Kleo Erili
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AWoA - Chapter 55 - The Fallen Professor
🕑 Added 2025-09-14 17:12:01 +0000 UTCThe news spread like wildfire through the university one evening – the Illuminator had searched Professor Horne's private library again and found a hidden collection of erotic literature. Worse still were his handwritten fantasies about female students, which he had scribbled in the margins of the books.
"They found several notebooks," Crispin told Valentina scandalized. "Full of... details. About his female students."
Fear gripped Valentina. She knew exactly what – and about whom – Horne had written in those pages.
The Emberwardens searched Horne's rooms thoroughly, carrying away piles of books and papers. The professor himself was nowhere to be seen.
Valentina activated her Essence Listening. She knew the Illuminator was probably interrogating Horne right now – and she needed to know what he was revealing.
The sounds from the interrogation room were muffled, but clear enough. The creaking of the questioning chair in which they had bound Horne. The soft click of the metal rails that immobilized his fingers – a cruel device specifically designed to prevent Essence Weavers from weaving.
"Confess your sins," Eastwald's voice came to her, "these... abominable fantasies. Have you ever acted them out?"
"No," Horne gasped. "Never. It was just... thoughts. Faint moments."
A dull thud, followed by a suppressed sound of pain. "Don't lie," Eastwald hissed. "We've read your notes. Those detailed descriptions of certain female students. Valentina of Palewood, for example..."
Valentina's heart skipped a beat.
"What about her?" asked Horne with remarkable composure.
"You have very... specific fantasies about her. Full of details. Details that a professor shouldn't know."
"Fantasies. Nothing more. I hardly know her."
Another blow. Then the horrible sound of breaking bones, followed by Horne's agonized scream.
"Your fingers are very sensitive, aren't they?" Eastwald said gently. "How many more of them are you going to sacrifice for your lies?"
"He'll hold out," Vyxara murmured in Valentina's mind. "Not out of loyalty to you – maybe a little – but mainly because he knows that a confession would be the death of him."
The interrogation dragged on for hours. Valentina forced herself to listen to every moment. The breaking of more fingers. Horne's increasingly faint cries. His stubborn refusal to admit to anything more than impure thoughts.
At some point just before dawn, it was over. Valentina heard them let go of Horne, his heavy breathing, the clanking of the loosening shackles.
An hour later, the Illuminator gathered the entire university in the courtyard. It was bitterly cold as the students and professors came together. The Illuminator stood on the steps to the Burning Tower, his gaunt figure against the grey winter sky. Professor Horne knelt beside him, his broken hands on the frozen stones in front of him.
"Look!" Eastwald's voice thundered across the courtyard. "Look what's behind the mask of scholarship!" He held up one of Horne's notebooks. "This man to whom you have entrusted your education has abused his position to harbor impure thoughts. To ogle young women, to defile their innocence in his perverse fantasies!"
A murmur went through the crowd. Some students backed away, others stared transfixed at the broken figure of their former professor.
"His writings," Eastwald continued as he slowly flipped through the pages of the notebook, "are full of detailed descriptions of his female students. Their movements, their voices, their... physical characteristics." His voice dripped with disgust. "He wrote down their names, studied their daily habits, ogled their bodies, imagined how he..."
"Enough!" Decan Valemont stepped forward. His face was ashen, but composed. "We understand the seriousness of his offenses."
The Illuminator smiled thinly. "Do you, Decan? Do you really understand how obscenely he has ravished your female students in spirit? At least in spirit, I might add. Or did you maybe already know about it, Your Magnificence?"
"I understand that Professor Horne can no longer teach at this university," Valemont said firmly. "His position is abolished with immediate effect."
"That's not enough!" Eastwald's eyes glowed with fanatical fervor. "His sins require a harsher punishment. Expose his back!"
The Emberwardens stepped forward. Horne did not resist as they tore his coat and shirt. The cold air made him shiver, his pale skin almost translucent in the morning light.
"Twenty strokes," the Illuminator announced. "And with each blow, I will read out one of his impure fantasies so that not the slightest doubt remains about his depravity and how much he deserves this punishment."
The whip cracked through the air. The crowd flinched at the first blow. Eastwald began to read from Horne's book and they began to murmur. Horne made no sound, but his whole body tensed.
