Page 36 of Discordant Cultivation

The way he said it made ice crawl down Kieran’s spine. But the alternative was the basement. The hood. Vale’s hands in the dark for hours until Kieran’s body betrayed him in ways he couldn’t predict or control.

Anything had to be better than that.

Right?

“I...” Kieran swallowed hard. “F-fine. Whatever it is. Just n-not the basement.”

Something satisfied flickered across Vale’s face. “Good. Then we’ll do this lesson in the living room. Now.”

Kieran’s feet didn’t want to move. Every instinct screaming that he’d made a terrible mistake, that he should have just taken the basement, that whatever was about to happen would be worse.

But he’d already chosen. Already agreed.

Once you make this choice, you can’t back out of it.

Vale steered him to the living room instead and gestured to the couch.

“Sit.”

Kieran sat, his body obeying before his mind caught up.

Vale disappeared down the hall, returned a moment later carrying Kieran’s guitar—the one thing from the old life he still had—and laid it carefully in Kieran’s lap. Then he placed a small jar on the coffee table filled with a clear, yellowish liquid.

“Do you know what capsaicin is?” Vale asked, sitting on the coffee table across from him.

Kieran’s stomach dropped. “The th-thing in peppers—”

“Concentrated capsaicin suspended in carrier oil. Medical grade.” Vale unscrewed the lid. “It’s designed for topical pain management through desensitization. But before the desensitization comes the burn.”

“What are you—”

“You wanted a different lesson.” Vale’s voice stayed calm, almost gentle. “Fine. Let’s explore what it means to maintain artistry when your instrument is agony. Real musicians play through injuries all the time.”

He reached for Kieran’s left hand.

Kieran jerked back. “No—I ch-changed my mind, I’ll go to the b-basement—”

“Too late.” Vale caught his wrist. “You made your choice. Now you’re going to learn what that choice means.”

He held Kieran’s hand steady, dipped a cotton swab into the jar, and began painting Kieran’s fingertips, each one coated thoroughly on the pads and just under the nails where calluses had built up from years of playing.

The burn started almost immediately. It began as a low, creeping heat that built and built until it felt like his fingertips were being held to a flame.

“V-Vale—” Kieran’s voice cracked, eyes already watering. “Please—”

“Other hand.”

“Please, it hurts—”

“That’s the point.” Vale released his left hand and snatched the right one. By the time Vale finished, Kieran’s fingers felt like they were burning from the inside out. The pain kept escalating—not sharp like a blade, but deep, penetrating, and impossible to escape that seemed to pulse in waves.

Vale recapped the jar. “You’re going to play ‘Recuerdos de la Alhambra.’ I assume you know it? You’ll play it from beginning to end with no mistakes.”

Kieran stared at him through his tears. “‘Recuerdos’ is n-nine minutes—”

“Then you’d better maintain your focus.” Vale settled back in the chair across from him. “Any mistake—a wrong note, a hesitation, any imprecise technique—and you start over. Keep starting over until you complete it perfectly, or until I decide you’ve learned what you need to learn.”

“I c-can’t—” Just flexing his fingers sent fire shooting up his nerves. “It’s impossible—”