Apostolic Journey

[Patricus I]

After the trials in Norway, His Holiness returned to Rome in solemn procession, though none but those closest to him would have called it retreat. Within the ancient stone of the Vatican, beneath gilded ceilings and the low murmur of sacred chants, Pope Patricus I found a season of stillness. It was Christmastide, and though the liturgical calendar ran on as ever it had, the weight upon his shoulders did not lift.

The memories of Norway and Siberia clung to him like incense after Mass. The Key of Cunning lay buried deep within the Apostolic Archives now, classified among relics whose natures were best left unquestioned. Yet it called to him. Not with words, not even with thought, but with the subtle allure of something unfinished. He resisted, as was expected of him and as was required. That such a temptation could arise at all was troubling. That he felt it was worse.

Armande had fallen into silence in the weeks that followed. The women who accompanied him spoke little as well, offering weariness as excuse and solitude as shield. Armande himself spoke often of patience, with all the gravity of a cardinal instructing a novice. Patience! To the Pope himself. One of the Fruits, he had called it. The absurdity of it sparked a glare had it not also rung true in some distant corner of Philip’s soul.

And yet, patience was no balm. The other keys remained hidden, scattered like seeds on unbroken ground, and Philip knew without evidence or reasoning that they must be found. That they must not fall into the wrong hands. Whether it was instinct or something more, he could not say. Only that the sense of purpose had not left him.

Rome swelled with celebration in those holy weeks. Chorales rang out beneath the dome of Saint Peter’s; pilgrims crowded the piazza like waves pressed against the shore. Then, as Epiphany gave way to Ordinary Time, the announcement came: the Pope would journey to Moscow.

Not a summons nor an obligation. A choice. It would be his first meeting with the Ascendancy; a public gathering, one announced with careful language and diplomatic tact. Many had asked for such a meeting before; all had been denied. Until now.

The Ascendancy could not know the truth behind the change. But Philip was ready.

[Ascendancy]

It had been ten years. Ten long winters and as many muted seasons since last the Kremlin had dispatched an invitation to the Apostolic Palace. As before, it had been addressed with full ceremonial flourish, embossed with seals, signed in the proper form. And as before, it had been met with silence more resolute than denial.

Which was why, when at last a reply came, and not merely a reply, but an acceptance, the corridors of the Kremlin stirred like a hive disturbed. What had moved His Holiness, Patricus I, to cross beyond the walls of his sacred city-state, none could say. He was a pontiff known more for stillness than for spectacle, a man whose presence had become synonymous with the Eternal City itself. Rumors whispered of his recent sojourns into the North Norway, possibly even Siberia, but the nature of those travels was as clouded as the breath of men in winter air. The Ascendancy's advisors speculated that it was not diplomacy that called him forth, but something far more political.

Nikolai, for his part, cared little for the cause. Let the man come. The Custody, predictably, had taken to the task with overzealous fervor scheming to frame the Pope's visit as a gesture of deference to the Ascendancy, or at the very least, a recognition of its dominion in all matters worldwide.

But the CCD, outside the mutterings of the Brotherhood of Ascension, had never concerned itself with the trappings of religion. Not openly. Not since the DV affair years prior though that had been less about theology and more about rebellion.

It was Myshelov who insisted on the second invitation to the Brotherhood’s Luminar. It was a subtle move and carefully played. Nikolai had met the man once: a formal greeting, a carefully staged photograph, and a handful of words traded like passing smalltalk. Left to his own judgment, Nikolai would have let the matter lie. But with the Vicar of Rome arriving in Moscow, the game had shifted.

The two poles of the spiritual world, one ancient and encumbered by centuries, the other fervent and forged anew would meet at last. Now that would be a sight worth watching.

[Luminar]

The summons came not by courier, nor wrapped in a seal, but through an encrypted channel. Its authority made plain not by the message itself, but by the voice that soon followed it. Myshelov Tarasovich. Patron of Dominance I.

Theron had spoken with him before, but always in private, never in light. Their acquaintance was a secret even from those who imagined themselves well-informed. In public, the Brotherhood and the Custody were separate entities, touching only in rhetoric. In truth, the Patron’s hand fed the Brotherhood’s accounts more than any would guess, and more than any ledger could safely record.

But the invitation? The Kremlin? That surprised even him.

The image of Myshelov flickered into being across Theron's desk: sharp-featured, poised, wearing a smile that held no warmth.

“What, then is the true purpose behind this summons?” He inquired, head held high.

The Patron offered a soft laugh, barely more than breath. “What you do not yet know is this: you will stand before the Ascendancy in the same audience as the Pope. You will be presented together. Two figures of faith. As equals at least in the Ascendancy’s eyes.”

For a moment, Theron was speechless. Such moments were rare.

A thousand implications flared through his thoughts, each branching into a dozen more. The Brotherhood existed in but only barely acknowledged. Now? Now the world would see. The spirit would glance at the sacred. And the sacred would glance back. And in between them both, the Luminar. Him.

“I will bring three,” Theron said at last. “One officer of the Brotherhood and two Veilwardens.”

Myshelov’s expression did not change, but the shake of his head was final. “Three is one too many. Two. That is the maximum.”

Theron frowned slightly, though the Patron would not see it in the usual way. The projection left much to be desired. Still, he could not argue with that polite, direct, and immovable tone.

“Two,” he agreed.

When the connection ended, Theron summoned Lucien with a thought. The man would be ready.

As for the second... that required thought. Quillon had the skill. Steady, fierce, a wall in the shape of a man. But balance mattered. The court of the Ascendancy was a mysterious place. Seraphis, though less naturally talented in politics, had something better than insight. She was a woman, and could sense things that he could not. Besides, she had once been his ward, and though sentiment had no place in decision, Theron would not pretend he was made of stone.

