Barefootwarden
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Out of boredom, I crafted this little story. I hope you’ll enjoy it, and I warmly welcome any comments you may have
The Duchy of Valcinox—how proud it once stood, gleaming deep within the vast dominion of the Xavox Empire. Now, though, its halls echoed with a vacancy, for the old duke lay long in the grave, and only his two daughters remained to carry forth the line.
Iris, just nineteen, all golden hair and delicate manners, a creature who seemed spun from silk and candlelight. And Ana—twenty-three, with chestnut locks and a temper as steady as steel, the sort who would rather command an army than embroider a cushion. Between the two of them, they were poised to seize back the title of duchess, so rudely suspended since their father’s death.
Ana, ever ambitious, had already taken the reins of the troops. Each victory she stitched into her banner brought her closer to the ducal throne. But ah! The council of regents—the dreary, powdered gentlemen charged with “caretaking” the duchy in this interlude—saw her rising star as nothing but a threat. And what do such men do when power trembles in their hands? They scheme, of course.
Assassination? Too crude. Poison? Too obvious, and besides, poison has the unfortunate habit of splashing back upon the poisoner. No, something subtler was required. Enter one greasy-fingered priest, whose cassock smelled suspiciously of cheap wine and worse sins. With a sanctimonious smile, he whispered a delicious little venom: “What if, good sirs, the young ladies were found guilty of witchcraft? Not stabbed, not strangled—condemned by law and faith alike! Oh, the beauty of it: their downfall would look like righteousness itself.”
The councilors, men who could barely conjure a thought without help, found this suggestion dazzling. Witchcraft! The very word promised smoke, fire, and scandal—yet without a drop of blood staining their own hands. And so the plot, odious and wicked, began to coil itself around the unsuspecting sisters, like a serpent tightening before the strike.
the Duchy of Valcinox—how proud it once stood, gleaming deep within the vast dominion of the Xavox Empire. Now, though, its halls echoed with a vacancy, for the old duke lay long in the grave, and only his two daughters remained to carry forth the line.
Iris, just nineteen, all golden hair and delicate manners, a creature who seemed spun from silk and candlelight. And Ana—twenty-three, with chestnut locks and a temper as steady as steel, the sort who would rather command an army than embroider a cushion. Between the two of them, they were poised to seize back the title of duchess, so rudely suspended since their father’s death.
Ana, ever ambitious, had already taken the reins of the troops. Each victory she stitched into her banner brought her closer to the ducal throne. But ah! The council of regents—the dreary, powdered gentlemen charged with “caretaking” the duchy in this interlude—saw her rising star as nothing but a threat. And what do such men do when power trembles in their hands? They scheme, of course.
Assassination? Too crude. Poison? Too obvious, and besides, poison has the unfortunate habit of splashing back upon the poisoner. No, something subtler was required. Enter one greasy-fingered priest, whose cassock smelled suspiciously of cheap wine and worse sins. With a sanctimonious smile, he whispered a delicious little venom: “What if, good sirs, the young ladies were found guilty of witchcraft? Not stabbed, not strangled—condemned by law and faith alike! Oh, the beauty of it: their downfall would look like righteousness itself.”
The councilors, men who could barely conjure a thought without help, found this suggestion dazzling. Witchcraft! The very word promised smoke, fire, and scandal—yet without a drop of blood staining their own hands. And so the plot, odious and wicked, began to coil itself around the unsuspecting sisters, like a serpent tightening before the strike.
In the Duchy of Valcinox, appearances had always been weapons as sharp as swords. Lady Iris, though barely nineteen, knew this instinctively. When she resolved to confront the convent about the accusations hurled against her servants, she dressed with deliberate care. Her gown was woven of pale blue silk, the color of a spring sky after rain, embroidered at the hem with threads of silver lilies—her family’s emblem. A slender girdle of braided white leather cinched the dress at her waist, emphasizing her delicate form. Upon her shoulders rested a mantle of soft velvet, trimmed with white ermine, for though the day was mild, a daughter of dukes must carry the weight of dignity as well as cloth.
Her hair, golden and fine, was braided in the Valcinox style: one thick plait circling the crown of her head like a coronet, fastened with a silver clasp shaped as a falcon. Slippers of soft leather, dyed pearl-grey, covered her small feet. Every line of her appearance whispered nobility. Surely, she thought, no convent could mistake her innocence when she presented herself with such propriety. Ah, poor Iris! How touching is the faith of lambs who march willingly to the butcher’s gate.
The convent’s gates opened with solemn slowness, and the nuns who received her bowed with precise grace. They were not coarse women, these sisters; they knew the language of deference. Their curtseys were deep, their eyes lowered, their lips murmuring blessings. To Iris, it appeared an honorable welcome. To the council’s conspirators, it was the first tightening of the net.
Before the Mother Superior could be summoned, one of the elder nuns suggested, with a voice dripping honey, that Lady Iris might wish to cleanse her soul in confession. “A noblewoman so devoted surely will not neglect her duty,” the sister crooned. The words struck home, for Iris had indeed been busy the past week with matters of estate and had missed her usual confession. She hesitated only a moment before nodding. Yes, she would confess. Better to appear humble before God before demanding justice from His servants.
So she was led, step by innocent step, into a dim corridor smelling faintly of incense and old wood. At its end stood a confessional booth, larger than any she had seen in her youth. Its dark timbers loomed, carved with austere crucifixes, the lattice panels seeming almost to watch her. To Iris, it appeared impressive; to those who knew, it was a device.
She entered, expecting the quiet murmur of penance. The confessional smelled of polish and candle wax, with an undertone of something sharper—iron hinges, perhaps. She sat upon the narrow bench, smoothing her gown about her knees, and folded her hands demurely.
But the nun who approached this duty was no ordinary confessor. Sister Magdalithe, as she was known, was infamous among her order. She had the air of an inquisitor wrapped in a habit, with a tongue as sharp as her mind was cunning. Souls entrusted to her care seldom left without a sense of guilt, no matter how blameless. To her superiors, this was “efficacy.” To the accused, it was a spider’s silk spun with precision.
Magdalithe’s voice came through the lattice, smooth as cream but carrying a hidden hook. “My child, to be absolved one must offer not only words, but a posture of humility. Will you place your ankles through the small opening before you, that you might kneel properly before the Lord?”
Iris blinked, puzzled. She had never been asked such a thing. Yet the request was delivered with such calm authority that she dared not refuse. Obedience was expected of the faithful. She shifted uncertainly, sliding her ankles into the little opening at the base of the partition.
A wooden clasp descended with a muted clack, enclosing her slender ankles in place. Iris gave a small start. “Sister? Why is—?”
But Magdalithe’s voice overrode her, lilting with the practiced cadence of ritual. “Be still, child. The Lord sees all postures. We begin.”
At that moment, the nun’s hand reached through the lattice, deft fingers tugging at the laces of Iris’s slippers. The young lady’s breath caught. “My shoes—” she began, but again the words of Scripture rolled like a tide, drowning her protests. The slippers slipped away, one after another, leaving Iris’s pale, delicate feet bare against the cold wood. Her toes curled instinctively, unused to such exposure in a stranger’s presence.