Valentina forced herself to look. She owed him that. Blow after blow, the whip shredded his back until the blood ran over his pale skin. And Valentina counted every blow.
"He protected you," Vyxara whispered. "Not out of nobility, but he did it."
When it was over, Horne lay crumpled on the icy stones. The Illuminator turned to face the assembled students.
"Let this be a warning," he said in a cutting voice. "Sin may hide in secret, but the Martyr sees everything from his refuge in hell. And his servants will drag it into the light and burn it out wherever it hides."
The crowd slowly dispersed, distraught and silent. Decan Valemont knelt down beside Horne.
"We will have you taken to your rooms," he said quietly. "I will call for your sister, Wymond. Rest until... until you can travel." It was an act of mercy – he could have driven Horne away immediately.
Later that night, Valentina crept to Horne's chamber. She knew it was risky, but she couldn't leave him there like that.
She found him lying on his bed, his face buried in the pillows. The smell of blood and bitter herbs hung in the air.
"Professor?" she whispered.
He turned his head, his eyes glazed over with pain. "Valentina?" His voice was little more than a croak. "You shouldn't be here."
"I know." She stepped closer. "Let me help you."
"Why?" he asked bitterly. "After everything I've..."
"You kept quiet," she said simply. "Despite the torture. That deserves something."
With gentle hands, she removed the temporary bandages from his back. The wounds were deep, some inflamed. His fingers were grotesquely swollen and discolored.
Valentina began to weave, carefully and precisely. She let Leb Essence flow through his battered muscles, healing torn tissue, soothing the inflammation, not sparing the Distilled Essence either, she had enough of it now. She carefully straightened his broken fingers, brought the bone splinters together and fused them.
It took hours. When she was finished, she was exhausted, but his breathing was calmer.
"Thank you," he mumbled. "Even if I don't deserve it."
"Get some rest," was all she said and walked to the door. There she turned around once more. "Farewell, Professor."
He nodded weakly.
Three days later, his sister, a widow of sixty, came to pick him up. Valentina watched from the window as she helped him into a carriage. He walked with a stoop, like a much older man, but his wounds had healed.
As the carriage rolled through the gate, Valentina heart was conflicted, full of pity, gratitude and relief and she knew in this moment, this was a chapter of her past that was closing.
"And it should be a warning to you," Vyxara said thoughtfully. "The Illuminator is thorough. And merciless."
"He is," Valentina thought grimly. "But I won't fall into his hands."
~
The Martyrium celebrations brought a strange silence to Bridgewater. The traditional fires burned in the streets, and the Burning Tower shone brighter than ever. Even the Illuminator seemed to curb his persecution rage somewhat – at least for these holy days.
Valentina watched the processions from her small window. The faithful carried torches through the snow-covered streets and sang hymns to the Martyr. Among them were many of her customers from Violet Delights – now pious and demure, as if they hadn't been panting heavily between Valentina's legs the night before, the courtesan they paid to take on the guise of their neighbor's wife and then let them do with her as they pleased.
"People are masters of self-deception," Vyxara remarked with amusement. "During the day they pray for redemption from their sins, and at night they come to us to commit new ones."
The winter months brought more customers to Violet Delights. Perhaps it was the long, dark nights, perhaps it was the cold that made people seek warmth. Valentina had long since gotten used to the work, and was even beginning to find a certain joy in it. Acting, playing different roles – there was something liberating about it.
Over time, she had also perfected Vyxara's trick with the pelvic floor muscles. She could now tense and relax the muscles in undulating movements, sending her clients into ecstasy. This skill, combined with her acting talent, quickly made her one of the most popular courtesans in the house.
"You have a natural talent for it," Madame Dolorosa said to her one evening when they were alone. "The art of transformation is in your blood."
Since Valentina knew her secret, their relationship had deepened. They often had long conversations about the nature of identity, about masks and truth and the economic aspects of the business. It was good for both of them to have someone they could talk to openly.
"As a little girl," Valentina said thoughtfully as she swirled her wine, "when I first heard about... women like us.... I still remember feeling sorry for them. As if they were poor, lost souls."
"Ah." Madame Dolorosa smiled thinly. "The usual story – fallen women who have no other choice and then are forever soiled and defiled."
