Vestae. The Legend of the Iron Maiden

Under the faint and flickering candlelight, the pages of the book lie empty except for a scattering of letters. They have remained blank for more time than they should and shall soon be stained by a swan’s feather, doused in jet black ink. This feather will be controlled by my hand, admittedly unworthy of the purpose for which it is intended: to tell a story of a woman whose bravery, determination and fortitude were so great, greater than that of any woman to ever have been born in the vast history of Vestae, so great that it would be a truly remarkable feat for, in the future, another woman to be born quite like her.

I am well aware that many historians have attempted to undertake this task, and even some of them have concluded it, portraying her as a wicked witch who was arrogant, difficult and even masculine. However, this is due to the essence of men; it is impossible for them to elucidate the feelings of a woman, given that the very moment they find a woman outside the realm of their imagined feminine, they wind up describing her as if she was just like them. The reality is that this woman was the complete contrast of the oral and written tales, since, although she was courageous and fierce, she never ceased to be a maiden, so beautiful and fair like all those who have deeply inspired the hearts of countless poets.

Now, to recount the story of both her childhood and adolescence would be a foolery, since these tales too have been marred by the writings of those same male historians, of whom, thanks to the extreme order and pragmatism with which the teacher Arion Lucrasea wrote his memories, have told with precision all that happened to her while she was his student, right up until the tender age of sixteen years old. This age, which is without doubt a transformative period for all noblewoman, would be an appropriate beginning. However, I refuse to speak of the one particular feigned tournament in which, with various calculating ploys, Tiran Balastra won her hand. I will thus begin instead by telling the story of a tournament which took place one year later, the year of my sixteenth birthday.

I will resist the temptation to make this preface any longer and allow the unfailing tip of the swan feather to guide me along this great journey.

The history of Nivaria Lunazur

Chapter I

The Knight in Battered Armour

It was the year 1231, a time in which very few Vestals had any kind of knowledge of the ancient Gods; the great majority, like myself, knew nothing of their existence, to the point where nobody would ever have imagined the events that would come to pass at this memorable tournament. The attendees therefore simply just turned up, blissfully unaware, and began to enjoy the festivities. I remember that the morning was warm, with one of those fresh breezes that fluttered your hair and caressed your skin, leaving an aroma of green grass and wildflowers - in other words, one of those perfect spring mornings so typical of the month of Altera Luna. However, that day was not my actual sixteenth birthday since I was born in the season of intense blizzards and the icy winds of the God Aquilo. I also had no reason to celebrate, much less when that tournament had meant days upon days of intoxicated men in every corner of our home - hundreds of stupid lads with heroic pretensions demanding smiles from me, taking my hand almost by force in order to kiss it and then swearing on their swords that they would be victorious in winning my love…. There isn’t something that these idiots like more to defame than the meaning of than love; they use it in such a trivial manner that, instead of expressing that certain feeling, it would seem that they were bargaining for something at a market.

To be continued...