Apostolic Journey

[Patricus I]

He was burning with anger, though none would see it behind the practiced stillness of his expression. Not the Holy See, not the gathered press, not even Brandon himself. But beneath the folds of white and crimson, the Bishop of Rome boiled.

How dare he.

How dare the Ascendancy defile the moment by reducing it to spectacle. By seating a false prophet beside the Apostolic Throne. How dare he dilute the Faith with idolatry, cloaked in ceremony and wrapped in attention.

Philip did not recognize the party as they entered, but he knew them at once for what they were. The robes. The colors. The walk of people who thought themselves chosen. And at the center of them was the young man, the Luminar.

That name alone stirred bile.

Light-bringer. A title once borne by an angel cast into fire. Brandon knew what he was doing. He had summoned the Vicar of Christ to share a hall with a man who claimed divinity not from heaven, but from the presence of the Ascendancy. A man whose followers worshipped a mortal.

Blasphemy, Philip thought. And I must endure it.

He kept his gaze forward, fixed not on the Luminar, but on the seat prepared for him beneath the Tsar’s throne. He did not look at Brandon. He did not look at the press. His steps were steady, solemn, and heavy with significance. His presence alone was rebuke enough.

He paused before his chair. Its height was modest, but made equal by the cushion of red velvet placed there by the Gentlemen of His Holiness, perhaps even an inch higher. Never had that small addition felt so weighty, so necessary. Only when he had composed himself did he turn.

The Luminar stood where custom demanded he be acknowledged. He was younger than expected, but with a gaze that bore into the room like a flame in glass. There was depth there, but all blindness and no holiness. Only self-certainty.

Philip bowed his head. Precisely enough to mark diplomacy and no more.

“Reverend Sir,” he said, each syllable carved from marble. To use the title he claimed would acknowledge its legitimacy. That was something Patricus I could not do. “May peace find you, and truth guide your path.” No surer rebuke had ever been uttered.

Then he turned, cassock whispering around his ankles, and took his seat well aware of the eye of the cameras upon him. He glanced toward the Luminar’s companions, two figures who shadowed him as the Gentlemen did the Pope.

Philip folded his hands atop his lap. The silence stretched. Then, at last, he looked at Brandon.