The papal bedchamber had once been a monument to restrained opulence—gold-leaf frescoes of seraphim gazing down in eternal blessing, crimson velvet drapes heavy enough to muffle a scream, a four-poster bed carved from ancient sacred oak and wide enough for forbidden royal indulgences.
Tonight it was transformed into something far more honest: a private theater of absolute desecration.
Crimson candlelight flickered alongside corrupted holy orbs that pulsed with slow, demonic scarlet. Shadows writhed across the walls like living things.
Against the far marble wall, two men hung in blessed iron manacles—the same chains once used to bind heretics for purification. Their arms were stretched high, toes barely scraping the floor.
Strips torn from the former Pope's own ceremonial sash gagged their mouths. Thin silver clamps—delicate, cruel—kept their eyelids forced open. They would not be granted the mercy of darkness.
