The church bells tolled midday, their deep tone echoing through the stone halls. Veronica stood in the nave, watching the orphans file out after morning lessons. The children—some as young as five, others nearing fourteen—moved in quiet lines toward the kitchen for lunch. Their faces were clean, clothes patched but neat, bellies full from the church's stores. Veronica had spent another 10 silver Caps yesterday: new blankets, shoes for the growing feet, and a sack of apples from the market. The children thanked her with shy smiles and small bows before disappearing down the corridor.
Veronica turned to the figure sweeping the far end of the nave.
"Priest Stale."
Stale paused mid-stroke, broom gripped tightly in his hands. His robes were still neat, face flushed with color, eyes sharp despite the worm at the base of his neck. When he looked up at her, there was no dullness—only defiance, a flicker of the old priest burning behind the forced obedience.
Veronica stepped closer, her voice low and mocking.
"You will clean the entire nave today. There will be no rest for you." She leaned in. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to spend the church's caps on your little trips? Wasting tithes on women in that nearby village. How pious."
Stale's jaw tightened, eyes flashing with anger. The memory hit Veronica then—to the night she had forced his confession.
In this same nave, under the cover of night. Stale, bound by tentacles, the worm freshly implanted. She had stood over him, knife in hand, pressing it to his throat just enough to draw blood.
"Tell me," she had whispered. "What connection do you have with the Lord's mansion?. All of it."
Stale had resisted at first, spitting curses, but the worm broke his will. Words spilled out—how he had little to no interaction with the Lord's mansion. And every "trip to the lord's mansion" was a cover for rides to the nearby village, where he spent nights with women, drinking and whoring away the faithful's donations. Veronica had listened.
"Devotion has a new meaning now."
The thought faded. Stale held her gaze for a long moment, broom trembling slightly in his grip, but he said nothing. Finally, he gave a single, curt nod—more acknowledgment than submission—and resumed sweeping, bristles scraping stone with deliberate, forceful strokes.
Veronica watched him for a moment, a faint frown touching her lips, then turned away. The church's facade held—prayers, alms, routine—but beneath it, something colder watched.
In the basement, far below the sounds of children eating and laughing, Amina descended the narrow stone steps. The air was damp and chill, carrying the faint smell of rust, sweat, and blood. A single lantern hung from a beam, casting long shadows across the low-ceilinged room.
Mike was chained to the wall by wrists and ankles—naked, body marked from an endless night of torture. His arms and legs were riddled with nails, rusted spikes driven into flesh at random intervals, some fresh, others crusted with dried blood. Iron filings had been forced into the wounds on his torso—ground into the cuts, irritating the skin, causing constant, burning pain. He hung limp, breathing ragged, eyes half-lidded but aware.
Amina smiled—sweet, almost gentle—as she set a small tray on a rickety table where tools lied. On it lay a thin knife, a pair of pliers, two vials of varying liquid, and a rusted clamp.
"You've been good," she said softly, voice echoing off the stone. "Quiet. Obedient. But I want more. I want to see how long you can stay awake before you break."
She picked up the knife, turning it in the lantern light.
"Veronica spends caps on the children. I spend time on you."
Mike's breathing quickened, a faint whimper escaping his cracked lips. Amina stepped closer, blade hovering near his groin.
"Let's see how long you last today."
She started with the spiked flail—short chain with a ball of nails at the end. She swung it lightly at first, the spikes raking across his chest, tearing shallow lines that welled with blood. Mike jerked, a muffled groan escaping through clenched teeth. Amina swung harder the second time, the ball thudding into his thigh, nails embedding and ripping free on the backswing. Blood spattered the floor; Mike's body convulsed, sweat mixing with the red streaks.
Next came the pliers. She clamped them onto a nail in his arm—twisting slowly, pulling it out inch by inch. The metal scraped against bone; Mike's scream was raw, echoing in the confined space. Amina laughed softly, tossing the nail aside with a clink. She moved to his hand, pinching a filing-filled cut, squeezing until fresh blood bubbled up, the iron grinding deeper into the wound like salt in an open gash.
The knife followed—thin blade tracing patterns across his abdomen, shallow cuts that burned like fire. She carved deliberate lines, watching the blood flow, pausing to wipe the blade on his skin. Mike's breaths came in gasps, body shaking, but the worm kept him conscious, forcing him to endure.
Finally, she set the knife down and picked up one of the vials from the tray. The liquid inside was clear, faintly glowing with a reddish tint. "Time for something special," she murmured. She uncorked it and forced Mike's jaw open, pouring the aphrodisiac down his throat. He choked, swallowing reflexively.
Within a minute, his temperature flared—skin flushing hot, veins bulging. His rod stood rigid, throbbing painfully against his will.
Amina looked at it with disgust, lip curling. "Pathetic."
Ora, sensing her disgust through their connection, extended a tentacle from her back—slick, purplish-red, nudging her cheek gently like a playful caress.
Amina giggled, swatting it lightly. "Master… you're too kind."
She turned back to Mike, reaching for a toothed saw from the table—rusted blade with jagged edges. Without hesitation, she gripped his rod and began hacking—slow, sawing motions that ground through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed; Mike's scream was agonized, body thrashing against the chains. The saw bit deeper, tearing, until it severed completely with a wet snap. The severed piece fell to the floor in a pool of red.
Mike's body slumped, blood pouring from the wound.
Amina uncorked the second vial—a spoiled healing potion, the liquid cloudy and strong-scented. She poured it over the crotch wound. The liquid hissed on contact, bubbling as it sealed the flesh—but not without cost.
"Do you know what happens when a healing potion spoils?" Amina said softly, watching him writhe. "It causes excruciating pain. Weak-willed ones pass out before—"
Before she could finish, Mike's eyes rolled back, body going limp as unconsciousness claimed him.
Amina placed the things down neatly on the tray and skipped up the stairs, giggling to herself.
"It's almost night time. Time to go serve Master."