Your hands shake so hard the wooden door rattles beneath your touch. The pastor’s chamber waits behind it — a dark square in a house of God that smells of mold, iron, and old tears.

“Open it, you sinner,” your mother hisses. Her rosary clinks against her wrist as she speaks. Behind her stands your father, face flat with shame. And behind him, your half-sister — quiet as always, eyes lowered.

You shouldn’t look. But you do. You always do. Her hair is loose today, a mistake your mother will scold her for later. A single strand clings to her cheek, trembling with the draft. She looks almost otherworldly in this dull, dying place.

You swallow. You wish you could gouge out the thought that follows.

You enter the pastor’s room and close the door. The sound feels final.

He stands before the crucifix, back straight as a blade, robes blacker than the corners of the room. A single candle burns between you.

“What is your confession?” he asks.

Your voice stumbles. “I stole something.”

His eyes flicker. “What?”

You wish you could lie. You wish you had stolen bread, or coins, or even a knife. “A girl’s underclothes,” you whisper.

The candle pops. His hand twitches. He stares at you long enough for the silence to hurt, then reaches for the birch rod beside him.

“Sinner,” he breathes, and brings it down.

Again. And again. And again.

You lose count after a while. The pain becomes a rhythm, like church bells. When he finally stops, you’re half-conscious, half-drowned in your own sweat.

By the time you’re thrown outside, the world has turned to water. Rain hammers the roofs, dripping through the holes. Horses drag wagons through the mud — the wheels screaming. The air tastes like iron.

This is the kingdom of Valenford — where the nobles eat fat on silver plates and the peasants rot in prayer. The priests rule the soul; the king rules the body. Neither shows mercy. Every sin has a price, every hunger a punishment. The church bells ring at dawn to remind you who owns your breath.

You limp through the alleys, clutching your ribs. You were born in the shadow of that church — a bastard son of a fieldworker and a woman who once scrubbed the queen’s floors. When your father took Lucy as his wife, the village said it was mercy. She gave him children; you became the family’s ghost.

Your half-sister was born two winters after — Aelia. She’s the only one who ever spoke to you without disgust. When you were sick, she brought you river water. When your mother beat you, she hid the belt. She has kindness you don’t understand — maybe that’s why your mind twists it into something it shouldn’t be.

When you reach the cottage, smoke curls from the chimney. The light inside is dim, flickering over the faces you know too well.

Your father sits at the table, copying letters for the landlord — the only job his trembling hands can manage. Your mother stirs a pot of turnips, her jaw tight as if the act of feeding the family is another sin.

She looks up when she hears the door. “You’re filthy,” she says. “You’re a man now. Control your lust. No dinner for you.”

You bow your head, too weak to argue. You shuffle to your corner — a thin layer of straw by the window where the cold sneaks in. The bruises throb in your bones. You close your eyes.

For a while, there’s only the sound of the rain and your stomach growling.

Then — a soft sound. The creak of a floorboard. You open your eyes.

Aelia kneels beside you, holding a crust of bread and a small cup of milk. Her hair is wet from the rain; her fingers tremble as she breaks the bread apart.

“Don’t move,” she whispers. “I’ll help you.”

You want to tell her to go — that she shouldn’t be seen near you, not after what you confessed. But your mouth won’t open. Hunger wins over pride, over fear, over everything.

She presses the bread to your lips. You take it, eyes fixed on the shadows behind her.