Page 58 of Discordant Cultivation

Kieran’s throat worked around words that wouldn’t come. But somehow, the alternative—going upstairs, pretending to sleep in soft sheets while his mind replayed everything—felt worse than staying in this space where at least the pain made sense.

Vale paused at the bottom of the steps. “Tomorrow we’ll build on this foundation. Let’s see what other truths we can uncover about your temple.”

The door closed with a soft click. The lock engaged—a distant metallic sound that echoed in the new silence.

Kieran was alone with his breathing, harsh and uneven. The basement settled around him—the creak of the house settling, the whisper of his own movement as he tried to find a position that didn’t press directly on the worst welts.

Exhaustion crept in. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a trembling weakness in his limbs. His throat ached from crying, from singing through pain.

But underneath all of that, in the quiet settling of his nervous system into something that wasn’t quite calm but wasn’t pure terror either, Kieran found himself remembering what his voice sounded like in those final moments before he broke completely.

Raw. Honest. Stripped of every careful protection.

It had sounded like something worth listening to.

God help me, it had sounded beautiful.

17

The same old game, but now I'm changed, rearranged my social frame…

Kieran

Kieran slept in fits, consciousness drifting in and out while his shoulders screamed and his wrists went numb from the position and he tasted metal. At some point during the night, his body gave up trying to find a comfortable position and simply accepted the pain as a baseline. Now, everything hurt in a way that felt almost normal.

Vale arrived with a tray—water and oatmeal, the domestic normalcy of it completely at odds with Kieran chained to a wall like a prisoner. He set it down and unlocked the handcuffs, catching Kieran’s arm as they dropped like stones.

“Easy,” Vale breathed. “Let the circulation return slowly. Flex your fingers.”

Kieran obeyed, watching blood return to his hands with pins-and-needles agony. Vale held the water glass to his lips, and Kieran drank without protest, too exhausted to maintain the pretense of resistance.

“You did well last night,” Vale said, setting the glass aside and offering a spoonful of oatmeal.

Kieran ate in silence, accepting each spoonful like a child being fed.

“Today we’re going to build on that endurance,” Vale continued. “You’re going to learn to maintain focus no matter what distractions occur. No matter what your body does.”

What does that mean?

But Kieran was too tired to ask, too tired to do anything but finish the oatmeal and accept Vale’s help standing. His legs shook, his muscles protesting from hours in the same position. Kieran’s mind floated between all the places on his body that hurt as Vale guided him back upstairs to use the bathroom, gave him his medication, and then suddenly he was back in the basement with no sense of how much time had passed.

Vale guided him to the chair, positioning him with careful hands. The handcuffs clicked around one wrist again, but this time the other end was secured to the chair.

“Sing your song,” Vale said, kneeling in front of him. “From the top. And maintain your focus no matter what happens.”

Kieran’s pulse quickened, recognizing the threat in those words even if he couldn’t identify the specifics. Vale’s hands settled on his thighs, warm pressure that felt familiar—he touched Kieran like this before, under the hood, in the dark where Kieran couldn’t see what was happening.

But there’s no hood now. I’m going to have to watch whatever he—

Vale’s hands slid upward.

“Wait—” Kieran’s voice came out tight. “N-not like this. Not where I can—I can’t see you doing—”

“That’s exactly why we’re doing it this way,” Vale said, fingers finding the waistband of Kieran’s pants. “You’ve gotten used to disconnecting. This is about learning to stay present.”

Kieran tried to pull his legs together, but Vale’s position between his knees prevented it. His breathing was alreadygetting shallow, panic building despite knowing that his body would respond anyway. It always did.

“The hood was—at least I c-couldn’t see—” The words came out fragmented, exhausted. “This is d-different. You can’t just—