Then came the cord. Soft, innocuous-looking, it looped around her great toes, binding them gently together before fastening to a small iron hook cunningly fixed at the booth’s base. Iris wriggled, a blush rising to her cheeks. This was no ordinary confession. The position was awkward, undignified. She felt suddenly very young, very vulnerable.
“Breathe, my child,” purred Magdalithe. “It is but a sign of devotion. Now, unburden your soul. Have you harbored pride? Anger? Impure thoughts?”
The questioning began, sharp and relentless. Iris, flustered and nervous, stammered through her answers. Yes, perhaps she had been prideful in commanding the servants. Yes, perhaps she had envied her sister’s strength. Each admission was seized upon, twisted, magnified.
And as she faltered, Magdalithe’s fingers brushed her bare soles through the lattice. A light touch at first, almost absent-minded—yet Iris jerked as though burned. The nun’s nail traced along the arch, a feather-light scratch that sent a shiver racing up Iris’s spine.
“My child,” came the honeyed whisper, “why do you laugh? Is it guilt that tickles you so?”
“I—I do not—” Iris tried, but the protest dissolved into breathless giggles as Magdalithe’s fingers danced with deliberate slowness across her tender soles. She wriggled helplessly, bound at the ankles, her toes twitching against their restraint.
Thus the “confession” unfolded, hour after hour. Each time Iris admitted a fault—no matter how trifling—the nun deepened her torment. A caress became a scratch, a scratch became a lingering tickle at the ball of her foot, the curve of her arch, the soft skin beneath her toes. Magdalithe knew the vulnerabilities of the body as keenly as those of the soul, and she played them both with merciless skill.
“Do you envy your sister Ana?” Scratch, scratch. Iris gasped.
“Have you doubted the council’s wisdom?” Tickle, tickle. She squealed, then sobbed.
“Have you harbored vanity in your beauty, pride in your station?” Her bare toes curled tight, straining against the cord as Magdalithe teased each one in turn.
Iris answered desperately, saying anything to stop the relentless game. The poor child did not realize that each word was being carefully noted, twisted into evidence. What she confessed under duress would become the noose for her reputation.
Time lost all meaning. The shadows lengthened. Sweat dampened Iris’s brow, her once-perfect gown crumpled and clinging to her trembling form. Her golden hair had loosened, strands falling wildly about her flushed face. By the time the bell tolled somewhere in the distance, two hours had crawled past.
At last, Magdalithe’s hands withdrew. Her voice, calm and satisfied, intoned the final blessing. “Go, my child. You are cleansed… for now.”
But Iris was not cleansed. She was shattered. Her feet throbbed, her nerves sang with exhaustion, her spirit quivered like glass. She sagged against the wooden booth, drained of dignity and strength alike.
The clasp released her ankles at last, but she had little time to gather herself. Even as she fumbled to slip her slippers back on, the door opened. A small procession of nuns awaited: stern faces, eyes glittering with curiosity, hands folded but steps precise. Their presence was not comfort but verdict.
In that instant, Iris understood. This was no ordinary confession, no harmless penance. She had been measured, tested, and found wanting—not by God, but by those who wished her downfall. The “confession” had merely been the prelude. What came next would be worse.
And as the nuns closed around her, guiding her deeper into the convent’s shadowed halls, Lady Iris of Valcinox realized—too late—that the true trial had only begun.
If Lady Iris had still nursed a fragile hope that her confession might be the end of things, it was plucked from her as swiftly as a flower from a stem. For no sooner had she staggered from the booth—her face pale, her hair disheveled—than she found herself hemmed in by a silent procession of nuns. They moved around her like shadows, their steps perfectly measured, their faces impassive, as if they had rehearsed this scene a thousand times.
At their head was Sister Magdalithe. Her hands were folded within the sleeves of her habit, her posture calm, her expression unreadable—but her eyes gleamed with quiet triumph. She did not touch Iris, nor raise her voice; she simply regarded the trembling noblewoman for a long, heavy moment. Then, with the smallest tilt of her head, she spoke two words that sealed Iris’s fate:
“Prepare her.”
Magdalithe turned and withdrew, her robes whispering against the stone floor, leaving her sisters to enact the order. The spider does not always strike herself; sometimes she simply tugs the threads and lets the web do its work.
The other nuns closed in at once, their silence more terrifying than any threat. They guided Iris down a narrow corridor that grew darker with each step until she passed into a small chamber lit by a single taper. The air was close, heavy with the scent of tallow and old wood. At its center stood a plain stool and, beside it, a chest of linen garments.
One nun gestured for Iris to stand still. Iris, misunderstanding, lifted her chin in defiance.
“I am Lady Iris of Valcinox. You forget yourselves! I came here to seek justice, not to be handled like—”
But her words died against the blank masks of their faces. They answered with no more than the slow unfastening of her mantle. Another pair of hands loosed the silver clasp from her hair. The velvet slid from her shoulders, the silk gown slumped to her hips. Iris gasped and pushed at their hands, but there was no violence in the touch of the sisters—only a steady, unanswerable insistence.
It is a strange cruelty, is it not? Threats can be defied, but silence cannot be argued with. Iris shouted her titles, invoked her father’s name, even pleaded for dignity, but each word sank into the hush like a stone cast into deep water. Piece by piece, her finery was stripped away until nothing of Valcinox nobility clung to her frame.
In its place they dressed her in garments of white linen, plain and severe. A skirt reached to mid-calf, modest in length yet coarse against her skin. A bodice was drawn tightly around her torso, but cut indecently low, exposing the swell of her breasts, her pale chest, even the tender hollows of her underarms. It was not modesty they sought—it was humiliation.
By the time they were finished, Iris’s golden hair hung loose about her shoulders, her cheeks flushed with shame and fury. She folded her arms across her chest, trying to conceal what the linen displayed so cruelly. “You cannot—this is sacrilege! I am no prisoner, I am no sinner!” she cried.
Still no reply. Only a gesture toward another doorway.
They ushered her into a hall larger than the last, its walls of bare stone, its floor strewn with rushes that whispered beneath her feet. At its center stood a chair—not a seat of authority, but a crude wooden device, heavy and merciless. Its back was high, its arms broad, and from it sprouted rings of iron and boards of oak.
The sight of it struck Iris with sudden dread. Her steps faltered. “No… no, this is wrong. I demand to see the Mother Superior!”
The nuns did not answer. They guided her—firmly, inexorably—toward the chair. Her protests grew louder, rising from command to plea, but their silence was unbroken. At last, they pressed her down upon the wooden seat.
The restraints closed one by one with dreadful efficiency. First her wrists, drawn behind the high back of the chair, bound so tight they forced her shoulders back, arching her chest into unwanted display. Iris writhed, but the more she strained, the more her posture betrayed her, baring her breasts and ribs, even the soft curve beneath her arms. She blushed crimson, half with shame, half with helpless fury.
Next came the ankle boards: pillories of polished oak fixed at the base. Each foot was guided, almost tenderly, into its hollow, and then—clack!—the upper halves locked, securing her ankles fast. Now her calves and feet were imprisoned, her bare soles turned outward, helplessly offered up.
Last, they adjusted the cruelest touch: a lattice of cords and small hooks fixed near the base of the chair. They were not yet drawn tight, but their presence was unmistakable—a device designed to spread and bind her toes, to stretch the tender skin of her soles for whatever torment might follow. Iris’s stomach twisted at the sight.
