I sat at the head of the chamber, a room that resonated with the weight of centuries of history and decisions that shaped kingdoms and faith alike. Its arched ceiling, intricately detailed with carvings of divine symbols and angelic beings, seemed to press down upon those gathered, reminding them of the higher power to which they answered.

  The walls of the chamber were hewn from ancient stone, smooth from centuries of wear, yet still cold to the touch—a reminder of the permanence of the Church in contrast to the fleeting nature of human life. These stones had witnessed countless councils, sagas of crusades, and the rise and fall of kingdoms, their silence now disrupted by the soft murmurs of the bishops in attendance.

  Towering, narrow windows along the walls were fitted with stained glass depicting scenes of saints in moments of divine revelation or sacrifice, their vibrant hues casting delicate, multicolored light across the chamber as the late afternoon sun filtered through. The frolicking of light and shadow on the stone foundation gave the room an ethereal, almost otherworldly atmosphere, as though the figures in the glass themselves watched the proceedings.

  At the center of the chamber stood an immense oak table, its dark, polished surface almost black from centuries of use. The wood was dense and sturdy, each nick and scratch holding a tale of deliberations that had taken place here. Around it, the bishops sat in high-backed chairs of the same dark wood, their seats cushioned with profound red velvet that had faded with time but still held the regal air of power and authority. The chairs creaked faintly as the bishops shifted in their seats, the only sound in the room apart from the occasional flutter of a page or the faint muttering of voices.

  The scent of burning incense hung heavy in the air, a mixture of frankincense and sandalwood that had soaked into the very stones of the cathedral over the years. The smell was thick and heady, intended to cleanse the air and invite divine wisdom into the hearts of those present. Above them, a grand iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, its thick chains anchored deep into the stone. Dozens of candles flickered from it, casting long, dancing shadows that flickered like spirits against the walls.

  The silence of the cathedral outside the chamber was almost palpable, broken only by the occasional muffled sound of distant footsteps on stone or the faint echo of chanting from a far-off prayer hall. The room felt sealed off from the world, as though nothing could penetrate the sacred space save for the issues we now debated: the rise of the Necros cult, the war with the Sardonians, and the future of our faith.

  Each bishop wore the traditional robes of our Church, heavy and layered, woven from the finest fabrics. My robes were adorned with the intricate sigils of my rank, my hands resting lightly on the table's surface as I prepared to speak. The tension in the room was thick, the gravity of our discussions pressing on the hearts of those gathered, for the matters at hand were not merely political or doctrinal—they were existential. The very authority of the Church, its mission, hung in the balance.

  "The Necros cult grows bolder by the day," I stated, my gravelly voice rising above the squabbles of the others. "They spread like a scourge across the land, turning the people from the light. We cannot stand idle."

  "We've already deployed a significant number of our forces, Aubemont," declared Bishop Laveau, his voice calmer but no less firm. "But you cannot deny that our resources are stretched thin with the war against the Sardonians. They are more organized than the cultists and have far greater numbers." The crowd grew more rowdy and untamed.

  I rubbed my thumb over the pristine edges of my ring. "Our mission," I began, my voice cutting through the murmurs, "is to guide and protect the souls of those lost, whether they be under the influence of necromancers or the Sardonians. And I, for one, believe they may be one and the same."

  "The Sardonians pose a direct threat to our Church's existence," interrupted Bishop Thorne, his sharp features set in a frown. "They mock our authority, defy our scriptures, and claim to be the saviors of mankind. If they continue unchecked, the faithful will begin to doubt."

  "Our true purpose," Renart cut in, his eyes flashing, "is to ensure that the world remains under the guidance of the Church, and that includes eliminating threats that would destroy the very foundation of our faith. The Sardonians challenge the Church at every turn, their twisted beliefs tearing our flock away from salvation."

  Laveau nodded in agreement. "We can debate our purpose all we want, but we must face the reality that the Sardonians are not just a threat to our authority but to the souls we are tasked to protect. Their influence is far greater than that of the Necros cult."

