
"That still doesn't justify failing me without giving me a chance to defend myself."
"Doesn't it?" Carmelius leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Not reacting in an evaluation test is a risk. And what you did afterward… only made it worse."
Not reacting? He had to be joking. She had at least imagined such a thing could happen—and now she was considered a risk? To whom? Of what?
She clenched her fists.
It took Leo a few minutes to think of anything before letting the worst parts of herself take control again. That had already happened once today.
Being imprisoned again wouldn't lead to a good outcome—especially when this moment was draining what little composure she had left.
"What did I do? Exactly what did I do?" she asked. "As far as I know, if there was a failure in the test, the sensible thing would have been to speak to me directly—not spread it to others." She leaned toward the archduke, as if trying to drive her point home—and in that, she was right.
"Essa era a ideia inicial", respondeu Carmelius calmamente. "No entanto, analisamos alguns casos em que fatores extremos podem forçar um Despertar instantâneo. Acreditávamos que uma situação como essa poderia revelar o melhor de você."
O que não aconteceu.
Nem mesmo expor sua raiva adiantou. Olhando para a palma da mão, marcada por pequenos furos de unhas e sangue seco, tudo ainda parecia insuportavelmente silencioso.
Sua voz foi se apagando, e qualquer raiva que ela sentisse começou a se dissipar.
Tudo isso foi culpa dela?
Leo soltou uma risada sem humor, curta e pesada, como uma pedra caindo no chão.
"Não há nada que se possa fazer?" Uma parte dela ainda tentava — ainda buscava alguma resposta daqueles dois homens. Ela usou todo o seu autocontrole para impedir que sua voz tremesse.
Carmelius e Alphonse trocaram olhares, procurando a melhor maneira de dizer aquilo. Isso bastou para ela saber que não levaria a lugar nenhum.
Dez socos na barriga teriam doído menos.
Com os olhos semicerrados, ela devolveu o chá quase intocado ao pires e perguntou, desta vez resignada:
"Então diga logo. Qual vai ser o castigo? Limpar os estábulos durante cem anos? Ficar confinado numa torre?"
Carmelius olhou para ela, impassível. A palavra deslizou pela sala e pareceu congelar o ar.
"Você será enviado para Arion."