The massive gates of the Grand Ember Creed Cathedral creaked open, welcoming a procession of opulent carriages that rolled in under the muted light of the late morning sun.
The coaches, ornate and regal, glead with gold trims and crimson panels—originally the property of the branch itself.
Now, they returned from their task of escorting highly dignified guests who had, quite inexplicably, stumbled into the city on foot.
The horses, bred from holy stables and adorned with ceremonial armor, moved with solemn precision.
Priests and acolytes alike had been dispatched in droves to retrieve these mysterious visitors, whose arrival had stirred speculation in every corner of the church grounds.
It had been a long journey for the pope, made longer by the demands of discretion. And yet, it was a price well worth paying.
Most noble houses had not even begun to guess the true identities of the exotic guests for whom the church had prepared so ticulously.
Their arrival, shrouded in secrecy and cloaked in ritual, had beco a subject of whispered fascination.
This—alongside the usual mire of moral, religious, and political obligations—had kept the Pope from attending the Cross family duel in person.
Not for lack of power. He could have gone if he truly wished—there were none who would dare stop him, and fewer still who could.
But the pope was not one to stir trouble only for his subordinates to mop up. He preferred his hands clean, his presence calculated.
As he stepped down from the foremost carriage, two elves flanked him.
The boy stood just behind, completing a diamond formation as they advanced down the long walkway that led into the heart of the cathedral complex.
The pope’s eyes wandered briefly over the weathered white stone of the outer walls and the carefully maintained shrubs that lined the stone paths.
Not a branch out of place. Not a blade of grass untrimd. Satisfied, he continued forward without a word, his pace steady and precise.
When they finally breached the main cathedral building, the vast space yawned before them. It was mostly empty, but not silent.
From sowhere unseen, the deep, resonant sound of an organ drifted through the air, a slow and deliberate hymn that filled every crevice of the grand hall.
A man rose from the front row pews.
His clergy garnts were striking—red and black, a deliberate contrast to the Pope’s pure white.
He looked impossibly old, his face a map of endless wrinkles, yet his movents were brimming with an energy so potent and deliberate it was difficult to reconcile with his apparent age.
In one hand, he held a golden inlaid cane, elegant and ceremonial. It was clearly not ant to aid him; his posture was perfect, his steps unburdened.
He approached, observing the arrival of hand picked mbers of his clergy who he had sent to retrieve the dignitaries, and who currently trailed behind them.
They were high ranking inquisitors. Every single one of them.
"Draque’sill,"
The Pope’s voice rang through the cathedral, cutting cleanly through the organ’s echo.
"Zy’rakal,"
The High Cardinal replied, addressing the Pope by na with equal weight.
Both n approached one another with deliberate calm, each step asured and dignified.
When they t in the middle of the hall, the symtry was uncanny—sa height, sa length of hair.
But while the Pope remained inexplicably youthful, his features as smooth and unblemished as polished ivory, Draque’sill’s age was painted plainly on his face. The contrast was stark.
They halted a few paces apart. Neither spoke.
The organ fell silent. The tension in the room was sudden and absolute, a vacuum where ti seed to stall.
Then Zy’rakal tilted his head slightly and broke the silence.
"What is with that appearance?"
Draque’sill paused, as though genuinely considering the question. Then he answered, his tone asured.
"I find that age cos with the added benefit of respect."
Zy’rakal’s gaze was unreadable.
"I don’t look aged."
A chuckle escaped the High Cardinal.
"That’s true."
And then, without warning, a loud popping sound filled the cathedral. It was not explosive, but sothing visceral and unsettling.
Several clergy mbers flinched instinctively. The sound repeated—pop, pop—as a wave of heat radiated outward, distorting the air like the shimr of a forge.
Under Draque’sill’s skin, visible bulges began to form, shifting and crawling as though sothing alive were trying to escape from within.
His wrinkles receded, lting into his face as if drowned by so internal tide. His skin tightened, rejuvenated, while his hair gradually regained color—shedding its grey in favor of a deep, coal black.
Within monts, the impossibly old man was gone. In his place stood a figure youthful and handso, a man at the very peak of his pri.
The transformation was shocking. And yet—beneath the altered flesh—traces of the old Draque’sill remained in the jawline, the structure, the presence.
His cane remained too, still in hand. But the hands that gripped it were no longer gnarled with age.
"Let’s make haste,"
Draque’sill said, his voice now a smooth, commanding baritone.
"I suppose we should,"
The Pope replied.
Together, the two n turned and walked down the passage that led into the deeper underground chambers, leaving the rest of the room in stunned silence.
The assembled clergy, inquisitors, and assistants could only watch in disbelief as the echo of their footsteps faded into the dark.
...
"What did she an by that?"
Zhou asked, eyes narrowed, tone sharp. She directed the question toward Lugh, who stood beside her—his fra barely peaking above her shoulders.
Selaphiel, more modestly built and even-tempered, shot Zhou a warning glance.
Lugh, true to form, offered no answer. He didn’t even spare her a look.
They had arrived at the main hall, where the atmosphere had settled sowhat. The initial wave of excitent had passed, but the crowd still loitered—anxious, murmuring.
Zhou, who preferred quiet spaces and hated crowds, twitched her eyebrows at the sight.
Lugh, however, finally understood why Selaphiel had insisted they leave early. The hall was already filling, and the news had no doubt spread that he would be attending.
Another one of Selaphiel’s machinations, no doubt.
She had brought them early on purpose—not to avoid attention, but to make sure others had ti to arrive.
This was only the beginning. VIP’s would continue to pour in as the day wore on. By the ti the duel comnced that evening, the entire hall would be bursting with nobles, observers, and political vultures.
Lugh could only pity the Cross family. They had been unwittingly dragged into a spectacle they never asked for.
Now they would be forced to host an impromptu royal banquet—morning, afternoon, and evening courses—for guests whose tastes were as expensive as their clothing.
The price would be obscene.
He recalled the mont when the family patriarch had seen the destruction in the room they were first shown to. The poor man had gone rigid, then collapsed, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth.
Lugh imagined him later this night, staring at the household ledger and sobbing. Or worse—tearing out his hair in frustration.
Wait. By then, Lyra would be the patriarch.
Err... matriarch.
He pictured her bald. That... wasn’t possible.
They had tried that before.
Just then, a figure approached him quickly—so fast and silent that no one else had even registered his arrival.
It was Victor Aelhurst.
Lugh narrowed his eyes.
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