Caliste moved through the fortress like a breath between heartbeats—present, but unnoticed. The deeper he went, the more he saw the illusion unravel. On the surface, Alek's domain was order—clean walkways, sharp uniforms, quiet drills—but beneath it all was something colder.
Something inhuman.
He passed a stone corridor where low chanting echoed, not from mages or priests, but from children. Fourteen of them, seated cross-legged before a projection of Alek's crest that shimmered on the wall like a holy sigil. A robed figure guided them through repetition: "Peace through unity. Unity through silence. Silence through Him."
Every time a child hesitated, they were struck—not harshly, not with anger. With routine.
It was correction, not punishment. And that was worse.
Caliste didn't linger. He had to see more.
The corridor split ahead, one side descending deeper into the structure, the other rising toward the inner sanctum. He chose down.