When all was complete, the nuns stepped back in unison, folding their hands before them, their faces as blank as carved saints. Not a word had been spoken from start to finish. Only the scrape of wood, the creak of rope, and the pounding of Iris’s heart.
So she sat: Lady Iris of Valcinox, daughter of dukes, once robed in silk and silver, now clad in coarse white linen that bared her most private flesh. Her arms were wrenched behind her, her chest exposed, her ankles locked in oak, her delicate soles offered up as though she were no noblewoman but a specimen upon an altar.
For the first time, true fear struck her. Until now she had believed—naïvely—that her name, her rank, her innocence would shield her. But here, in this bare chamber, with her body displayed and her limbs restrained, she understood: her titles meant nothing. She was no duchess-in-waiting. She was prey.
And when the heavy door at the far end of the hall creaked open, revealing the figures of those who would judge her, Iris’s blood ran cold. The true trial was about to begin.
The chamber had the weight of judgment in its stones. The rushes on the floor were stale, the torchlight sparse. The silence, thick as cloth, pressed down upon Iris as she writhed against the chair. Her arms strained uselessly, her chest arched forward, her bare soles trapped and vulnerable. She had thought humiliation the worst she might endure. She had not yet met the woman who orchestrated it.
The door creaked. A slow, deliberate sound. Into the hall swept Sister Magdalithe.
She did not hurry, nor raise her voice, nor betray triumph in her expression. Her presence alone was enough. The other nuns bowed slightly as she passed. Her shadow, long and gaunt, fell across Iris like a blade.
Iris gasped, her voice trembling between rage and plea. “I have confessed already! You cannot keep me bound like this. I told the truth—I have nothing more to say!”
Magdalithe’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “My child,” she purred, “your confession was but the beginning. A scratching of the surface. You confessed to pride, to envy, to vanities unworthy of your rank. But you have not yet spoken of darker matters. You have not yet confessed the true sin.”
Iris shook her head violently, golden hair flying about her flushed face. “No! I have no such sins. I am innocent. I will not allow you to twist my words.”
The nun drew closer, her habit whispering. She stood before the bound young woman, her eyes glittering with mock pity. “Your sister, Ana,” she murmured. “Bold, ambitious, adored by the troops. So bold, indeed, that whispers arise—whispers of unnatural aid. Do you mean to tell me she has won her battles by steel alone? No charms, no invocations, no unholy bargains whispered at midnight?”
“That is a lie!” Iris cried, her voice ringing. “Ana is no witch. She fights with courage, with the strength of her arm and the loyalty of our house. You dishonor her—”
Magdalithe’s hand moved with sudden swiftness, fingers darting beneath Iris’s arm to graze the tender hollow of her exposed underarm. The touch was feather-light, but Iris jerked violently, a startled laugh bursting from her lips before she could stop it.
“Ah,” murmured Magdalithe. “There it is. The body speaks truth even when the tongue resists. You are hiding something, child. Shall we coax it free?”
“I—no, you are mistaken—stop—” Iris gasped, twisting in her bonds, but the nun’s fingers had already begun their slow, deliberate work. They grazed, scratched, teased along the stretched skin of Iris’s underarm, coaxing helpless laughter from her lips.
“Ha—haha—no!—please, I—hahaha!”
The sound echoed harshly in the stone chamber. Iris’s head tossed from side to side, her cheeks flaming with shame. She tried to form words of denial, but every syllable dissolved into wild laughter.
Magdalithe tilted her head, as though listening to music. “See how your body confesses, child. It admits guilt with every gasp, every giggle. But your mouth… ah, your mouth is stubborn. Let us coax that, too.”
Her hand drifted downward, trailing along Iris’s bare side, circling across her ribs, then—oh, deliberate cruelty—cupping and teasing at the soft curve of her breast. Iris shrieked, half in laughter, half in outrage.
“No! Stop! You cannot—haahaha!—this is—this is not—HAHAH—”
The nun pinched lightly at a nipple, rolled it between finger and thumb with calculated malice, then shifted to the other, each motion sparking a squeal of protest tangled with uncontrollable laughter.
“My poor little lamb,” Magdalithe crooned over the cacophony, “is it shame you feel? Or is it the truth wrung from you by holy hands? Tell me of your sister’s sorcery. Tell me, and the torment ends.”
Iris tried, she truly tried, to force words through the laughter. “Ana—has no—haha—magic!—I swear it!—hahaha—she—”
The nun did not relent. Her hands alternated between underarm and breast, each caress a calculated assault on dignity and control. Iris laughed until tears streaked her cheeks, her body thrashing in the bonds, every muscle trembling.
And then, just as abruptly, Magdalithe drew back. Silence filled the chamber again, broken only by Iris’s ragged breathing, her sobbing laughter still echoing faintly.
Magdalithe crouched low, her face level with Iris’s, her eyes sharp as daggers. “It is so simple, child. A word from you, a mark upon the parchment, and all this ceases. Deny it, and we will continue. Endlessly. Patiently. Until you beg to speak the truth.”
Iris spat a tear from her lips, gasping for breath. “I… will not… betray her. You will not make me.”
The nun’s smile deepened. “Oh, my dear, you think you have endured much? We have not yet begun.”
She rose, moved to the foot of the chair. Iris’s heart leapt in dread, for she knew what lay there—the cruel hooks, the cords, the pillories.
“No—no, not that—” Iris struggled, but the oak boards held her ankles firm. Magdalithe knelt, her fingers deft as she looped cord around Iris’s delicate toes. First the big toes, bound together, then each smaller digit spread, tethered, drawn taut toward the little iron hooks fixed in the wood. One by one, her toes were tied apart, stretching the skin of her soles until they lay helplessly open, exposed, every tender curve displayed.
Iris whimpered, her laughter momentarily replaced by a gasp of sheer dread. “Please—please, I cannot—”
“Oh, you can,” Magdalithe murmured sweetly. “You will. And in the end, you will thank us for teaching your tongue to tell the truth.”
A signal was given. From the shadows, another nun approached, bearing a tray. Upon it lay brushes, quills, and fine-bristled tools, instruments of art turned to instruments of cruelty. Magdalithe selected a slender plume, its tip soft as breath. She held it up for Iris to see, her eyes gleaming.
“Your body will speak, if your lips will not.”
The feather traced lightly along the ball of Iris’s left foot. The reaction was instant. Iris shrieked with laughter, her whole body bucking against the restraints.
“HAHAHAAA! NO!—not there!—PLEASE—hahaha!”
“Confess,” Magdalithe intoned, “and it ends.”
The feather traveled upward, teasing the stretched arch, circling the tender heel, then flicking between each bound toe in merciless succession. Iris convulsed with helpless laughter, her pleas drowned in shrieking mirth.
Another instrument: a small brush, its bristles firmer. Magdalithe stroked it slowly across Iris’s right sole, up and down, relentless as a metronome. The girl’s laughter rose to hysteria, echoing against the stone, her body trembling so violently the chair itself creaked.
“Just a word,” Magdalithe said evenly. “One word, and this ceases. Your sister is a witch. Say it, sign it, and we free you.”
“HAHAHAAA—NEVER!—Ana is—innocent!—HAHAHAHAAA!”
