"Wanna talk about it?" Amara asked, her voice gentle as she eyed Sophia, who stood with her fists clenched tight at her sides. Sophia was muttering uneven words under her breath, lost in her own storm of thoughts. The question snapped her back, and she forced a cheeky smile, brushing off the shadows in her eyes.
"I'm okay, just exhausted," she replied, faking a calm she didn't feel. Lu stood beside them, unusually quiet, his shoulders slumped. It made sense—no one walked away from facing a demon like Azazel without scars, seen or unseen.
They were back in the heart of the Vatican now, the air thick with incense and sorrow as the Pope's burial loomed. It was just a day after their chilling encounter in the catacombs, and Amara couldn't shake the unease at how quickly everything moved. The sun hung low over the ancient spires, casting long shadows across the cobblestone paths.
"My God... he really is dead," Lu whispered, his voice cracking as he sniffed and rubbed his eyes, fighting back the tears that welled up like unwelcome guests.
"You'd think a pope would have some edge against death," Sophia muttered, her words laced with dark humor that didn't quite land. Amara, caught in the middle, reached out and rubbed their backs in slow, soothing circles, her touch a quiet anchor in the grief.
"I guess even deities aren't all that invincible," she said softly. The three let out a shared sigh—not just of loss, but of raw gratitude that they were still breathing, still standing.
A deep bell tolled then, its resonant dings rolling through the city like a mournful wave, calling the faithful to gather. Footsteps hurried from every direction: priests in flowing robes, families clutching rosaries, tourists pausing mid-stride. In moments, St. Peter's Square brimmed with people from all walks of life—pilgrims with weathered backpacks, locals in simple Sunday best—united in quiet reverence to bid farewell to their shepherd.
"Pope Vicious the Third was a kind man of eloquence, honor, integrity, and unyielding power," a cardinal in a deep purple robe proclaimed from the basilica's grand steps, his voice steady over the murmurs. "He was one of the most competent leaders the Church has ever known. We pray for his soul, that God may welcome him into His kingdom, and that the forces of evil, stirred by his death, shall rise no further." As he spoke, the choir—tucked in the shadowed alcoves that the trio hadn't noticed before—lifted their voices in soft, harmonious tunes. The melodies wove through the air like threads of silk, easing the heavy weight of the moment, notes of Latin hymns floating on a breeze scented with fresh lilies.
The singing faded, and the square fell into a pin-drop silence, broken only by the distant coo of pigeons. "May the souls of all the faithfully departed," the cardinal intoned, his hands raised.
"Through the mercy of God, rest in peace," the crowd replied in perfect unison, their voices a deep, rolling echo.
"May their souls rest in perfect peace."
"Amen."
He traced the sign of the cross over the Pope's body, laid in an open mahogany coffin atop a draped table adorned with white linens and flickering candles. The pope' face was serene, almost peaceful, his hands folded over a bouquet of white roses pressed to his chest. The cardinal plucked a single bloom from the arrangement, its petals soft and dewy, and tossed it skyward. It arced gracefully, catching the light like a fleeting prayer.
Before gravity could claim it, a pure white dove swooped in from the basilica's eaves, snatching the flower mid-air with delicate precision. It soared upward in a spiral, vanishing into the blue sky above—a clear sign from heaven that the Pope's soul was accepted, a true servant called home. The choir erupted again, this time with joyful hymns, their voices swelling in celebration, brass trumpets joining in a triumphant fanfare that chased away the gloom.
"Now, as custom demands, a new pope will be chosen," the cardinal continued once the music hushed. He drew a silver crucifix from his robe's pocket, its chain gleaming in the sunlight, and held it high for all to see. "God willing, this relic belonged to the former pope, and the one before him, tracing back to the first—St. Peter himself. The chosen one will bear this sacred weight..."
But his words cut short. The crucifix trembled in his grasp, then twisted free like a living thing. In a flash, it snapped around his own neck, the clasp sealing with a soft, final click. The selection was made—divine and undeniable. He was the new pope.
Gasps rippled through the crowd like wind over wheat, followed by a swell of awe-struck murmurs. The choir struck up once more, a soft, welcoming melody that wrapped the square in warmth, a benediction sung just for him.
A light white fog materialized then, drifting in from the basilica's arches—not thick or choking, but pure and ethereal, like morning mist kissed by dawn. It filled the air gently, unnoticed by most but felt in the bones—a holy veil, shimmering faintly as it curled around the new pontiff.
The trio watched from a quiet corner near a marble fountain, the spray's soft patter grounding them amid the spectacle.
"Well... that was fast," Lu said, glancing at the girls for agreement. They nodded, their faces a mix of wonder and worry.
"The Church needs a leader now more than ever," Sophia murmured, her voice low and edged with unease. "We're in dark times... without a mediator, it could all crumble." Lu and Amara exchanged a quick look, a chill prickling their skin—they were as creeped out as she sounded.
Another cardinal stepped forward, his robes whispering against the stone steps, and gave the new pope a light, respectful nudge to the side. "Brethren, I am honored to introduce our new shepherd: Pope Andrew Milgaro." The crowd exploded into cheers, screams of joy and applause crashing like waves, handkerchiefs fluttering like white flags.
But Pope Andrew stood short of words, his face pale beneath the sudden weight. Inside, an overwhelming power surged through him—a divine upgrade to his ordinary life, electric and vast, like rivers of light flooding his veins. He hadn't seen this coming, hadn't craved it. Fear gripped him tight, cold fingers around his heart. What was his fate now? He didn't need this burden, this mantle of the world's spiritual anchor, of the most important man in the world. Rejecting God's direct call to lead the faithful? That was a sin graver than any—history had it that it has never gone right because as soon as you showed any sign of protest, a bolt from the heavens will suffice, a swift end for the unworthy.
But what did God truly ask of him? He sighed deeply, the sound lost in the roar of the crowd. He wasn't ready to die, not like this. It was do or die—accept or perish. With a final, resigned slump of his shoulders, he surrendered to the will that had chosen him, the silver crucifix warm against his skin like a promise... or a chain.