July 25th, 1492
This morning, the light dragged itself through the dusty windows of the parish house, as if the world itself were too tired to begin another day. I woke with a heavy body and a fogged mind, burdened not only by flesh but also by the weight pressing on my soul. Life as a priest in a village near Târgoviște—at the ragged edge of the world—has proven far harsher than anything my years of study ever prepared me for.
For two months now, I have carried this cross, entrusted to me by Bishop Ignatius, a man whose granite gaze sees everything. Day after day, I renew my vow before the altar, before a community that still watches me with lingering doubt.
My name is Antonio. I turned twenty-four this June, in a year when the sun seems to have lost its brilliance and hopes drown in the muddy rivers of life. The Archbishop of Paris extended his protective hand and permitted me to wear these sacred vestments earlier than most. Yet who am I—barely grown, still soft in spirit—when faced with so many broken lives, so much pain carved into these people's blood?
Perhaps this is why, today of all days, I decided to write. This journal may become a testament of my struggle, a cry from the depths—one that refuses to be forgotten.
The villagers, nearly one hundred and fifty families, watch me with clouded eyes. Every day they bring humble offerings: beans, potatoes, onions—bitter fruits wrestled from a stingy earth. This is no feast like those of priests in great cities, whose tables bend under extravagant dishes. This is the food of people who live on the edge of poverty, yet cling fiercely to their faith.
Without a wife, without family, without any comfort except prayer, I must appear to them like a riddle. At first, they greeted me with indifference… even scorn. A stranger with a thin face and trembling hands, full of ideals yet empty of strength. But time—silent judge of all things—has begun to soften their hearts, little by little.
My predecessor… A giant forged by storms, revered as a living saint. During the darkest days of famine, when death prowled the streets like a starving beast, he saved them with a grace many believed divine.
When the bishop summoned him to the capital for higher duties, the village erupted in grief and rage.
"He was the only one! No priest will ever stand in his shadow!" the women cried, their eyes red with tears, while the men sharpened their pitchforks.
And then… I appeared. Tall like a fir tree, yes—yet fragile, almost dreamlike. A young man with emerald eyes and a body too slight to battle hunger, darkness, or death. When I took my first step into the village, their laughter cut through me like a blade.
"Tall as a pine, dumb as a fence!" the farmers jeered.
"This one will confuse our daughters before he saves our souls," the elders muttered.
Despite this harsh beginning, I endured. Through toil and prayer, I slowly carved out a place in their hearts. After a month, rough hands brought me food; two weeks later, I saw the church fill once again on Sunday. From distrust, they stepped cautiously toward hope.
It seemed God had blessed my mission. I began to believe peace might finally settle over this place.
But today shattered that illusion.
"Father Antonio! Father Antonio!" A breathless voice struck the parish door like a stone.
I opened it to find a young boy, face flushed, eyes wide with fear.
"Come inside, child. Sit… breathe," I told him gently. I poured him a cup of cold water drawn from the well. He drank as though his life depended on it. Then, with trembling lips, he spoke the words that would overturn my world:
"Pope Innocent is dead!"
I froze. Could I believe a child's rumor? But what purpose would he have in running so far just to lie?
"H—How? No… that can't be… Pope Innocent?" I stammered.
To me, the man was a pillar of our faith—a saint among mortals. The thought of his death felt as absurd as seeing the heavens collapse. The boy stuttered through a story woven from whispers carried by servants of nearby nobles.
With my heart tightening, I called for a villager and asked him to take me by cart to the nearest town. I needed the truth. I could not remain in darkness while the whole world trembled.
When I arrived, several nobles I knew from my years of study greeted me. Familiar faces—darkened now by sorrow. One of them, Nicholas, met my eyes and spoke without hesitation:
"Yes, Father… it is true. Pope Innocent VIII passed away last night."
I felt the blood drain from my body. The world had just lost its anchor.
"May God receive his soul…" I whispered, though the words scraped painfully across my tongue.
Nicholas leaned closer, lowering his voice. Bishop Ignatius had been one of the first informed, and the rumors surrounding the Pope's death were far from peaceful. Some said he choked on a fish bone; others that illness and hidden troubles consumed him in those final days. Worse still, dark whispers spread regarding his legitimate sons—human weaknesses now thrown cruelly into the light.
I held my tongue. Grief pressed heavily against my chest.
"That is enough, Brother Nicholas," I said sharply. "We must not judge a soul standing before the Eternal Judge. Pray for him; do not slander him."
"You're right, Father… But something about this death feels wrong. I fear harsh days are coming."
I felt the same chill coil within me. This was not merely a death—it was the spark that would ignite storms, tear alliances, and shake thrones. A world-changing tide had begun.
In the carriage back to Târgoviște, I watched the sky burn red with sunset, as if stained with blood.
A single prayer echoed in my mind:
"Lord, send us a Holy Father strong enough for the darkness to come…"
When we reached the city, Nicholas left for his errands, and I headed toward the great Cathedral. Inside, priests moved like silent shadows, preparing the altar for a memorial Mass. Incense hung heavy in the air—thick with wax, smoke, and mourning.
"Father Antonio! What a joy to see you again!"
It was the former parish priest—the giant of a man they all adored. We exchanged warm words about my village and its slowly opening hearts.
"Ah, Antonio," he laughed, "every priest faces this trial. Our people are like oaks: stubborn at first, but steadfast once won."
I asked to see Bishop Ignatius. As if fate aligned, he was free. Guided by the former parish priest, I approached a massive oak door carved with angels stretching their wings toward an unseen heaven. I knocked softly. A weary voice answered.
Inside, Bishop Ignatius sat hunched over a heavy table, a crumpled letter in his hand. His face—lined like an ancient manuscript—was carved with sorrow.
I knelt and kissed his episcopal ring. He studied me for a long moment, then spoke:
"Antonio… You've heard, haven't you?"
"Yes, Excellency. That is why I came. My heart refuses to believe the rumors."
"They are true, my son. Pope Innocent is gone. And with him… the world has lost its anchor."
He spoke of cardinals sharpening their wills like blades, of the fierce, hidden battles for the Throne of St. Peter.
"Do not be naïve, Antonio," he warned. "Power corrupts—even under these sacred domes. None of us are angels."
His words wounded me, yet somewhere within, I knew he spoke truth. The Church—my beacon of absolute purity—was also a fortress of stone, cracked by human frailty.
And yet, for all its wounds, it remained the bridge between man and eternity. God Himself had built it. That certainty anchored me even as doubt tried to devour me.
After a long conversation, the bishop offered me wine—dark as blood—and asked about my parish. I shared everything, and he promised that someday soon, I would be called to serve at the capital.
When I returned, I celebrated a Mass for Pope Innocent's soul. Holiness felt different now, tainted by the truths I had learned. The Pope needed our prayers more than ever.
When all was finished and the candles burned low, I returned to the parish house. After my prayers, I took up this quill once more.
And now, with trembling hands, I write these words…
Before sleep claims me after such a day.