At Pignerol, stone confines men the way it confines secrets. The fortress knows neither day nor night — only bodies constrained, watched, tested.
In the lower courtyard, hidden from official eyes, two soldiers wrestle. No weapons. No uniforms. Their bare torsos gleam with sweat, their hands search for the right hold, the weak point, the loss of balance. Every movement is precise, almost ritual.
Louis watches. In this contest he recognises something older than war itself: a way for men to measure themselves without killing, to turn violence into rule, fear into a mastered gesture.
