The bells rang again at dawn.
Not in alarm this time.
Not in panic or fracture.
They rang in sequence—measured, deliberate, unified—each toll layered with purpose, echoing across the capital like a heartbeat finally brought under control. The sound rolled over rooftops and towers, down narrow streets and across silent courtyards, announcing not chaos, but consolidation.
Inside the High Church, the world reordered itself.
The Conclave Chamber lay deep beneath the cathedral, older than the marble spires above, older than many of the doctrines carved into scripture.
Its walls were smooth obsidian stone veined faintly with gold, etched with symbols of prophets long dead and popes long forgotten. The ceiling arched low, pressing weight downward, forcing humility from those who entered.
A circular table dominated the room.
And at its center—elevated, unmistakable, impossible to ignore—sat Aiden.
Also know as...Lucifer.
Lucifer...the Prophet.
The High Pope.