The tools changed again—a fine quill, dragged along the creases of her arches. A stiff-bristled brush, scrubbed in little circles at her heel. The feather returned to torment her toes while the brush swept the other sole. Iris’s laughter became screams, her face scarlet, her throat raw. Yet still, between gasps, she shouted her denials.
“No sorcery!—HAHAHAAA—she fights with steel—NOT spells!—haahahaha!”
Minutes stretched into hours. Magdalithe worked with the patience of a craftsman, rotating instruments, varying strokes, coaxing every pitch of laughter from her victim. The other nuns stood silent, their faces unreadable, as if this were no cruelty at all but a sacred rite.
At last, Iris slumped in her bonds. Her body glistened with sweat, her chest heaving, her hair plastered to her flushed cheeks. She laughed still, weakly, each giggle torn from her as if from habit rather than will.
Magdalithe set aside the brush. She leaned close, her lips at Iris’s ear. “Stubborn little lamb. You think yourself victorious because you have not spoken? You think endurance a shield? Oh no, my dear. This is merely the beginning.”
She straightened, her voice now ringing with quiet authority. “Bring the beasts.”
The words hung in the air like a sentence of death. Iris’s exhausted eyes widened in terror, the last scraps of her strength coiling into dread. Whatever the brushes, the quills, the feathers had done—whatever humiliation she had endured—they had only been the prelude.
And in that moment, bound, broken with laughter yet still clinging to defiance, Lady Iris of Valcinox realized: the true ordeal was yet to come.
When Sister Magdalithe gave her order, Iris thought at first it must be some grotesque jest. The beasts? What beasts could dwell in a convent? Wolves in the cloister? Serpents in the vestry?
She had no answer, for her laughter-broken body sagged against the chair, too exhausted to question. But her eyes, wide and luminous, darted nervously about the chamber as the door creaked once more.
A procession of nuns entered—this time not empty-handed. They carried buckets of brine, their wooden sides damp and reeking of salt. Others bore bundles of brushes and fine-pointed paint-sticks. The sight of them was strange, incongruous: as though painters had stumbled into a tribunal. Iris, poor child, could not yet imagine what art they were about to practice upon her body.
She raised her head, strands of golden hair clinging to her damp cheeks. “What… what are you doing?”
Silence was her only reply. The sisters set down their buckets with heavy thuds, and the scent of salt filled the chamber like sea air trapped in stone. Magdalithe, serene and merciless, inclined her head. “Proceed.”
At once, the nuns dipped their brushes into the brine. The first stroke was laid across Iris’s arch—cool, wet, startling. She gasped, then yelped as the coarse bristles scratched between her bound toes.
“Hah—ah! What—what is—stop—hahah!”
The others joined in, each brush finding its mark. A slick line painted across her ribs. A careful daub beneath her arm. A deliberate stroke across the swell of each breast, circling the pink crowns until Iris squealed and jerked in her bonds. They worked with meticulous precision, as though consecrating her body with salt.
She squirmed, giggled, shrieked, her laughter bubbling again despite her fatigue. “Stop! It—it tickles—what—why—hahaha!”
No answer. Only the methodical whisper of bristles. They coated her soles until every crease shone damp with saline. They teased between her toes with tiny brushes, ensuring no fold was left untouched. They traced her underarms with painstaking care, dragging long strokes that drew peals of helpless laughter. They painted her breasts in broad swathes, then detailed the tender nipples with delicate flicks that left Iris whimpering through her giggles.
Salt clung to her skin, drying tacky and tight. She shivered with the sting of it, her nerves alive, her body quaking. She could not comprehend. What cruelty was this? Why brine, why brushes? The shame of exposure was enough, the laughter unbearable—but why this ritual of salt?
Her question found its answer soon enough.
The door opened once more, and with it came the sound that chilled her blood: the bleating of goats.
Four of them, led by novices, their hooves clattering against the stone, their eyes gleaming with animal curiosity. Creatures humble, docile, ridiculous—yet in this place, they were executioners.
Iris stiffened, her heart slamming against her ribs. “No—no, you cannot—”
Magdalithe stepped close, her shadow falling across Iris’s bound, brine-coated body. “One final chance, my child. Speak the truth of your sister’s sorcery. Sign the confession. And these gentle creatures need not trouble you.”
Through cracked lips, Iris rasped, “Ana… is no witch. I will not lie.”
The nun’s smile sharpened. “Then let the beasts judge your resolve.”
The first goat was brought forward, its muzzle twitching. It lowered its head toward Iris’s right foot, sniffing the salt-slick skin. Iris’s eyes went wide with horror. She flexed her toes desperately, straining against the cords, but they held fast, each digit splayed helplessly.
The tongue came—rough, wet, rasping across her sole.
Iris screamed. Not in pain, but in laughter so violent it shook the chair. “AHAHAHAAAA! NOOO—NOT THAT—HAHAHAAA!”
The goat licked again, sweeping its tongue from heel to toes, scraping the salt from her tender skin. Iris convulsed, her laughter shrill, her body jerking helplessly. Her toes curled, tried to flee, but the cords denied her. The animal persisted, steady, relentless.
“Please! HAHAHAHAA—STOP!—NOT MY FEET—HAHAHAAA!”
Another goat was led to her left foot. It wasted no time, burying its muzzle in the arch, lapping greedily. Now both soles were attended, each lick a fresh torment, each stroke of the rough tongue worse than the last.
Iris howled with laughter, twisting, tears streaming down her cheeks. She begged between shrieks, though her words were nonsense, swallowed by mirth.
“Mercy! Hahahaaa—please, I cannot—I cannot—HAHAAAA!”
Magdalithe watched with serene satisfaction. “You see, my lamb? The beasts are most diligent. They will strip every grain of sin from your skin. Confess, and they shall cease.”
“I—I won’t—hahahaaa!—Ana is innocent—hahahaaa!”
Her defiance only sharpened their zeal. Two more goats were brought forward, their muzzles nudging at her flanks. She had no time to protest before their tongues sought the brine upon her breasts and underarms.
The sensation was beyond words. Coarse tongues rasped over her nipples, lapping the salt in broad strokes, then darting into the hollows beneath her arms. Iris shrieked, convulsing, her laughter ascending into delirium.
“HAHAHAHAAAA! NOOO—NOT THERE!—PLEASE—STOP—HAHAAA!”
The four goats worked in concert: two at her feet, two at her chest and arms. Each lick dragged laughter from her lungs until she could scarcely breathe. Her body bucked and writhed, but the bonds held her in perfect offering.
Minutes stretched like hours. Salt was replenished, brushes reapplied. The goats returned, eager tongues scraping every inch of tender flesh. Iris laughed until her voice broke, until her body sagged in the chair, until tears and sweat drenched her skin.
But still she refused. Between gasps and screams, she shouted the same words: “Ana… is no witch… I will not… betray her!”
Magdalithe’s smile never wavered. She murmured softly to the watching sisters, “Let it continue. The night is young. The truth will come.”
And so it continued. Laughter pealed through the convent, wild, broken, ceaseless. It echoed down the cloisters, spilled into the chapel, startled the roosting crows. From her wooden throne, Lady Iris of Valcinox screamed and laughed and wept, her spirit battered by tongues and salt, her resolve tested to its last thread.
And outside the chamber, any who passed could hear it—the terrible, unending laughter of a young noblewoman, echoing through stone halls like the song of madness itself.
