"Did we get the information?"
The voice echoed down the stone aisle like a boot to the balls—sharp, sudden, and demanding.
Maximus walked like he owned the whole damn church, boots clinking with arrogance.
Beside him, Jonathan gave a slow, solemn shake of his head.
The kind of shake that says we're fucked, but with holy flair.
"Not yet, my prince."
He said, hands folded like he was about to bless a newborn—not deliver political treason.
Jonathan's robes were immaculate.
Starched, pressed, and glowing with that fake-ass piety.
Anyone looking at him would think 'ah, what a kind father of faith.'
But anyone knowing him would think ah, what a holy snake in a velvet cassock.
Still, he didn't think of himself as a villain.
Oh no.
In his head, he was doing God's dirty work.
Scrubbing the kingdom clean of sinners, heretics, and anyone who didn't kiss the right ring.
He glanced sideways at Maximus.
"They haven't found it yet."
"Incompetent!"
