The light in the office shimmered unnaturally, golden and soft, as if reality itself had bent around the sacred energy pulsing from the center of the room.
Pope Orthran knelt in stillness beside his desk, hands clasped around the golden cross at his chest. His eyes were closed. His breath was slow, but his skin had already begun to pale—his lips dry, his fingers trembling slightly.
He was praying. And through that prayer, the Blessing of the Church—a holy shield that enveloped the entire capital—remained active. It wasn't fueled by mana, but by life itself. By years.
He was burning.
The chamber itself had no enchantments, no defensive magic or runes etched into the stone. Only Charlotte's sacred barrier, hastily invoked, stood between the Pope and the outside world.
But it was already weakening.