The Duchy of Valcinox—how proud it once stood, gleaming deep within the vast dominion of the Xavox Empire. Now, though, its halls echoed with a vacancy, for the old duke lay long in the grave, and only his two daughters remained to carry forth the line.
Iris, just nineteen, all golden hair and delicate manners, a creature who seemed spun from silk and candlelight. And Ana—twenty-three, with chestnut locks and a temper as steady as steel, the sort who would rather command an army than embroider a cushion. Between the two of them, they were poised to seize back the title of duchess, so rudely suspended since their father’s death.
Ana, ever ambitious, had already taken the reins of the troops. Each victory she stitched into her banner brought her closer to the ducal throne. But ah! The council of regents—the dreary, powdered gentlemen charged with “caretaking” the duchy in this interlude—saw her rising star as nothing but a threat. And what do such men do when power trembles in their hands? They scheme, of course.
Assassination? Too crude. Poison? Too obvious, and besides, poison has the unfortunate habit of splashing back upon the poisoner. No, something subtler was required. Enter one greasy-fingered priest, whose cassock smelled suspiciously of cheap wine and worse sins. With a sanctimonious smile, he whispered a delicious little venom: “What if, good sirs, the young ladies were found guilty of witchcraft? Not stabbed, not strangled—condemned by law and faith alike! Oh, the beauty of it: their downfall would look like righteousness itself.”
The councilors, men who could barely conjure a thought without help, found this suggestion dazzling. Witchcraft! The very word promised smoke, fire, and scandal—yet without a drop of blood staining their own hands. And so the plot, odious and wicked, began to coil itself around the unsuspecting sisters, like a serpent tightening before the strike.
the Duchy of Valcinox—how proud it once stood, gleaming deep within the vast dominion of the Xavox Empire. Now, though, its halls echoed with a vacancy, for the old duke lay long in the grave, and only his two daughters remained to carry forth the line.
Iris, just nineteen, all golden hair and delicate manners, a creature who seemed spun from silk and candlelight. And Ana—twenty-three, with chestnut locks and a temper as steady as steel, the sort who would rather command an army than embroider a cushion. Between the two of them, they were poised to seize back the title of duchess, so rudely suspended since their father’s death.
Ana, ever ambitious, had already taken the reins of the troops. Each victory she stitched into her banner brought her closer to the ducal throne. But ah! The council of regents—the dreary, powdered gentlemen charged with “caretaking” the duchy in this interlude—saw her rising star as nothing but a threat. And what do such men do when power trembles in their hands? They scheme, of course.
Assassination? Too crude. Poison? Too obvious, and besides, poison has the unfortunate habit of splashing back upon the poisoner. No, something subtler was required. Enter one greasy-fingered priest, whose cassock smelled suspiciously of cheap wine and worse sins. With a sanctimonious smile, he whispered a delicious little venom: “What if, good sirs, the young ladies were found guilty of witchcraft? Not stabbed, not strangled—condemned by law and faith alike! Oh, the beauty of it: their downfall would look like righteousness itself.”
The councilors, men who could barely conjure a thought without help, found this suggestion dazzling. Witchcraft! The very word promised smoke, fire, and scandal—yet without a drop of blood staining their own hands. And so the plot, odious and wicked, began to coil itself around the unsuspecting sisters, like a serpent tightening before the strike.
In the Duchy of Valcinox, appearances had always been weapons as sharp as swords. Lady Iris, though barely nineteen, knew this instinctively. When she resolved to confront the convent about the accusations hurled against her servants, she dressed with deliberate care. Her gown was woven of pale blue silk, the color of a spring sky after rain, embroidered at the hem with threads of silver lilies—her family’s emblem. A slender girdle of braided white leather cinched the dress at her waist, emphasizing her delicate form. Upon her shoulders rested a mantle of soft velvet, trimmed with white ermine, for though the day was mild, a daughter of dukes must carry the weight of dignity as well as cloth.
Her hair, golden and fine, was braided in the Valcinox style: one thick plait circling the crown of her head like a coronet, fastened with a silver clasp shaped as a falcon. Slippers of soft leather, dyed pearl-grey, covered her small feet. Every line of her appearance whispered nobility. Surely, she thought, no convent could mistake her innocence when she presented herself with such propriety. Ah, poor Iris! How touching is the faith of lambs who march willingly to the butcher’s gate.
The convent’s gates opened with solemn slowness, and the nuns who received her bowed with precise grace. They were not coarse women, these sisters; they knew the language of deference. Their curtseys were deep, their eyes lowered, their lips murmuring blessings. To Iris, it appeared an honorable welcome. To the council’s conspirators, it was the first tightening of the net.
Before the Mother Superior could be summoned, one of the elder nuns suggested, with a voice dripping honey, that Lady Iris might wish to cleanse her soul in confession. “A noblewoman so devoted surely will not neglect her duty,” the sister crooned. The words struck home, for Iris had indeed been busy the past week with matters of estate and had missed her usual confession. She hesitated only a moment before nodding. Yes, she would confess. Better to appear humble before God before demanding justice from His servants.
So she was led, step by innocent step, into a dim corridor smelling faintly of incense and old wood. At its end stood a confessional booth, larger than any she had seen in her youth. Its dark timbers loomed, carved with austere crucifixes, the lattice panels seeming almost to watch her. To Iris, it appeared impressive; to those who knew, it was a device.
She entered, expecting the quiet murmur of penance. The confessional smelled of polish and candle wax, with an undertone of something sharper—iron hinges, perhaps. She sat upon the narrow bench, smoothing her gown about her knees, and folded her hands demurely.
But the nun who approached this duty was no ordinary confessor. Sister Magdalithe, as she was known, was infamous among her order. She had the air of an inquisitor wrapped in a habit, with a tongue as sharp as her mind was cunning. Souls entrusted to her care seldom left without a sense of guilt, no matter how blameless. To her superiors, this was “efficacy.” To the accused, it was a spider’s silk spun with precision.
Magdalithe’s voice came through the lattice, smooth as cream but carrying a hidden hook. “My child, to be absolved one must offer not only words, but a posture of humility. Will you place your ankles through the small opening before you, that you might kneel properly before the Lord?”
Iris blinked, puzzled. She had never been asked such a thing. Yet the request was delivered with such calm authority that she dared not refuse. Obedience was expected of the faithful. She shifted uncertainly, sliding her ankles into the little opening at the base of the partition.
A wooden clasp descended with a muted clack, enclosing her slender ankles in place. Iris gave a small start. “Sister? Why is—?”
But Magdalithe’s voice overrode her, lilting with the practiced cadence of ritual. “Be still, child. The Lord sees all postures. We begin.”
At that moment, the nun’s hand reached through the lattice, deft fingers tugging at the laces of Iris’s slippers. The young lady’s breath caught. “My shoes—” she began, but again the words of Scripture rolled like a tide, drowning her protests. The slippers slipped away, one after another, leaving Iris’s pale, delicate feet bare against the cold wood. Her toes curled instinctively, unused to such exposure in a stranger’s presence.
Then came the cord. Soft, innocuous-looking, it looped around her great toes, binding them gently together before fastening to a small iron hook cunningly fixed at the booth’s base. Iris wriggled, a blush rising to her cheeks. This was no ordinary confession. The position was awkward, undignified. She felt suddenly very young, very vulnerable.
