The papal apartments were silent but for the soft rasp of quill on parchment. His Holiness Constantine IV sat at a mahogany desk inlaid with gold filigree, the candlelight pooling in small halos across the polished wood. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and myrrh. He was alone—save for the quiet ticking of the ornate clock that marked each passing breath.
Before him lay a sealed letter, freshly delivered by courier from the Visconte Palace. Its crimson wax bore the crest of Prince Alphonse. He studied it for a long time before breaking the seal.
"To His Holiness, in penitent humility…"
The Pope read in silence, his silver eyes scanning each word, his expression unmoving. Alphonse's letter was elegant—clever, even. It promised contrition, offered a tithe of gold and grain, a "gesture of reconciliation." Yet nowhere in its florid apology did it yield what Constantine demanded most: the Florent lands.
When he finished, he placed the letter beside the candle and let the flame's reflection flicker across his ring. A muscle in his jaw tightened.
"He would buy forgiveness," he said softly, almost to himself. "As if Heaven were for sale."
A voice answered from the shadowed corner of the chamber.
"Few princes believe in Heaven, Your Holiness. They believe only in their dominions."
Constantine did not look up. "Cardinal Rufus," he murmured, recognising the tone. "You enter unbidden."
The cardinal stepped forward, his crimson robes whispering across the marble. "Forgive my trespass, Holy Father. I came only because you would not summon me. The courier's arrival was… expected."
Cardinal Rufus's red eyes and red hair were vibrant enough to match the colour of the robes he was wearing. His voice was raspy and gave off a venomous vibe.
Constantine leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile touching his lips.
"Expected? Or arranged?"
Rufus's eyes flickered, but he said nothing.
The Pope rose, his movements slow, deliberate. His shadow loomed large upon the frescoed wall behind him—a saint's halo cast in darkness.
"The Florent lands, Eminence," he said, pacing. "Do you know why I must have them?"
Rufus bowed his head slightly. "Because they are rich, Your Holiness. With the city of Florenzia as Church property, our power and influence could grow dramatically: Positioning you to claim the continent as yours. A holy nation."
Constantine turned toward him, and for a heartbeat, his eyes gleamed with something colder than piety.
"Our God is the one true God. For his influence to spread, this world needs a holy kingdom, strong enough to combat the heretics from Asharan. They may be peaceful at the moment, but they will plot to destroy our religion, our morals and our very nature."
"Prince Alphonse has proven himself to be unworthy of this continent. His success is solely based on the intervention of King Luxenberg. He has no true strength. For our religion to flourish and eliminate the heretical threat, we must be in control."
The cardinal inclined his head. "Then perhaps the tithe should be refused."
Constantine nodded slowly.
"It will be refused. And a messenger will carry my answer—not in parchment, but in presence."
He turned toward the window, where dawn was beginning to pale the horizon over Rome.
"You will go to the palace, Rufus. You will look into the prince's eyes and remind him that the soul does not bargain with Heaven."
Rufus hesitated. "And if the prince resists?"
The Pope's reflection in the glass smiled faintly.
"Then let him learn that mercy denied is not the end of grace—it is its beginning."
He raised a hand, tracing the sign of the cross in the air, though his eyes were far away.
"We are the keepers of souls, Eminence. But sometimes…"
He paused, the candlelight trembling.
"…we must break a man to save one."
The next morning, Cardinal Rufus and a handful of the Soldiers of Christ departed for the palace.
Rain had fallen through the night, and the city's cobbled streets still glistened with puddles, reflecting banners limp with damp. At the head of a small procession, Cardinal Rufus rode slowly, his scarlet robes darkened by the weather, his face pale beneath the broad brim of his hat.
Citizens watched from doorways and windows as the papal envoy passed—a sea of bowed heads and muttered prayers. They could feel the weight of the Church in his presence, the quiet fear that followed a man who carried the will of Heaven.
When he reached the palace, Prince Alphonse was waiting. The prince received him in the throne room. Victor was once again beside him, and dozens of advisors and commanders were split to the sides of the throne room, allowing the Cardinal to take centre stage.
Rufus bowed deeply. "Your Grace," he said, his tone smooth as oil. "I bring the blessing of His Holiness, and the Church's reply to your generous letter."
Alphonse smiled thinly. "A blessing, Your Eminence? Then let it be spoken plainly."
The cardinal straightened. "His Holiness cannot accept a tithe in place of righteousness. The Florent lands are of the utmost importance to the Church. The Pope believes that the city of Florenzia and its surrounding lands as consecrated ground—what was given to God must not remain in the hands of men."
The prince's smile did not waver, though his fingers curled slightly at his side. "The Florents are traitors. Their lands will be won by blood, not stolen by sin. I see no saints in their fields."
Rufus stepped forward, the hem of his robe whispering across the marble. "And yet you would reap their harvest under Heaven's eye. Tell me, Prince—will those fields yield more than grain? Will they yield absolution?"
The words struck like a subtle blow. Alphonse's gaze hardened. "If the Church seeks to provoke war, she will have one."
The cardinal's expression remained serene. "War? No, my son. The Church does not war—she endures. But endurance can outlast any sword."
The silence that followed was heavy. Rain pattered against the windows, soft but relentless.
At last, Alphonse turned from the cardinal, walking toward the far window where the gardens spread beyond the glass, drenched and silent. "Tell His Holiness," he said, his voice low, "that I must decline. We must come up with another solution for atonement"
Rufus's tone softened, almost pitying. "You are in no position to deny us. You are not king yet; those lands are not in your possession. Can you fight a war against the rebellious elements that remain on the continent, as well as us?"
Alphonse faced him then, eyes cold and sharp. "It was foolish of the Pope to demand lands that we do not possess. But when they are mine, they will serve to better the welfare of my people, in my kingdom."
For a long moment, they stood in stillness—two powers bound by faith and pride, each unwilling to yield.
Then Rufus bowed once more. "His Holiness will not be denied, you will see."
As the cardinal departed, his crimson robes trailed like a streak of blood across the white marble floor. The rain fell harder.
When the doors closed behind him, Prince Alphonse exhaled, his hand gripping his throne. Although he was putting up and brave and defiant front, he was afraid of the power of the Church. He did not want things to spiral out of control, but now it seemed like more chaos would be coming to Zandar.