The rhythm of my days in the Duke's Keep continued, a dual existence of forced piety and fervent internal learning. Mornings with Father Alaric in the Temple were a crucible, tempering my resolve and sharpening my observational skills. He drilled me on Montala's tenets, demanding rote memorization, his eyes always searching for the chink in my carefully constructed childlike armor.
"The Lord Montala's wisdom is absolute, Elias. It allows no question, no doubt," Alaric intoned one day, his voice resonating with unshakeable conviction. He watched me as I clumsily traced the sacred symbol on a tablet, my small hand feigning effort. "True faith lies in submission, in the joyful relinquishing of one's own will to the divine plan."
I would nod, my face a mask of innocent understanding, occasionally offering a simple, mumbled word like "yes" or "holy" to appease him. But my mind was dissecting his every word, comparing it to the realities I observed. Their "divine plan" was a blueprint for absolute control, their "wisdom" a tool for economic exploitation. The hypocrisy of Alaric pocketing tithes, the whispers of factionalism I overheard, painted a vivid picture of a crumbling facade. The Montala Church was not a unified spiritual force, but a collection of ambitious men, using religion as a veil for their worldly desires.
Valerius remained a constant, unnerving presence. He would sometimes materialize in the Temple during my lessons, observing from a shadowed alcove, his gaze like an invisible pressure. I could feel him analyzing every flicker of my eyes, every subtle shift of my posture. He was looking for patterns that defied childhood, for the intelligence that had hidden from him in the chest. I adapted by making my 'childish' distractions more organic, letting my attention wander to a dust mote in a sunbeam, or a distant clang from the courtyard, before snapping back to my lesson with an exaggerated show of effort. It was a tiring, dangerous dance.
My increasing physical coordination, however, afforded me new opportunities. During some of the longer, droning sermons, when Father Alaric's attention was fixed on the grand altar or on a specific ritual, I would subtly test the limits of my confinement. My small body could slip through gaps unnoticed, my soft footsteps muffled by the thick temple rugs. I began to explore the less-frequented parts of the temple, the shadowed corridors and dusty annexes. I was searching for anything that could give me an edge, a weakness to exploit.
One afternoon, while Alaric was engrossed in overseeing a minor purification ritual, I managed to slip away from my designated spot. My quick, silent movements took me down a narrow, little-used corridor behind the main sanctuary. The air grew colder here, laden with the scent of old parchment and disuse. At the end of the hall, tucked away behind a stack of broken effigies, I found a heavy, unmarked wooden door. The latch was stiff, but my developing dexterity, combined with a moment of determined effort, allowed me to force it open.
Inside, the room was dark, filled with tall shelves crammed with old scrolls and ancient texts. It was a forgotten archive, a place where knowledge accumulated outside the main, controlled flow of Montala doctrine. My heart, typically a cold, steady drum, quickened with a surge of pure, intellectual excitement. This was it.
My time was limited. I couldn't read them all, not yet, but I could observe. I scanned the titles, my eyes darting across the faded script. Many were theological, but others seemed to be ledgers, old maps, or even correspondence. One particular scroll, its binding almost disintegrated, caught my eye. Its title, though partially obscured, seemed to mention "The Prince's Debt" and "Temple Foundations." I didn't dare pull it out, but I committed its location, its appearance, and the few visible words to memory. This was more than doctrine; this was direct evidence of the Church's financial and political manipulations, perhaps even a secret history.
My brief, illicit exploration was cut short by the distant sound of Alaric's voice calling my name, sharp with impatience. I quickly and silently closed the door, melting back into the shadows of the main temple just as my instructor's gaze swept over my location. He didn't seem to notice my momentary absence, chalking up my lingering silence to childlike inattention.
Back in the Duke's study during the afternoons, Seraphina noticed my renewed, if still silent, focus. She continued to teach me, occasionally sharing court gossip or news from the Duke's broader domains. "Father is concerned about a growing unrest in the eastern farmlands," she mentioned, pointing to a distant region on a map. "The farmers resent the new Montala tithes. Lord Valerius insists it is merely 'spiritual weakness,' but Father fears rebellion."
I noted this information, a cold satisfaction settling in my gut. The Montala Church's greed was creating instability, cracks in the Prince's iron rule. My discovery in the hidden archive, combined with these whispers of discontent, painted a clear picture. The Montala faith was not just a tool for control; it was a festering wound, slowly but surely weakening the very kingdom it claimed to serve. And I, Elias, was slowly learning how to exploit its infection.