"Exactly." Valentina leaned back in her chair. "But it's so much more complicated than that, isn't it? Some are here because they have to, others because they want to. Some, like me... for both reasons. And none of us are worth less because of it." Her cheeks turned a little pink at this confession.
"People love to pigeonhole women," said Madame Dolorosa. "The whore, the saint, the good daughter. As if you can't be everything at the same time – clever and sensual, practical and passionate."
"Does it make us bad people?" Valentina voiced the question that had been on her mind for a long time. "That we sell our bodies?"
"What are we really selling?" Madame Dolorosa leaned forward. "An illusion. A fantasy. A moment of closeness. Men don't pay for our bodies – just think of my case – they pay for what we make them feel. Is that really more reprehensible than other ways of earning a living?"
The new year began with a heavy snowstorm. The university was blanketed in white, and even the Emberwardens reduced their patrols. Valentina used the quieter days to write letters to her family in Palewood and send money. Her family would never know where the money came from, but it would help them through the harsh winter.
Rose, who had now become a close friend, even though they didn't know each other at all outside Violet Delight, not even their real names, helped her coordinate her different lives. "You have to be careful," she warned, "the more successful you become, the more attention you attract."
She was right. 'Lily's' growing popularity with customers also came with risks. More than once she had to gently but firmly turn away a particularly persistent suitor who wanted to meet her outside Violet Delights, wanted to know more about her.
"Secrets are like snowflakes," Madame Dolorosa used to say. "Individually they are soft and fragile and quickly melt away. But put enough of them together and they can bury you."
On a particularly cold Thursday, as the wind howled around the corners of Violet Delight, Valentina counted her savings. The sum was substantial – enough to fund her studies for some time. It was comforting to have a financial cushion and still have enough to send something to her family.
"You've really earned this," said Vyxara appreciatively.
Valentina put on her illusion artifact and looked at her changed reflection. Tonight she would be Lily again, the mysterious blonde from Clairmontine. She was looking forward to it. She had fought for a certain independence, found a place where she could live out her different natures.
A short time later, she was sitting in her Lily guise on one of the velvet sofas in the salon, sipping a glass of red wine and chatting quietly with Rose about the latest gossip in town while they waited for clients. The room was warm and inviting, filled with the subdued light of the Essence lamps and the familiar scent of violets and musk.
"And then," Rose just giggled, "Lord Guillaume actually claimed that he didn't have the slightest idea where the mysterious stains on his wife's maid's dress came from..."
The door opened and Madame Dolorosa glided in, elegant as ever in her dark purple silk dress.
"Lily, my dear," she said in her characteristic velvety voice. "I have a young nobleman for you. He explicitly wanted a girl who can... well, can handle it when things get rougher."
Valentina smiled. With all her experience, Madame Dolorosa had quickly discovered that Valentina thoroughly enjoyed this kind of play – as long as certain boundaries were not exceeded.
"Does he want submissive or defiant?" she asked.
"Defiant," replied Madame Dolorosa.
"What does he look like?"
"A little heavy-set, but not unattractive." Madame Dolorosa pulled a strand of hair out of a small casket. "He wants you to embody a certain person for him. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"I'll take him on," Valentina said lightly. After all the bizarre fantasies of her customers, nothing could surprise her.
"Excellent. I'll send him straight to the red room."
Rose winked at her. "Have fun, sweetie. And remember – if he gets too rough..."
"I know where the Essence bell is," Valentina finished the sentence with a laugh. She took the strand of hair and set off.
In the red room, named after the dark red velvet curtains and the lavish wall coverings, she first checked her appearance in the large mirror. The golden hair of her Lily guise shone in the warm light of the lamps.
She carefully opened the small compartment in her illusion artifact and placed the new strand of hair inside. With practiced fingers, she activated the familiar Essence pattern.
The usual warm shiver of transformation ran through her body – but something was wrong.
In the mirror, she didn't see a strange woman, but... herself. Valentina. Her own face stared back at her in astonishment.
"What the..." She hastily undid the pattern and tried again. Again, her Lily form transformed into her true self. A third time – with the same result.
Panic rose within her. The artifact had to be defective. But that was impossible, these artifacts were masterpieces of Essence Weaving...
The door opened.
Valentina's heart stopped.
"Well, well, well," said a familiar voice that made her blood run cold.
There, in the doorway, a triumphant smile on his broad face, stood Faustus Boarfend.
