My days were now rigidly divided. Mornings with Father Alaric in the echoing grandeur of the Montala Temple, afternoons with Seraphina in the Duke's private study. The contrast was stark, yet both environments served my singular purpose: to gather intelligence and hone my facade.
Father Alaric's instruction was relentless, a daily immersion in the thick, oppressive fog of Montala doctrine. He would make me repeat passages from the Sacred Scrolls, his gaze unblinking, searching for any sign of hesitation or doubt. "The Lord Montala demands absolute faith!" he would declare, his voice reverberating through the vast hall. "Doubt is a serpent in the soul, a gift of the Corrupted One!"
I would parrot the words, my child's voice clumsy, my eyes wide and seemingly innocent. But inside, my mind was a forge, hammering his words against the anvil of reason. I noted his every emphasis, every inflection, every subtle shift in his body language. I began to identify specific priests within the Temple who held different levels of authority, observing their interactions, their whispered conversations in dimly lit alcoves.
My advanced linguistic comprehension allowed me to piece together fragments of their true agenda. While Alaric preached unity and divine will, I overheard whispers of power struggles, of factions vying for control over specific lucrative tithing districts, or for influence over the Duke's policies. There was the "Veiled Hand" faction, favoring subtle manipulation, and the "Iron Fist," advocating for more overt force. Valerius, I deduced, belonged firmly to the Iron Fist, his zealotry a convenient mask for his ruthless ambition.
One particular instance solidified my understanding of their hypocrisy. During a communal prayer session, where the priests exhorted the common folk (a few allowed into the temple for specific rituals) to offer their last copper to Montala for blessings, I saw Father Alaric subtly slip a pouch of coins from a collection plate into his own voluminous sleeve. His face remained serene, his chants unwavering, but my eyes missed nothing. The suffering of the flock fills their coffers, not their souls. It was a small act, but a profound revelation of their true nature. They preached sacrifice while practicing gluttony.
Valerius continued his surveillance, a silent hunter in the periphery of my new life. He rarely spoke to me directly during temple visits, preferring to observe from a distance, perhaps receiving reports from Father Alaric. But I felt his presence, a chilling awareness that he was assessing, measuring, waiting for a misstep. I knew that my demonstration of hiding in the chest had alerted him that I was more than a mere prodigy. He was now looking for the mechanism of my intelligence, for the adult behind the child's eyes.
To counter his scrutiny, I began to subtly integrate my observations into my limited 'childish' communication. During a lesson with Seraphina, when she explained the Duke's recent decree regarding grain distribution, I would deliberately mimic Father Alaric's intonation from the temple, subtly hinting at the Church's involvement without actually speaking. Seraphina would simply smile, attributing it to my excellent memory. "You hear so much, Elias," she'd say, charmed.
Seraphina's visits to the temple were less frequent, as she was not permitted to linger in the more sacred inner sanctums where my lessons took place. But when she did visit, her presence was a balm. She would bring me small, curious trinkets or new, fascinating scrolls, sometimes even a piece of fruit, a rare luxury. Her concern for my well-being under Alaric's stern tutelage was genuine, a thread of unexpected warmth in my calculating existence. She was my only connection to true, unselfish human kindness in this world, a sisterly presence that tempered my otherwise absolute pragmatism.
My body was growing, becoming more robust. I could speak in short, simple sentences now, forming coherent thoughts when it served my facade. "Cold," "hungry," "book"—each word a carefully deployed tool to maintain the illusion of a rapidly developing, but still utterly normal, child. This linguistic control was vital; it allowed me to communicate basic needs without betraying the complexity of my internal thoughts.
The temple, with its gilded lies and its underlying power struggles, had become my primary area of study. I continued to search for the fissures in their foundation, the points where their grand pronouncements diverged from their squalid realities. The Bible, a text of clear, unvarnished truth, remained my distant, ultimate weapon. But first, I needed to master their world, to understand every echo in their sacred halls, every thread of the net that bound this kingdom. Only then could I hope to unravel it.