  The tension in the room grew palpable. The bishops exchanged glances, the flames from the candles casting shifting shadows on our faces. Each bishop's convictions pulled at the others, straining the unity of the Church's purpose. Yet, despite our differing stances, a silent, unspoken agreement lingered in the air: the Sardonians could not be allowed to win.

  "They are a threat, that much we all agree on," I conceded, my voice soft but resolute. "Let us not forget, they have a leader who is a Corpselord, and the heathens allow sorcerers and mediums to run around rampant and free."

  “Then what do you propose we do?” Bishop Terry inquired, his voice holding cynicism and doubt.

  I stood up, emphasizing my authority and influence with a stern tone.“To abandon this foolish quest of establishing diplomatic relations with the Sardonians. They either wish to gain our trust to destroy us from within, or they wish to use us to get rid of a common enemy so they may weaken us enough to destroy us. If we band together, we may be able to convince the Paladin to see the truth, or even overrule her through the Chief Cardinals.”

  Bishop Reed’s face flustered.“Believing we can overrule the authority of a Paladin is foolish!”

  “And you have a better idea to stop the Sardonians?” I paused for emphasis. “Her way doesn’t get anything that any of us want done. At least mine is a step forward. I propose we sign this petition, so I may present it to her upon leaving this gathering.”

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  The bishops all continued to squabble amongst themselves as the tension in the chamber grew.

  “Enough!” Bishop Thorne shouted. “I will sign this petition, for the Sardonians can not be allowed to continue to mock us.”

  “I too will sign it,” Renart conceded. One by one, the others agreed to sign the petition, save Reed.

  “Fools, the lot of you,” he cried. I paid him no mind, as I made my way out of the chamber in search of the Dame.

  I found Christelle in one of the cloisters, surrounded by the vibrant green of a miniature garden where she sometimes retreated for prayer and contemplation. The light from the stained-glass windows spilled across the floor, casting the scene in soft hues of blue and gold. She stood by a fountain, hands clasped in quiet reflection.

  My heavy boots clicked against the ground as I approached, my face twisted with a mixture of frustration and purpose. I cleared my throat, causing the Dame to look up from her reverie. Her serene face held a gentle smile that immediately disarmed me, but my resolve was firm.

  "Mother Abbess," I began, my voice sharp yet restrained. "We need to discuss our efforts in Sardonia."

  She straightened, her expression soft but knowing. "What weighs on your mind, Aubemont?"

  "It's a...a fool's errand you've undertaken with the Sardonians," I expressed, waving my hand dismissively. "You're wasting the Church's resources trying to maintain relations with a people who have no place within our fold. They are part of the problem, Dame, not the solution."

  Christelle's smile faded, but she remained calm. "You see it as a waste, but I see it as an opportunity for peace. We are expending a small portion of the Church's resources—nothing that compromises our mission—and if it can prevent further bloodshed, then it is more than worth it."

  My voice grew harder. "Every able body is useful. Every coin, every prayer, every resource is a weapon in our fight against those who seek to undermine the Church. You cannot afford to be naive, not now. Jesus himself said, 'I came not to bring peace, but a sword.' He created division where necessary, to separate the righteous from the wicked."

  Christelle's face remained composed, but there was a firmness behind her eyes as she spoke. "And yet, Jesus also said, 'A kingdom divided against itself cannot stand.' If we cut ourselves off from those we deem unworthy or misguided, we only deepen the rift. The Sardonians are misguided, yes, but most are still human. They are still God's children."

  I clenched my hands into fists, my voice rising slightly. "They reject our teachings, defy our laws, and lead others astray with their heresies. They fight against us, Christelle. They are not our brothers or sisters in faith."

  Christelle stepped forward, her voice soft but persistent. "We are all part of God's creation. The Church does not exist to draw lines in the sand and call one side damned and the other blessed. We exist to bring all of God's children back to Him. The angels rejoice more from one lost sheep than the ninety-nine that remain in the flock."

