The Black Inheritance: The Vestalis Game

The hallway was different this time. Longer. Quieter. Angela followed Eleanor and Evander without a word, her bare feet nearly silent on the cold marble. They didn't speak either. That meant something. They passed familiar training doors, then unfamiliar ones. Down a flight of stairs she hadn't seen before, behind a heavy gray door Eleanor unlocked with a thin brass key.

Inside: silence. The room was long and narrow, the ceiling low, the walls soft-padded like the inside of a music case. Lights hung directly overhead, stark and still, throwing shadows in sharp angles. A drain sat in the center of the floor, surrounded by faint discoloration. Angela's gaze stopped there.

"Come in," Eleanor said.

Angela obeyed, her hands loose at her sides. Not clenched. Not too relaxed either. The balance mattered. Evander locked the door behind them. The click echoed like a gunshot.

Eleanor pointed to a plain metal chair. "Sit."

Angela climbed onto it quietly. She was too small for it; her feet didn't touch the floor. She said nothing.

Eleanor knelt in front of her, eye-level. "Do you know what interrogation means?"

Angela answered automatically. "It's when you ask questions until someone tells you what you want to know."

"Incorrect," Eleanor said. "That's school. Interrogation is asking until they tell you what they think you want. And knowing when it's a lie."

Angela blinked. That was... new. She tried to imagine it. Asking someone a question. Watching their face, their hands, the shake in their voice. Trying to hear the lie behind the words. Like reading an extra page under the book cover.

Evander appeared beside her now, placing a clean white cloth on a steel tray. Items sat on top: a chunk of ice in a bowl, a fine-tipped metal probe, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a strip of rough cloth, and a single elastic band.

None of them looked frightening.

That made them worse.

"You're not here to be punished," Eleanor said. "You're here to learn. You need to know what pain feels like. Not just the sharp part, but the long parts. The waiting. The loss of control. What fear tastes like before it even arrives."

Angela didn't move. "What do I have to do?"

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "You ask questions now?"

Angela paused. "I need to know where the line is."

Evander let out a low chuckle. "She's clever."

Eleanor smiled. Not warmly. "Good. Then here's the line: you may say stop once. We won't cross it. But if you say it, we write that down."

Angela nodded.

"But if you endure," Eleanor added, "we'll teach you more."

They started with the ice.

Angela didn't flinch when Eleanor placed it against the crook of her elbow. The pain wasn't sharp, it was dull, slow, like her skin was forgetting how to be skin. She breathed steadily, counting to ten, then thirty.

Then the probe. Heated. Briefly touched her other arm. Her legs twitched, but she didn't make a sound. Evander watched her carefully, his eyes narrowed, arms crossed. The strip of rough cloth came next. Eleanor pressed it against her wrist, dragging it slowly. A thousand tiny stings.

Angela stared at the ceiling. A single cobweb in the corner. She focused on it. The elastic band was last. Snapped once, twice, hard against her exposed ankle. Just enough to sting. Enough to test her nerves.

When it was over, Eleanor stepped back. Angela didn't say anything. Her hands trembled slightly.

Eleanor crouched beside her again. "You didn't scream."

"I didn't need to," Angela whispered.

Eleanor nodded. "Then remember how that felt. And remember this: pain speaks different languages. Learn to translate."

Evander handed her a warm cloth. "Go upstairs. Rest. Come back in one hour."

Angela stood on unsteady legs and walked out alone.

She didn't cry.

She wanted to. Not from pain, but confusion. Why did they teach her this? Was this normal for them?

She'd known hunger before. Known for cold nights. But this was precision pain. Designed. Measured. Taught like music.

She washed her face upstairs. She didn't look in the mirror.

When she returned, the room had changed.

The chair was gone. In its place stood a mannequin, life-sized, marked with faint lines across its arms, ribs, throat. Its surface looked like human skin but slightly too smooth, like a doll.

A table nearby held a stylus. Long, silver, like a pen.

Eleanor gestured to it. "Now you cause pain. Controlled. No blood. Just pressure. Show me where a scream might start."

Angela picked up the stylus.

"Why doesn't it have eyes?" she asked, nodding toward the mannequin.

Evander looked amused. "Would that make it harder?"

Angela didn't answer. But yes, it would.

She moved slowly, recalling anatomy books. Neck, under the jaw. Rib edges. Solar plexus. Inner thigh. She marked them one by one. Deliberate. Focused.

Eleanor watched in silence.

Angela paused once. "What if they move?"

"Then you adapt," Eleanor said. "Your knowledge should move faster than their limbs."

Angela nodded.

She finished. Ten marks in all. Clean. Measured.

Eleanor circled the mannequin. "Good. Efficient. You're thinking. Not reacting."

Angela lowered the stylus. "What if someone likes pain?"

Eleanor stopped. Her head tilted, eyes sharper now. Evander raised an eyebrow.

Angela clarified, voice even: "You said pain speaks different languages. Some people don't scream. Some smile. What then?"

Eleanor stared at her for a long moment. Then: "Then you change the language."

That night, Angela lay awake in her room, staring at the ceiling again. She flexed her fingers. They still tingled slightly.

She remembered the burning of the needle, the way Eleanor had looked at her, not like a child, but like a tool in progress. She didn't know what kind of person she was becoming. She wasn't sure she had a choice. But she remembered not crying. That counted for something. And deep in her mind, she logged the pain like a fact. Like numbers. Like weather patterns.

Pain had formed now. Pain had weight. She turned over in bed and whispered to no one:

"I didn't say stop."