Pain had become administrative.

  It arrived on schedule, in measured doses, delivered by men who treated it less like punishment and more like routine. Phillip learned early on not to scream. Screams invited enthusiasm. Silence, on the other hand, bored them.

  The Valval Priesthood was very good at boredom.

  They kept Phillip in the lower levels of the complex, far from the ceremonial halls and the polished stone where hymns echoed and incense burned. Down here, the air smelled of damp rot and old filth. Cells were carved directly into the rock, uneven and cold, their walls scratched with marks left by men who had run out of time before they ran out of despair.

  Phillip slept on stone.

  Sometimes on straw, when someone remembered to throw it in. Often without.

  His body still carried the remnants of war. A shoulder that refused to sit properly in its socket. A knee that burned in the cold. Ribs that never quite forgot the pressure of armor crushed inward by force. The Priesthood did not heal these injuries. They preserved them. Pain, they believed, was a form of humility.

  It was also efficient.

  He had tasks.

  Not work. Work implied purpose. Phillip was given duties designed to erode the idea that he was still a person. He cleaned latrines used exclusively by the priests. He scrubbed dried excrement from corners where no light reached. During festivals, when wine flowed and the faithful were too loud to notice what happened beyond the torches, he was dragged to hidden alcoves and ordered to clean what spilled from excess.

  The priests did not look at him while he worked.

  They spoke over him. Around him. As if he were a piece of furniture that occasionally moved when kicked.

  Food came once a day. Sometimes twice, if leftovers were abundant. Bones picked clean. Bread hardened to the point of splitting gums. Soup watered down until it barely remembered what flavor once meant. Phillip ate everything without complaint. Hunger, unlike pain, dulled the mind. He would not allow that.

  He slept in a cell barely large enough to stretch his legs. Chains were optional now. He no longer ran. Where would he go?

  Jacobo had not visited him.

  That worried Phillip more than the beatings.

  He did not know if Alexander was alive.

  No word reached him. No rumors filtered down far enough to be trusted. The Priesthood was meticulous about information. They fed lies where they wished, silence everywhere else.

  Phillip lay awake most nights staring at the stone ceiling, tracing cracks with his eyes until they blurred into shapes. In those moments, memories came uninvited.

  Alexander teaching him how to read ledgers, patient even when Phillip confused numbers. Alexander standing between him and Reginald’s distant irritation, absorbing responsibility that had never been meant to be his. Alexander arguing with merchants, with priests, with soldiers, always measured, always thinking three steps ahead.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Alexander had been more of a father than Reginald ever was.

  Reginald had been old when Phillip was born. Too old to chase him through halls. Too tired to correct him when he was wrong. Valeo had filled that gap for a while—his older brother, laughing, reckless, strong.

  Valeo died when Phillip was ten.

  After that, it had been Alexander. Always Alexander.

  Phillip clenched his jaw in the dark.

  He hoped Alexander was alive. He hoped he was safe. And he hoped—desperately—that Alexander was not doing something clever and catastrophic in an attempt to save him.

  Because clever plans were Alexander’s weakness.

  The cell door scraped open one evening with unusual care.

  Phillip sat up slowly, joints protesting, eyes narrowing. Guards rarely bothered with ceremony. This was different.

  Jacobo stepped inside, hands clasped behind his back, expression carefully assembled into something that might pass for concern.

  “Phillip,” he said warmly. “You look thinner.”

  Phillip smiled.

  It hurt his split lip.

  “You’ve come to check if I’m still breathing,” Phillip said. “I’m touched.”

  Jacobo chuckled softly, as if indulging a child. “You shouldn’t be so hostile. I’ve ensured you’re kept alive, haven’t I?”

  “Yes,” Phillip replied. “Very generously.”

  Jacobo circled the cell, eyes flicking over the grime, the bloodstains, the absence of comfort. “I was sorry to hear about your injuries. War is cruel.”

  Phillip laughed. A quiet, cracked sound. “You’re not very good at pretending.”

  Jacobo stopped in front of him. “I’m excellent at pretending. I’m simply choosing not to.”

  Phillip leaned back against the wall. “Then don’t waste my time. You didn’t come here for pleasantries.”

  Jacobo studied him for a moment, then sighed. “Your brother worries me.”

  Phillip’s smile widened. “Good.”

  Jacobo raised a brow. “You don’t even know if he’s alive.”

  Phillip shrugged. “If he’s dead, I’ll mourn him properly when I’m free. If he’s alive, he’s already planning something that will make your life inconvenient.”

  Jacobo’s lips twitched. “You have a lot of faith in him.”

  “I have experience,” Phillip replied. “And fantasies.”

  Jacobo tilted his head. “Fantasies?”

  “Yes,” Phillip said pleasantly. “I often imagine the moment Alexander caves your skull in with his boot. I like to picture the sound. I imagine it helps him sleep.”

  For a fraction of a second, Jacobo’s expression slipped.

  Then he smiled. Thin. Ironic.

  “Perhaps another session with the guards will help realign your imagination.”

  Phillip nodded. “Perhaps.”

  Jacobo turned toward the door and gestured casually.

  The guards entered without ceremony.

  Phillip remained seated, watching them approach. He welcomed the pain. Pain sharpened awareness. Pain taught lessons. And pain, when survived often enough, stopped being a threat.

  As fists landed and boots connected, Phillip focused on details. On patterns. On who hesitated before striking and who did not. On which guards enjoyed it and which merely complied. On how the chains were fastened. On the rhythm of the corridors.

  Through blood and ringing ears, a thought settled into place.

  If he was to die here, it would not be quietly.

  And if he was to live, it would be with purpose.

  As the guards dragged him back to his cell and threw him inside, Phillip smiled again—slow, deliberate.

  He lay on the stone, breathing shallowly, cataloging what he had learned.

  Every institution had weaknesses.

  Even holy ones.

  Especially holy ones.

  And the Valval Priesthood, for all its rituals and violence, was built by men.

  Men could be studied.

  Men could be undermined.

  Phillip closed his eyes.

  If Alexander was alive, he would fight from the outside.

  Phillip would fight from within.

  And somewhere between those two pressures, the Priesthood would crack.