  I shook my head, the exasperation in my tone evident. "You're too idealistic. You think we can save them all, but some are beyond salvation. The Sardonians would see us burn. Every moment we spend trying to reason with them is wasted when we could prepare for war. You talk of peace, but peace is impossible without strength. Respect and authority; that is how peace is attained. Look at all the stories in the Bible, how Samson slayed the enemies of God and David did the same."

  Christelle's eyes softened, but there was a profound sorrow in them as she examined me. "Perhaps you are right that not everyone can be saved, Petrus. But it is not for us to decide who is beyond God's grace. We must extend a hand to all, even those who would slap it away. That is the calling of our faith."

  A tense silence hung between us for a moment, the distant sound of water trickling from the fountain filling the space. My jaw tightened, but for a brief second, I considered her perspective. Her conviction was great indeed, though misguided behind the emotions of a woman.

  I sighed deeply, rubbing my temples in frustration. "I just don't want to see us fall, Christelle. We can't afford to be vulnerable."

  Christelle reached out and placed a gentle hand on my arm. "Strength comes in many forms, Petrus. Sometimes, it is the strength to fight, and sometimes it is the strength to extend mercy. We must have both, or we risk becoming what we despise."

  I observed her visage, my eyes searching her face for any sign of doubt. But there was none. I let out another sigh, this one in disappointment. The Dame was a powerful woman by all means, but a woman she still was. I could not expect her to be realistic. She should not involve herself in the affairs of men. Although she means well, she will bring the Church to its knees, as did Eve.

  "Very well," I voiced, my tone stern. "I see you have your beliefs, and I have my own. But know this—I will not hesitate to do what needs to be done if, when the time comes."

  Christelle smiled faintly, her hand slipping from my arm. "And I will trust in God to guide us, whatever comes."

  My gaze hardened, the muscles in my jaw tightening as I examined Christelle. "Enough, Mother Abbess," I spoke in a dangerously low tone, as I presented the petition the other bishops signed. "You may be well-versed in scripture, but never forget your place. You are a woman, and in the eyes of this Church, you serve a role beneath its authority, beneath mine."

  Christelle's eyes flashed with shock and disappointment, but she held her tongue. She took a step back, clasping her hands in front of her robes, the warmth in her face slowly cooling to a reserved mask. I could sense the tension between us, the unspoken words she was biting back. I could not afford to let her idealism interfere with the Church's survival.

  "We do what we must," I continued, my tone growing harsher. "The world is not some grand ideal where all can be saved."

  Christelle lowered her head slightly, though not in submission. Her eyes held a quiet defiance, though she chose not to voice it. After a long, uncomfortable pause, she finally spoke.

  "May God guide us both, Aubemont," she said softly, and then, without waiting for a response, turned and walked away, her robes sweeping the floor behind her.

  As I watched her leave, I felt a dull pulse of frustration. I could hear the faint echoes of my own footsteps as I turned away, heading deeper into the stone corridors of the cathedral. The air felt colder now, or perhaps my own mounting unease chilled me.

  I paced about in my quarters, my thoughts spinning in turbulent circles. Why did Christelle constantly challenge me? Why did she insist on pushing back against my authority? I could not let a woman—no matter how devout or persuasive—undermine the order of the Church. There was a hierarchy, divinely appointed. I had ascended through the ranks of men. Earned my place through hardship and wisdom, through blood and fire. She did not understand the weight of authentic leadership, the burden of making choices that safeguarded the future of the Church and all it stood for.

  Her compassion, her desire to maintain a diplomatic stance with them, was a weakness. I knew that power came through strength, not through pandering to those who would see the Church destroyed.

  I scoffed aloud, though the sound felt hollow in the vastness of the cathedral. I glanced at the parchment with the signatures of the other bishops. Would this be enough? It would have to be, for if it wasn’t the Church was already in danger of falling. If that was so, I would have to do whatever it took to become a Chief Cardinal. In these dark times, I trusted no one to save our teachings better than myself.