Finally, Clement leaned back, his white robes rustling like dry leaves against the dark wood of the chair. He didn’t seem offended by the bluntness anymore; he looked like a man who had just confirmed a terrifying suspicion.

"Is there something you refuse to tell me?" Clement asked, his voice dropping to a low, intense tone. "Have you perhaps... been blessed with a prophecy?"

The word hit the room like a physical blow. Behind the Pope, the Purifiers went stiff, their armor creaking as they instinctively straightened. Even Elian stiffened beside the door.

Prophecy.

To the Church, a prophecy wasn’t a gift—it was a catastrophe.

History taught that the heavens only broke their silence when the world was facing a crisis that could cause its total destruction. Lucius didn’t understand the word, but he understood the shift in the adults; he gripped Julian’s fingers so hard his own knuckles went white, his small face pale with fear.

There hadn’t been one in a thousand years, not since the end of the first and last demon war. To hear the word now was to admit that the end had finally arrived.

All eyes snapped to Julian. The air in the room felt suddenly thin, as if the Spire itself were holding its breath. Julian felt his own breath catch. He looked at the Pope, then at Alaric’s white-knuckled grip on the table, and let out a shaky, jagged breath.

Prophecy was a rather big word and a huge responsibility to handle.

"I apologize, Your Holiness," Julian began, his voice thin but steady. "But I cannot say for sure. What I can say is that I saw something. I saw this world—not just this land, but every corner of it—burning."

He didn’t have to explain that he’d heard it from a Fallen God; the raw conviction in his voice was enough.

"And the only hope to stop that is right here, in these lands," Julian added, his gaze hardening. "So let me into the archives."

The silence that followed was different now. It wasn’t just tense; it was heavy with the realization that Julian was no longer just a scholar they could manage. He was a harbinger.

The Pope leaned back, his white robes rustling like dry leaves against the dark wood of his chair. He looked at Julian with a new, sharp clarity—the look of a man deciding whether to bow to a miracle or prepare for the apocalypse.

"The archives are not a library, Julian," the Pope finally said, his tone softening in a way that felt more chilling than his anger. "They are a collection of things we were meant to forget. The records of the first war are... heavy. They weren’t written for scholars to browse."

"I know it’s not a light read," Julian said, his voice steady. "But the demons are already here. If there is a record of how they were stopped before—or a way to reach the God of Light for a solution—then we are wasting time eating while people are dying at the pass."

The Pope set his spoon down with a soft, final clink. He leaned forward, his hands folding on the table.

"You speak of communicating with the Light," Clement murmured. "A feat that hasn’t been accomplished in a thousand years. The scripts do mention a medium—a soul that could act as a bridge. But the cost for such a connection was always... immense."

Alaric’s jaw tightened, his hand moving under the table to find Julian’s knee. Beside him, Julian could feel Alaric’s entire body vibrating with a low, silent rage.

"Immense how?" Alaric asked, the words sounding like a threat.

"The archives will show you," the Pope replied, his gaze locked on Julian’s violet eye. "If you are truly willing to see the truth, I will allow it. But only because I suspect you are already deeper into this than any of us realized."

Julian felt a chill. The Pope wasn’t just being difficult; he was watching to see if Julian would flinch. He was testing him without even knowing it. Beside him, Lucius let out a small, muffled sob, burying his face in Julian’s sleeve. Julian stroked the boy’s hair with a trembling hand, his heart breaking for the child who was being caught in the gears of a war he couldn’t understand.

"I’ll do it," Julian said, meeting the Pope’s gaze. "I need to see those scripts." 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

If it were a path to make sure this world did not burn and he did not lose the home he had found, he would follow that path.

Clement stood up, the weight of his office returning to his posture. "Then let us see if your soul is strong enough to open a door that has been sealed for a thousand years."

The heavy dining hall doors groaned open, and the procession began.

The Pope led the way, his white robes flowing behind him like a ghost. Julian followed, keeping a firm hand on Lucius’s shoulder, while Alaric walked on his other side—a silent shadow with a hand always on his sword. They bypassed the grand public libraries and moved instead into the heart of the main chapel. Here, the air was cold and heavy with the scent of old stone.

Behind the high altar, they stopped at a narrow door of plain, blackened wood. It had no gold or symbols—only a heavy silver latch.

"Through here," the Pope said, his voice echoing in the silence. "...Is the way to the archives."

As he lifted the latch, a rush of freezing, stale air hit them. Julian felt the pressure in his chest surge in response, a magnetic pull that seemed to vibrate in his very bones.

Alaric’s grip on Julian’s arm tightened as he stared into the dark opening. "It feels like a tomb," he muttered.

"It is," Clement replied, stepping into the darkness. His white robes caught the faint light, making him look like a flickering candle in the void. "It is the tomb of the truths we were too afraid to carry. Come, Saint. Let us see if you can bear the weight."

Julian looked at Lucius’s slightly frightened face, then at Alaric’s fierce resolve. Taking a steadying breath, he stepped over the threshold, and the door closed behind them with a heavy, final thud.