“Breathe, my child,” purred Magdalithe. “It is but a sign of devotion. Now, unburden your soul. Have you harbored pride? Anger? Impure thoughts?”
The questioning began, sharp and relentless. Iris, flustered and nervous, stammered through her answers. Yes, perhaps she had been prideful in commanding the servants. Yes, perhaps she had envied her sister’s strength. Each admission was seized upon, twisted, magnified.
And as she faltered, Magdalithe’s fingers brushed her bare soles through the lattice. A light touch at first, almost absent-minded—yet Iris jerked as though burned. The nun’s nail traced along the arch, a feather-light scratch that sent a shiver racing up Iris’s spine.
“My child,” came the honeyed whisper, “why do you laugh? Is it guilt that tickles you so?”
“I—I do not—” Iris tried, but the protest dissolved into breathless giggles as Magdalithe’s fingers danced with deliberate slowness across her tender soles. She wriggled helplessly, bound at the ankles, her toes twitching against their restraint.
Thus the “confession” unfolded, hour after hour. Each time Iris admitted a fault—no matter how trifling—the nun deepened her torment. A caress became a scratch, a scratch became a lingering tickle at the ball of her foot, the curve of her arch, the soft skin beneath her toes. Magdalithe knew the vulnerabilities of the body as keenly as those of the soul, and she played them both with merciless skill.
“Do you envy your sister Ana?” Scratch, scratch. Iris gasped.
“Have you doubted the council’s wisdom?” Tickle, tickle. She squealed, then sobbed.
“Have you harbored vanity in your beauty, pride in your station?” Her bare toes curled tight, straining against the cord as Magdalithe teased each one in turn.
Iris answered desperately, saying anything to stop the relentless game. The poor child did not realize that each word was being carefully noted, twisted into evidence. What she confessed under duress would become the noose for her reputation.
Time lost all meaning. The shadows lengthened. Sweat dampened Iris’s brow, her once-perfect gown crumpled and clinging to her trembling form. Her golden hair had loosened, strands falling wildly about her flushed face. By the time the bell tolled somewhere in the distance, two hours had crawled past.
At last, Magdalithe’s hands withdrew. Her voice, calm and satisfied, intoned the final blessing. “Go, my child. You are cleansed… for now.”
But Iris was not cleansed. She was shattered. Her feet throbbed, her nerves sang with exhaustion, her spirit quivered like glass. She sagged against the wooden booth, drained of dignity and strength alike.
The clasp released her ankles at last, but she had little time to gather herself. Even as she fumbled to slip her slippers back on, the door opened. A small procession of nuns awaited: stern faces, eyes glittering with curiosity, hands folded but steps precise. Their presence was not comfort but verdict.
In that instant, Iris understood. This was no ordinary confession, no harmless penance. She had been measured, tested, and found wanting—not by God, but by those who wished her downfall. The “confession” had merely been the prelude. What came next would be worse.
And as the nuns closed around her, guiding her deeper into the convent’s shadowed halls, Lady Iris of Valcinox realized—too late—that the true trial had only begun.
If Lady Iris had still nursed a fragile hope that her confession might be the end of things, it was plucked from her as swiftly as a flower from a stem. For no sooner had she staggered from the booth—her face pale, her hair disheveled—than she found herself hemmed in by a silent procession of nuns. They moved around her like shadows, their steps perfectly measured, their faces impassive, as if they had rehearsed this scene a thousand times.
At their head was Sister Magdalithe. Her hands were folded within the sleeves of her habit, her posture calm, her expression unreadable—but her eyes gleamed with quiet triumph. She did not touch Iris, nor raise her voice; she simply regarded the trembling noblewoman for a long, heavy moment. Then, with the smallest tilt of her head, she spoke two words that sealed Iris’s fate:
“Prepare her.”
Magdalithe turned and withdrew, her robes whispering against the stone floor, leaving her sisters to enact the order. The spider does not always strike herself; sometimes she simply tugs the threads and lets the web do its work.
The other nuns closed in at once, their silence more terrifying than any threat. They guided Iris down a narrow corridor that grew darker with each step until she passed into a small chamber lit by a single taper. The air was close, heavy with the scent of tallow and old wood. At its center stood a plain stool and, beside it, a chest of linen garments.
One nun gestured for Iris to stand still. Iris, misunderstanding, lifted her chin in defiance.
“I am Lady Iris of Valcinox. You forget yourselves! I came here to seek justice, not to be handled like—”
But her words died against the blank masks of their faces. They answered with no more than the slow unfastening of her mantle. Another pair of hands loosed the silver clasp from her hair. The velvet slid from her shoulders, the silk gown slumped to her hips. Iris gasped and pushed at their hands, but there was no violence in the touch of the sisters—only a steady, unanswerable insistence.
It is a strange cruelty, is it not? Threats can be defied, but silence cannot be argued with. Iris shouted her titles, invoked her father’s name, even pleaded for dignity, but each word sank into the hush like a stone cast into deep water. Piece by piece, her finery was stripped away until nothing of Valcinox nobility clung to her frame.
In its place they dressed her in garments of white linen, plain and severe. A skirt reached to mid-calf, modest in length yet coarse against her skin. A bodice was drawn tightly around her torso, but cut indecently low, exposing the swell of her breasts, her pale chest, even the tender hollows of her underarms. It was not modesty they sought—it was humiliation.
By the time they were finished, Iris’s golden hair hung loose about her shoulders, her cheeks flushed with shame and fury. She folded her arms across her chest, trying to conceal what the linen displayed so cruelly. “You cannot—this is sacrilege! I am no prisoner, I am no sinner!” she cried.
Still no reply. Only a gesture toward another doorway.
They ushered her into a hall larger than the last, its walls of bare stone, its floor strewn with rushes that whispered beneath her feet. At its center stood a chair—not a seat of authority, but a crude wooden device, heavy and merciless. Its back was high, its arms broad, and from it sprouted rings of iron and boards of oak.
The sight of it struck Iris with sudden dread. Her steps faltered. “No… no, this is wrong. I demand to see the Mother Superior!”
The nuns did not answer. They guided her—firmly, inexorably—toward the chair. Her protests grew louder, rising from command to plea, but their silence was unbroken. At last, they pressed her down upon the wooden seat.
The restraints closed one by one with dreadful efficiency. First her wrists, drawn behind the high back of the chair, bound so tight they forced her shoulders back, arching her chest into unwanted display. Iris writhed, but the more she strained, the more her posture betrayed her, baring her breasts and ribs, even the soft curve beneath her arms. She blushed crimson, half with shame, half with helpless fury.
Next came the ankle boards: pillories of polished oak fixed at the base. Each foot was guided, almost tenderly, into its hollow, and then—clack!—the upper halves locked, securing her ankles fast. Now her calves and feet were imprisoned, her bare soles turned outward, helplessly offered up.
Last, they adjusted the cruelest touch: a lattice of cords and small hooks fixed near the base of the chair. They were not yet drawn tight, but their presence was unmistakable—a device designed to spread and bind her toes, to stretch the tender skin of her soles for whatever torment might follow. Iris’s stomach twisted at the sight.