Yes. She would do.

Quillon could remain behind, in command by absentia.

[Seraphis]

Seraphis did not run to the Luminar’s summons. She moved with purpose, but something inside her unspooled just slightly at the thought of being called to his presence. Not Lucien. Not another summon to brief a Veilwarden call. Her. Summoned by him.

She told herself it was because of her reports training Nora. The Ember had drawn praise from everyone, even those who did not hand out praise as lightly as breath. It must be that. It ought to be that.

Still, she paused outside the door, smoothing the pale fall of her hair behind her shoulders and checking her cuffs with unconscious precision. One breath. Then another and composure slid over her like armor.

She knocked once—firm, not sharp—and entered at his call.

"Ah, Seraphis. How are you, my dear?"

He always said it that way. Warm, distant, and unthinking, but it was enough to stir something beneath the calm she wore like her Veilwarden dress. She inclined her head.

"Very well, Luminar. And yourself?" Her voice was steady and trained, the voice of someone who’d once been a ward and was determined never to be mistaken for one again.

He gestured to the chair opposite him, and she took it without hesitation, spine straight, hands folded. The study smelled faintly of sage and the old paper of restricted texts. His presence filled it like incense.

"I have news," he said, steepling his fingers. "I have been invited to an audience with the Ascendancy at the Kremlin."

That stilled her thoughts for a moment. The Kremlin. She had passed its walls a hundred times, its spires gleaming like spears held against the sky. But she had never been within.

"Lucien will accompany me," Theron went on. "And I have decided to bring you as well." Her breath caught only a little, only inward, but her eyes widened before she mastered them.

"I require a certain perspective,” he continued. “One I believe only you can offer."

She nodded, once. Not too eager. But her heart still thudded like a drum beneath her ribs.

"Of course, Luminar. Whatever you need."

She would not ask why. She would not speculate aloud. That was not what was required of her. But behind her composed expression, a hundred thoughts moved like shadows behind a veil.

[Patricus I]

The day of the Summit dawned as all Moscow days seemed to: iron-gray and unmoved by prayer. Cold pressed against the windows of the motorcade like an accusation, and the sky hung low and colorless, as if the world itself had drawn a breath and chosen not to release it.

Philip missed Rome.

He missed the sun warming the walkways, the familiar echo of footsteps in halls that had known emperors and martyrs alike. He missed the quiet certainty of home. As the motorcade passed beneath the walls of the Kremlin, massive and unyielding, he felt the distance keenly. This place was old, yes. But age alone did not make something venerable.

The Kremlin was a fortress. A bulwark. A thing built to endure siege and repel force. It lacked the sanctity of devotion, the layered holiness of centuries bent toward God rather than power. Compared to the Apostolic Palace, it was a blunt instrument: imposing but empty of grace.

Philip allowed none of these thoughts to show.

A veil obscured his expression as he was ushered inside, his face composed into the serene mask expected of the Bishop of Rome. Disdain, when it came, must be hidden beneath courtesy. He had learned that lesson long before the Keys, long before prophecy had begun to trouble his sleep.

My audience, he thought as he was shown to the chambers prepared for him. The phrasing amused him, faintly. It was the Ascendancy who would have audience with him. He had not come because he was summoned. He had come because he had allowed it. Yet it was time.

The Key of Cunning lay sealed in the deepest vaults of the Vatican Archives, wrapped in classification and prayer both. Even now, he could feel its absence like a space where a tooth had been pulled. The world was shifting. Lines once clear had blurred. Children like Thalia were being drawn toward idols fashioned not of gold or stone, but of influence and spectacle. Souls, wandering unguarded. He had seen what came of that. Is this the end of days? he wondered, not for the first time. Philip had not come merely as a diplomat. He had come because the dream had returned, unchanged. Because prophecy was not a thing one ignored simply because it was inconvenient.

Today required balance.

He would stand as both Pontifex Maximus and sovereign prince. His presence would remind the world that the Holy See was not merely a faith, but a state older than most nations dared remember. His vestments were chosen accordingly.

The red velvet mozzetta, trimmed with winter ermine, rested upon his shoulders like a mantle of history. Beneath it, the rochet of linen white and meticulous craftsmanship marked the business of state rather than the intimacy of pastoral care. The pectoral cross hung heavy against his chest, suspended from braided gold and crimson cord, its weight familiar and grounding against his heart. The fascia ended in gold-tasseled knots, an echo of ceremonies long abandoned by those who mistook simplicity for humility.

And upon his feet, the red shoes. Louboutin made.  The Gentlemen of His Holiness flanked him, followed by cardinals in piano dress, their black cassocks edged in scarlet like restrained flame. Cameras followed every measured step as he moved through the Grand Palace, the murmur of media held at bay by marble, discipline, and awe.

Then the doors opened.

The old throne room of the tsars stretched before him. Protocol had been observed, he noted, precisely, even deferentially. Chairs stood side by side at the foot of a dais, equal in height, equal in placement. Above them loomed the ancient throne itself, elevated and unused, a relic of dominion past. Though rumor said the Ascendancy did in fact use it.  But what drew Philip’s eye was not the throne itself. It was the sigil behind it.

The emblem of the CCD dominated the wall. It was modern, assertive, and unmistakable. His gaze sharpened, though his expression did not change. He approved of the honesty, at least. Power that pretended not to be power was the more dangerous kind. But power over men was eclipsed by the power of God.

Then he noticed the third chair.

His breath did not falter. His stride did not slow. But something inside him stilled, like a pond touched by the first hint of wind.

So, he thought. This is how they mean to play it.

As his full titles were announced, Patricus I stepped forward, alone, down the long center of the hall. The sound of his footsteps carried toward the figure waiting at the far end.