The hovel's oppressive walls remained my world, yet with each passing week, my understanding of the larger kingdom outside them deepened. My body, now past its most helpless infancy, could walk with a stable, if still wobbly, gait. My hands could grasp objects with more purpose, and my tongue, once a recalcitrant lump, now formed basic words. "Mama," "no," "cold"— simple sounds that granted me a veneer of normalcy, concealing the adult consciousness that cataloged every whisper, every gesture, every nuance of this brutal existence. The effort to act the part of an ordinary child was exhausting, a constant mental exercise in self-control, but utterly necessary.
Mara continued her slow, agonizing decline. Her cough was a constant, tearing sound in the damp air, and her frail frame seemed to be slowly consumed by the relentless labor and chronic hunger. Sometimes, she would watch me with that familiar, distant perplexity, a flicker of wonder at my quiet intensity. I met her gaze with an unblinking stillness, betraying nothing. Sentimentality was a weakness I could not afford in this world, where weakness invited exploitation. Her suffering was merely data, reinforcing the patterns of oppression.
My mind was a relentless machine of observation. I pieced together the fragments of overheard conversations like a complex puzzle. The Prince ruled from the distant capital, his power absolute. But beneath him lay a hierarchy of Dukes, each governing a vast territory, extracting taxes and enforcing the Crown's laws and the Montala doctrines. Our district fell under the jurisdiction of Duke Volkov, a name spoken with a mixture of fear and grudging respect. He was, from what I gathered, a shrewd and ruthless man, efficient in his cruelty.
The Montala temples, I learned, were not merely places of worship. They were administrative hubs, tax collection points, and centers of social control. Priests, like the one who visited, were not just spiritual guides; they were also civil enforcers, ensuring quotas were met, dissent was quelled, and the 'Divine Will' – which conveniently aligned with the Prince's – was observed. They held enormous sway over the common folk, their rituals binding people not just spiritually, but economically and socially. The branded marks, I now understood, were not just punishments, but permanent social stigmas, marking a family as 'unclean' or 'unreliable.'
One afternoon, a sharp commotion broke the hovel's usual quiet. A group of villagers, including some from neighboring dwellings, gathered just outside our door, their voices low and tense. I managed to crawl to a gap in the worn fabric covering a window, pushing my small face against the rough material.
A man, one of the few who sometimes brought meager scraps of food to Mara in exchange for finished textiles, was arguing vehemently with a younger, stern-faced man holding a heavy ledger. "But the last tithe was barely two weeks ago!" the older man protested, his voice cracking with desperation. "The harvest was poor. We have nothing left!"
The younger man, an assistant to the Duke's tax collector, sneered. "The Duke's decree is clear. The Autumn Levy has been moved forward. Lord Volkov needs to ensure the Prince's favor for the Winter Council. And the Montala temple has blessed this levy. It is the Divine Will."
The mention of the Duke and the Winter Council pricked my ears. Political maneuvering. Not just brute force, but strategic demands. The Montala religion, then, was not just a tool, but an active, integral partner in governance, providing the divine justification for earthly extortion. The Duke, I realized, was not just a local lord; he was actively vying for influence with the Prince, using the suffering of his subjects as currency.
My mind, racing ahead, began to connect threads. The Prince, the Dukes, the Montala Church – a vast, interlocking web of power, each entity reinforcing the other, all at the expense of the common people. My immediate goal of survival in this brutal world was clear, but beneath it, a deeper, long-term purpose began to coalesce. The Bible, a text of reason and universal morality, a counter-narrative to the oppressive Montala dogma. It wasn't just about escape; it was about understanding, and eventually, dismantling these systems of control.
I turned from the window, the cold pragmatism hardening in my gut. I was Elias, the unwanted, the branded-by-fate. And I would learn every thread of this power structure, every cruel nuance of their rule. They had taken my past, confined me to this body, and bound this world in chains. But they had also given me time to observe. And observation, I knew, was the first step towards understanding, and perhaps, towards a kind of freedom.