When all was complete, the nuns stepped back in unison, folding their hands before them, their faces as blank as carved saints. Not a word had been spoken from start to finish. Only the scrape of wood, the creak of rope, and the pounding of Iris’s heart.
So she sat: Lady Iris of Valcinox, daughter of dukes, once robed in silk and silver, now clad in coarse white linen that bared her most private flesh. Her arms were wrenched behind her, her chest exposed, her ankles locked in oak, her delicate soles offered up as though she were no noblewoman but a specimen upon an altar.
For the first time, true fear struck her. Until now she had believed—naïvely—that her name, her rank, her innocence would shield her. But here, in this bare chamber, with her body displayed and her limbs restrained, she understood: her titles meant nothing. She was no duchess-in-waiting. She was prey.
And when the heavy door at the far end of the hall creaked open, revealing the figures of those who would judge her, Iris’s blood ran cold. The true trial was about to begin.
The chamber had the weight of judgment in its stones. The rushes on the floor were stale, the torchlight sparse. The silence, thick as cloth, pressed down upon Iris as she writhed against the chair. Her arms strained uselessly, her chest arched forward, her bare soles trapped and vulnerable. She had thought humiliation the worst she might endure. She had not yet met the woman who orchestrated it.
The door creaked. A slow, deliberate sound. Into the hall swept Sister Magdalithe.
She did not hurry, nor raise her voice, nor betray triumph in her expression. Her presence alone was enough. The other nuns bowed slightly as she passed. Her shadow, long and gaunt, fell across Iris like a blade.
Iris gasped, her voice trembling between rage and plea. “I have confessed already! You cannot keep me bound like this. I told the truth—I have nothing more to say!”
Magdalithe’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “My child,” she purred, “your confession was but the beginning. A scratching of the surface. You confessed to pride, to envy, to vanities unworthy of your rank. But you have not yet spoken of darker matters. You have not yet confessed the true sin.”
Iris shook her head violently, golden hair flying about her flushed face. “No! I have no such sins. I am innocent. I will not allow you to twist my words.”
The nun drew closer, her habit whispering. She stood before the bound young woman, her eyes glittering with mock pity. “Your sister, Ana,” she murmured. “Bold, ambitious, adored by the troops. So bold, indeed, that whispers arise—whispers of unnatural aid. Do you mean to tell me she has won her battles by steel alone? No charms, no invocations, no unholy bargains whispered at midnight?”
“That is a lie!” Iris cried, her voice ringing. “Ana is no witch. She fights with courage, with the strength of her arm and the loyalty of our house. You dishonor her—”
Magdalithe’s hand moved with sudden swiftness, fingers darting beneath Iris’s arm to graze the tender hollow of her exposed underarm. The touch was feather-light, but Iris jerked violently, a startled laugh bursting from her lips before she could stop it.
“Ah,” murmured Magdalithe. “There it is. The body speaks truth even when the tongue resists. You are hiding something, child. Shall we coax it free?”
“I—no, you are mistaken—stop—” Iris gasped, twisting in her bonds, but the nun’s fingers had already begun their slow, deliberate work. They grazed, scratched, teased along the stretched skin of Iris’s underarm, coaxing helpless laughter from her lips.
“Ha—haha—no!—please, I—hahaha!”
The sound echoed harshly in the stone chamber. Iris’s head tossed from side to side, her cheeks flaming with shame. She tried to form words of denial, but every syllable dissolved into wild laughter.
Magdalithe tilted her head, as though listening to music. “See how your body confesses, child. It admits guilt with every gasp, every giggle. But your mouth… ah, your mouth is stubborn. Let us coax that, too.”
Her hand drifted downward, trailing along Iris’s bare side, circling across her ribs, then—oh, deliberate cruelty—cupping and teasing at the soft curve of her breast. Iris shrieked, half in laughter, half in outrage.
“No! Stop! You cannot—haahaha!—this is—this is not—HAHAH—”
The nun pinched lightly at a nipple, rolled it between finger and thumb with calculated malice, then shifted to the other, each motion sparking a squeal of protest tangled with uncontrollable laughter.
“My poor little lamb,” Magdalithe crooned over the cacophony, “is it shame you feel? Or is it the truth wrung from you by holy hands? Tell me of your sister’s sorcery. Tell me, and the torment ends.”
Iris tried, she truly tried, to force words through the laughter. “Ana—has no—haha—magic!—I swear it!—hahaha—she—”
The nun did not relent. Her hands alternated between underarm and breast, each caress a calculated assault on dignity and control. Iris laughed until tears streaked her cheeks, her body thrashing in the bonds, every muscle trembling.
And then, just as abruptly, Magdalithe drew back. Silence filled the chamber again, broken only by Iris’s ragged breathing, her sobbing laughter still echoing faintly.
Magdalithe crouched low, her face level with Iris’s, her eyes sharp as daggers. “It is so simple, child. A word from you, a mark upon the parchment, and all this ceases. Deny it, and we will continue. Endlessly. Patiently. Until you beg to speak the truth.”
Iris spat a tear from her lips, gasping for breath. “I… will not… betray her. You will not make me.”
The nun’s smile deepened. “Oh, my dear, you think you have endured much? We have not yet begun.”
She rose, moved to the foot of the chair. Iris’s heart leapt in dread, for she knew what lay there—the cruel hooks, the cords, the pillories.
“No—no, not that—” Iris struggled, but the oak boards held her ankles firm. Magdalithe knelt, her fingers deft as she looped cord around Iris’s delicate toes. First the big toes, bound together, then each smaller digit spread, tethered, drawn taut toward the little iron hooks fixed in the wood. One by one, her toes were tied apart, stretching the skin of her soles until they lay helplessly open, exposed, every tender curve displayed.
Iris whimpered, her laughter momentarily replaced by a gasp of sheer dread. “Please—please, I cannot—”
“Oh, you can,” Magdalithe murmured sweetly. “You will. And in the end, you will thank us for teaching your tongue to tell the truth.”
A signal was given. From the shadows, another nun approached, bearing a tray. Upon it lay brushes, quills, and fine-bristled tools, instruments of art turned to instruments of cruelty. Magdalithe selected a slender plume, its tip soft as breath. She held it up for Iris to see, her eyes gleaming.
“Your body will speak, if your lips will not.”
The feather traced lightly along the ball of Iris’s left foot. The reaction was instant. Iris shrieked with laughter, her whole body bucking against the restraints.
“HAHAHAAA! NO!—not there!—PLEASE—hahaha!”
“Confess,” Magdalithe intoned, “and it ends.”
The feather traveled upward, teasing the stretched arch, circling the tender heel, then flicking between each bound toe in merciless succession. Iris convulsed with helpless laughter, her pleas drowned in shrieking mirth.
Another instrument: a small brush, its bristles firmer. Magdalithe stroked it slowly across Iris’s right sole, up and down, relentless as a metronome. The girl’s laughter rose to hysteria, echoing against the stone, her body trembling so violently the chair itself creaked.
“Just a word,” Magdalithe said evenly. “One word, and this ceases. Your sister is a witch. Say it, sign it, and we free you.”
“HAHAHAAA—NEVER!—Ana is—innocent!—HAHAHAHAAA!”
