​There was no violent crash this time as the door opened, only the measured, terrifyingly calm entrance of the Church’s authority.

Pope Clement XII stepped into the suite, his white robes shimmering with a cold, pale luster that seemed to repel the warmth of the fire. Behind him, Elian and a wall of silver-clad Purifiers stood in silent formation. And let’s not forget the High council members in tow.

​The Pope’s gaze swept over the room, lingering for a second on the Duke’s hand, which was still resting on the hilt of his sword.

He had reached for it the moment the door opened, as if whoever would emerge was a threat to both their safety.

​"This is not the Viremount Empire, Grand Duke," Clement said, his voice a smooth, low melody that carried the weight of centuries. "I would ask that you remember whose ground you stand upon. We do not draw steel in the presence of the Light, nor do we treat the Inner Sanctum like a common garrison."

​Alaric’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he let out a sharp, derisive scoff. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

The sound was a blatant challenge, but he didn’t draw his blade. He glanced at Julian—seeing the exhaustion written in the lines of his face—and forced his hand away from his weapon. He wouldn’t give them a reason to criticize Julian.

​Julian felt a flicker of pride at Alaric’s restraint. He took a steadying breath and bowed his head slightly toward the Pope, a gesture of protocol rather than submission.

​"The Duke’s arrival so soon was... unexpected, Your Holiness," Julian said, his voice regaining its scholarly poise despite the hollow ache in his chest.

​"Indeed," Clement replied, stepping further into the room. The air around him felt thin, stripped of heat. "The Church had the situation well under control. The Saint was never in any true danger, and your presence, while noted, was entirely unnecessary. However, in the interest of the treaty between our nations, I shall host you. We shall have dinner together this evening to discuss the ’necessity’ of your stay."

​Alaric snapped. The restraint he had just practiced vanished under the weight of the Pope’s dismissal.

​"Julian was not in danger?" Alaric’s voice dropped to a lethal, vibrating bass. He stepped forward, his shadow looming large against the white marble. "In this demon-infested territory you have the gall to call a Holy Land? Look at him, Pope. Look at his eyes."

​Alaric gestured sharply toward Julian, his eyes burning with a raw, protective fury.

​"You exposed him to a surge that nearly claimed his life. He was unconscious for two days while you played your political games." Julian’s eyes widened.

He had not told Alaric about his unconscious state and Elian certainly didn’t tell him so how did he know?

"The talks were everywhere as we rode here," Alaric said, as if to answer the question in Julian’s eyes. "Everyone has heard that the ’Saint’ fainted in order to stop the surge. And I know for sure that there is only one saint on these lands. So do not act coy with me—his life was threatened because your ’Holy’ knights couldn’t hold a single pass."

​The Purifiers behind the Pope shifted instantly, their hands moving to their maces, ready to strike down the man who dared speak to the Vicar of Light with such vitriol. The atmosphere in the room turned sharp enough to cut.

​But Clement merely raised his pale, thin hand, signaling his men to stand down.

​The Pope didn’t look at the Duke’s bared teeth. Instead, he stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Julian.

Alaric instinctively stepped in front of Julian, his shoulder blocking the path, but Clement didn’t reach for a weapon. He didn’t even look at Alaric.

​"Move aside, Grand Duke," the Pope whispered, though it wasn’t a request. "I have no desire to harm what is precious to the Heavens."

​Alaric hesitated, his eyes darting to Julian, who gave a small, barely perceptible nod. Slowly, Alaric stepped back, though his hand remained inches from Julian’s waist, ready to pull him away at the slightest sign of a threat.

Clement reached out, his fingers stopping just short of Julian’s face. He tilted his head, his cold, piercing gaze locking onto Julian’s left eye. Up close, the violet corrosion was undeniable—it pulsed with a faint light, a bruised purple ink that was slowly, methodically drowning the blue.

​Julian felt a sharp, icy prickle at the back of his neck as the Pope’s shadow fell over him. He held his breath, the air in his lungs feeling stagnant. He could see the reflection of the Pope’s pale eyes in the violet of his own, and for a heartbeat, the room seemed to lose its sound.

​The Pope’s eyes widened, a flicker of something that wasn’t quite fear—but was certainly not peace—crossing his ancient features. He didn’t speak for a long time, simply watching the way the violet light reacted to his proximity.

​"This," Clement murmured, his voice barely audible to anyone but Julian and Alaric. "This is not the work of a common surge."

​Julian’s heart gave a heavy, sickening thud. He didn’t know what the cortisone as either but if it was not from the surge then was it a mark that one had met with a fallen god?

That was too much of an assumption but he had no other thoughts concerning it.

The mask of divine indifference on the old man’s face slipped, revealing a calculating, deeply worried man beneath the white silk.

But he did not say anything.

​The Pope simply pulled his hand back into his sleeve, his posture straightening as he smoothed over his momentary lapse in composure.

​"Dinner," Clement stated, his voice regaining its practiced strength. "The Duke will join us. We have much more to discuss, it seems."

​He turned on his heel without waiting for a response, the train of his white robes snapping against the marble floor. Elian and the Purifiers moved in perfect unison, stepping back to clear the doorway but remaining in the hall like a silver cage.

​The tension in the room didn’t leave with the Pope; it simply settled into the floorboards. Alaric let out a breath he had been holding, his hand moving from his sword to Julian’s arm, his grip grounding and firm.

​"He knows something," Julian whispered, watching the doorway. For the Pope to act like that, he definitely knew something.

​"He certainly does," Alaric said, his eyes dark with suspicion. "But whatever it is, he’s terrified of it. And a terrified man with that much power is a man I don’t trust at a dinner table."

​Julian looked down at Lucius, who had finally stood up and was clutching the hem of Julian’s robe. The child’s eyes were darting between the two men, sensing the invisible trouble that was leaning on their shoulders.

​"Even if we do not trust the food, we have to go," Julian said softly. "If the Pope is willing to break bread with the ’Northern Wolf’ from the Viremount Empire, it means he has become desperate. And desperation is the only thing we can use to get into the archives."