The bells of the Cathedral of Christ tolled high above the city, their voices carrying through the evening mist like the call of judgment itself. Below, the square teemed with pilgrims, merchants, and the restless poor—souls drawn to Roma's heart by faith, habit, or fear.
Through that sea of bowed heads and raised candles came a single rider's procession: King Victor Luxenberg, flanked by French Imperial Guard soldiers. His cloak, lined with sable, brushed the marble steps as he dismounted. The air was heavy with incense and whispers. Victor's stride did not falter as he entered the cathedral doors.
Within, the light dimmed to a sacred gloom. Shafts of moonlight pierced through stained glass, scattering jewelled colours over the tiled floor—ruby, sapphire, and gold. The vast nave stretched before him, ending in the gilded dais of the Papal Throne, where Pope Constantine IV sat like a figure carved from sanctity and stone.
The pontiff rose as the king approached, his white robes edged in gold thread, his mitre a crown of its own kind."Your Majesty," the Pope intoned, his voice echoing through the chamber. "You honour me with your presence. After all that has transpired over the last few days, I am glad that you have come to visit me in my home."
Victor bowed low, the gesture smooth but measured. "Holiness, I come not for prayer, but for peace. Your envoy speaks of the Florent lands as a matter of divine restitution. Yet to seize them would tear the future Visctone Kingdom's heart open. The streets would run red before Christ's altar."
A faint smile touched the Pope's lips, though it never reached his eyes. "You speak of peace, and yet your ally Prince Alphonse speaks of defiance. He forgets that atonement is not an act of convenience—it is a commandment of conscience. The Church does not hunger for land, Your Majesty. Rome seeks the soul of Zandar to remain whole."
Victor's gaze hardened. "The soul of Zandar, or its submission?"
The words hung in the air like incense smoke—fragrant, dangerous. For a long moment, the two men simply regarded one another: the pope, radiant and unbending in the holy light; the king, weary but resolute beneath the weight of worldly rule.
At last, Victor spoke again, his voice low.
"Alphonse is rash, I grant you. But he is no heretic. If it is penance you desire, let it be paid in silver, in treaty, in favour—anything but the Florent lands. That soil is not even in his possession yet, and you would tear it away from him."
The Pope's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the arm of his throne. "And if I refuse?"
Victor stepped closer until the haloed light framed them both. "Then, Holiness, I fear that this land will continue to face the same issues it has faced for the last twenty years: War and ruin. My men have played our part in this war, and we do not intend to join another one while we are here. However, the further loss of life in a pointless war will not be tolerated by me and my kingdom."
Then, to Victor's surprise, the Pope smiled—not with anger, but with the serenity of a man certain of victory.
"You speak boldly, my son. Yet boldness is the virtue of kings, and patience the armour of saints. Go, then. Speak with your ally. Persuade him, if you can, to offer something that would be a suitable compromise. For if not…"
He rose slowly, the folds of his robes whispering against the marble. "Then heaven will have its atonement—by will, or by fire."
Victor inclined his head, though his jaw was set like iron. "Then may heaven forgive us all, should fire be all that remains."
He turned from the dais, his footsteps echoing through the sacred hall, the colored light washing across his cloak like shifting omens. Behind him, the Pope's voice rose once more—gentle, prayerful, and cold as prophecy.
"The Church shall receive its proper atonement, my son. It is only a matter of whose hands deliver them."
When the next morning came, word of Victor's audience with the Pope had already reached Alphonse's court — and with it, whispers that peace now walked on a knife's edge.
It would not be too long until Victor visited Alphonse and his advisor to relay his talks with the Pope.
With Alphonse and his advisors assembled once more in the throne room, Victor stated the current position of the Pope.
"Constantine will not yield the matter of Florent. He demands restitution — lands, titles, something he can hold before his cardinals and claim as God's justice. If we deny him all, he will make war, Alphonse. And he will do so in God's name,"
Alphonse's face grew annoyed. "Then let him. Let his 'holy' banners march through my fields and his bishops curse my name from their pulpits. I will not buy peace with the lands that my men will have to die for."
Victor approached, his tone steady but heavy with fatigue. "Nor do I ask you to. But defiance without calculation is suicide, my friend. The Pope does not need your lands to destroy you—only your isolation. This feud with the Pope is an unnecessary distraction from the real enemy: Your nephew and the remnants of the Red Visconte faction."
The prince rose from his throne, eyes flashing. "You would have me bargain away lands that would be mine by right to appease a sanctimonious tyrant? I do not see the Pope sending soldiers to assist us in taking it, nor do I see him supplying our army in preparation for this battle."
Victor met his gaze. "I would have you live to keep the rest. Offer him a fraction of Florent—its outer marches, perhaps. Enough to dress his victory, not enough to rob you. In return, demand a papal charter confirming your sovereignty over the continent. Use his influence to pressure the remaining enemies to yield and swear fealty. It is a compromise that spares your honour and saves you from excommunication."
Alphonse's jaw tightened. He began to pace, boots echoing against the marble. "You ask me to feed the wolf in hopes it will eat more slowly."
Victor's voice softened. "I ask you to give the wolf a bone so it does not tear out your throat."
The words hung there, stark and honest. None of Alphonse's advisors dared to intervene in this heated conversation. Some of the advisors saw Victor as the voice of reason, acting in the best interest of the realm.
Alphonse turned to a nearby window, watching the last light fade. "Tell the Pope," he said quietly, "that I will offer him a third of the farm lands and a tithe from all income made in Florenzia, I will not budge any further on this matter. If he reaches again for what is mine, then not even Heaven's thunder will drown out the sound of my guns."
Victor nodded slowly, his features carved in the dimming light. "Then may God grant us wisdom before pride claims us both."