Sins of the Sacred Veil Ch. 04 - Teaser (Patreon)

The training yard lay open beneath a pale, washed-out sky, its stone walls enclosing the space like a bowl meant to hold sound, breath, and suffering. Morning chill still clung to the flagstones, though it did nothing to blunt the heat already beginning to bloom beneath skin and cloth as the sisters assembled in uneven lines.

Sister Aniela Sokol stood at the front, boots planted wide, arms folded across her chest, looking less like a nun and more like a commander surveying raw recruits. Even at rest, she radiated contained force, with broad shoulders stretching the lines of her habit and powerful thighs braced as if the ground itself answered to her weight. Her cropped platinum hair caught the light when she turned her head, sharp blue eyes already cataloguing every posture and weakness.

“Today,” she said brightly, voice carrying without effort, “we move with intention.”

A groan rippled through the yard.

“Slow,” Aniela continued, unfazed. “Is devotion. Speed is ego.”

That was when they knew they were in trouble. The first exercise was deceptively simple: deep squats with hands behind the head and backs straight. Aniela demonstrated once, sinking down with impossible control, thighs parallel to the ground, spine rigid. Then she rose just as slowly, like she was pushing against the earth itself.

“Down for eight,” she instructed. “Up for eight.”

For the new girls, eight seconds stretched into an eternity. By the third repetition, Ailis’s thighs were already burning as she grit her teeth, her breath measured, and sweat prickling at her hairline. Farm work had taught her endurance with long days and heavy loads, but this was different. This was precision with no momentum, shortcuts, or mercy.

“Easy there, MacRaith,” Aniela called, not unkindly. “Let the muscle speak.”

Ailis muttered something in Gaelic under her breath and adjusted, forcing herself deeper into the hold, legs shaking despite her stubborn resolve. Beside her, the blonde sister, whose name she heard was Anja, moved with a different cadence altogether.

She wasn’t untouched by the strain, as sweat darkened the line of her collar. Her breath was steady but controlled, yet there was an intelligence to her movements. She shifted weight subtly, corrected her stance mid-rep, eyes alert rather than defiant. She wasn’t trying to match Aniela but was learning her, mapping the terrain of pain rather than charging it head-on. Aniela noticed, and a sharp, approving grin flickered across her face.

“Good,” she said simply. “You adapt.”

The rest of the yard told a harsher story, as the dark-haired sister, who was obviously a bookish sort, was the first to falter. She tried to hide it with chin lifted and shoulders squared, but her body betrayed her. Where Aniela descended like a machine built for reverence, her thighs trembled, breath turning shallow and sharp.

Sweat darkened the linen at her collarbone, clinging to the soft rise of her chest. She had always been diligent rather than strong, precise rather than powerful, and under Aniela’s pacing that distinction became painfully clear. Each controlled repetition carved quiet disbelief into her expression: devotion alone had not prepared her for this.

The brunette fought in her own way, as she was built for carrying and endurance, and she struggled against the demand for stillness. Her hips wobbled during the long holds, jaw set hard as she fought the instinct to laugh it off.

When Aniela passed her, boots crunching against gravel, she grunted through clenched teeth, muttering something that might have been a prayer… or a curse in Slovak. Still, she didn’t stop, and there was pride in that, even as sweat poured freely down her temples and soaked the back of her habit.

The olive-skinned woman’s struggle was quieter and more fragile. Long-limbed and pale, she moved with a grace that worked against her now. Knees shook during the slow descent of lunges, balance faltering when Aniela demanded stillness instead of flow. Each correction landed like a personal affront, and her eyes flashed and not with anger, but with wounded resolve. She refused to look away or collapse. But by the second hour, her hands trembled uncontrollably as she braced herself against the stone.

Isabella’s effort was immaculate and revealing, as her form never broke. Every line remained crisp, every movement executed with disciplined precision. Yet tension radiated from her like heat off stone. Sweat gathered at her temples, traced slow paths down the elegant line of her neck, dampening the fabric at her sternum.

Her jaw remained locked, lips pressed thin as she counted silently, eyes fixed forward. She would not fail or show weakness. And yet, during one prolonged hold, her shoulders quivered, just once. She noticed it, and so did Aniela.