The tools changed again—a fine quill, dragged along the creases of her arches. A stiff-bristled brush, scrubbed in little circles at her heel. The feather returned to torment her toes while the brush swept the other sole. Iris’s laughter became screams, her face scarlet, her throat raw. Yet still, between gasps, she shouted her denials.
“No sorcery!—HAHAHAAA—she fights with steel—NOT spells!—haahahaha!”
Minutes stretched into hours. Magdalithe worked with the patience of a craftsman, rotating instruments, varying strokes, coaxing every pitch of laughter from her victim. The other nuns stood silent, their faces unreadable, as if this were no cruelty at all but a sacred rite.
At last, Iris slumped in her bonds. Her body glistened with sweat, her chest heaving, her hair plastered to her flushed cheeks. She laughed still, weakly, each giggle torn from her as if from habit rather than will.
Magdalithe set aside the brush. She leaned close, her lips at Iris’s ear. “Stubborn little lamb. You think yourself victorious because you have not spoken? You think endurance a shield? Oh no, my dear. This is merely the beginning.”
She straightened, her voice now ringing with quiet authority. “Bring the beasts.”
The words hung in the air like a sentence of death. Iris’s exhausted eyes widened in terror, the last scraps of her strength coiling into dread. Whatever the brushes, the quills, the feathers had done—whatever humiliation she had endured—they had only been the prelude.
And in that moment, bound, broken with laughter yet still clinging to defiance, Lady Iris of Valcinox realized: the true ordeal was yet to come.
When Sister Magdalithe gave her order, Iris thought at first it must be some grotesque jest. The beasts? What beasts could dwell in a convent? Wolves in the cloister? Serpents in the vestry?
She had no answer, for her laughter-broken body sagged against the chair, too exhausted to question. But her eyes, wide and luminous, darted nervously about the chamber as the door creaked once more.
A procession of nuns entered—this time not empty-handed. They carried buckets of brine, their wooden sides damp and reeking of salt. Others bore bundles of brushes and fine-pointed paint-sticks. The sight of them was strange, incongruous: as though painters had stumbled into a tribunal. Iris, poor child, could not yet imagine what art they were about to practice upon her body.
She raised her head, strands of golden hair clinging to her damp cheeks. “What… what are you doing?”
Silence was her only reply. The sisters set down their buckets with heavy thuds, and the scent of salt filled the chamber like sea air trapped in stone. Magdalithe, serene and merciless, inclined her head. “Proceed.”
At once, the nuns dipped their brushes into the brine. The first stroke was laid across Iris’s arch—cool, wet, startling. She gasped, then yelped as the coarse bristles scratched between her bound toes.
“Hah—ah! What—what is—stop—hahah!”
The others joined in, each brush finding its mark. A slick line painted across her ribs. A careful daub beneath her arm. A deliberate stroke across the swell of each breast, circling the pink crowns until Iris squealed and jerked in her bonds. They worked with meticulous precision, as though consecrating her body with salt.
She squirmed, giggled, shrieked, her laughter bubbling again despite her fatigue. “Stop! It—it tickles—what—why—hahaha!”
No answer. Only the methodical whisper of bristles. They coated her soles until every crease shone damp with saline. They teased between her toes with tiny brushes, ensuring no fold was left untouched. They traced her underarms with painstaking care, dragging long strokes that drew peals of helpless laughter. They painted her breasts in broad swathes, then detailed the tender nipples with delicate flicks that left Iris whimpering through her giggles.
Salt clung to her skin, drying tacky and tight. She shivered with the sting of it, her nerves alive, her body quaking. She could not comprehend. What cruelty was this? Why brine, why brushes? The shame of exposure was enough, the laughter unbearable—but why this ritual of salt?
Her question found its answer soon enough.
The door opened once more, and with it came the sound that chilled her blood: the bleating of goats.
Four of them, led by novices, their hooves clattering against the stone, their eyes gleaming with animal curiosity. Creatures humble, docile, ridiculous—yet in this place, they were executioners.
Iris stiffened, her heart slamming against her ribs. “No—no, you cannot—”
Magdalithe stepped close, her shadow falling across Iris’s bound, brine-coated body. “One final chance, my child. Speak the truth of your sister’s sorcery. Sign the confession. And these gentle creatures need not trouble you.”
Through cracked lips, Iris rasped, “Ana… is no witch. I will not lie.”
The nun’s smile sharpened. “Then let the beasts judge your resolve.”
The first goat was brought forward, its muzzle twitching. It lowered its head toward Iris’s right foot, sniffing the salt-slick skin. Iris’s eyes went wide with horror. She flexed her toes desperately, straining against the cords, but they held fast, each digit splayed helplessly.
The tongue came—rough, wet, rasping across her sole.
Iris screamed. Not in pain, but in laughter so violent it shook the chair. “AHAHAHAAAA! NOOO—NOT THAT—HAHAHAAA!”
The goat licked again, sweeping its tongue from heel to toes, scraping the salt from her tender skin. Iris convulsed, her laughter shrill, her body jerking helplessly. Her toes curled, tried to flee, but the cords denied her. The animal persisted, steady, relentless.
“Please! HAHAHAHAA—STOP!—NOT MY FEET—HAHAHAAA!”
Another goat was led to her left foot. It wasted no time, burying its muzzle in the arch, lapping greedily. Now both soles were attended, each lick a fresh torment, each stroke of the rough tongue worse than the last.
Iris howled with laughter, twisting, tears streaming down her cheeks. She begged between shrieks, though her words were nonsense, swallowed by mirth.
“Mercy! Hahahaaa—please, I cannot—I cannot—HAHAAAA!”
Magdalithe watched with serene satisfaction. “You see, my lamb? The beasts are most diligent. They will strip every grain of sin from your skin. Confess, and they shall cease.”
“I—I won’t—hahahaaa!—Ana is innocent—hahahaaa!”
Her defiance only sharpened their zeal. Two more goats were brought forward, their muzzles nudging at her flanks. She had no time to protest before their tongues sought the brine upon her breasts and underarms.
The sensation was beyond words. Coarse tongues rasped over her nipples, lapping the salt in broad strokes, then darting into the hollows beneath her arms. Iris shrieked, convulsing, her laughter ascending into delirium.
“HAHAHAHAAAA! NOOO—NOT THERE!—PLEASE—STOP—HAHAAA!”
The four goats worked in concert: two at her feet, two at her chest and arms. Each lick dragged laughter from her lungs until she could scarcely breathe. Her body bucked and writhed, but the bonds held her in perfect offering.
Minutes stretched like hours. Salt was replenished, brushes reapplied. The goats returned, eager tongues scraping every inch of tender flesh. Iris laughed until her voice broke, until her body sagged in the chair, until tears and sweat drenched her skin.
But still she refused. Between gasps and screams, she shouted the same words: “Ana… is no witch… I will not… betray her!”
Magdalithe’s smile never wavered. She murmured softly to the watching sisters, “Let it continue. The night is young. The truth will come.”
And so it continued. Laughter pealed through the convent, wild, broken, ceaseless. It echoed down the cloisters, spilled into the chapel, startled the roosting crows. From her wooden throne, Lady Iris of Valcinox screamed and laughed and wept, her spirit battered by tongues and salt, her resolve tested to its last thread.
And outside the chamber, any who passed could hear it—the terrible, unending laughter of a young noblewoman, echoing through stone halls like the song of madness itself.
