Panic and urgency rippled through the Holy Pope's office the instant the news arrived. Pope Lucius Serapheal stood from his chair, bowed his head once in thanks beneath the statue of Goddess Aria, and then raised his voice with the calm of command.
"Summon only those who know the Warherald prophecy. Archbishops, select priests and nuns. And—" his gaze hardened, "—call the Twelve Paladins back to the Holy Cathedral. Urgent orders. Denial is not acceptable."
The Basilica's great bells tolled—once, twice, thrice—rolling like thunder over spires and avenues. The signal was unmistakable: an honored guest, and empire-wide high alert. Border checkpoints sealed. Sky-routes cleared. The Air Patrol Paladin Units fanned out over marble domes and shining aqueducts, eyes turned toward the horizon.
Within the hour, the chosen had gathered in the pope's office: austere archbishops, senior priests, white-veiled nuns—faces solemn, hands still. Behind them, attendants moved with quiet efficiency; scribes unfurled maps and sealed dispatches; runners waited at the doors.
A priest broke the silence. "Your Holiness, is it true? The Warherald is coming to Arcania now?"
Before the pope could answer, Archbishop Desmond Herman stepped forward, voice clipped and steady. "It is true. A short while ago, Lucy—our front desk attendant—received a sealed letter from Duke Jacob Crowell of Presia Dukedom, Clover Kingdom. He used the private channel granted to a handful of nobles by His Holiness."
Heads turned; quills hovered over parchment.
Desmond continued, "The letter states Deputy Duke Roman Crowell is en route to meet His Holiness regarding an incoming massive dungeon breakout."
A nun's voice trembled. "Another dungeon breakout…? But has the Goddess granted any vision, as during the first?"
Pope Lucius shook his head. "No vision came to me. I believe this time the Goddess will speak through her chosen warrior, not through me—a mere mortal."
A priest rose, bowing. "Your Holiness, forgive the interruption… the Warherald we speak of—is he Roman Crowell of Presia?"
The pope's eyes softened. "Yes, Father Alric."
Murmurs passed through the room. Father Alric stepped forward. "I have met him. Duke Jacob invited me to perform a Soul Identification Ritual on Roman—the duke feared another soul had possessed his son. The orb turned pure white. All doubt in his father and sister was dispelled. I suspected then he bore something… unique. I did not imagine he was truly the Goddess's chosen."
Quills scratched; a few gasps were quickly stifled.
A knock struck the door. A low-ranking paladin entered, fist to chest. "Your Holiness—letters dispatched. Several Paladins have reached the precinct around the Pope's Palace as notified."
"Good," Archbishop Desmond replied. "Keep them on ready status. Inform us the moment Roman Crowell is sighted."
"Yes, my lord." The paladin withdrew.
The chamber stirred. A priest whispered, awed, "Are we truly to meet the Warherald of the prophecy?" A nun clasped her hands. "Blessed are we to live in such an age…"
Bootsteps sounded in the corridor. Ezra Violet stepped inside, travel-worn armor still carrying the dust of Ephor. She bowed. "Your Holiness. Am I late? Has the Warherald arrived?"
A calm, iron voice answered from the doorway behind her. "Not yet." The speaker stepped in—broad-shouldered, mantle bearing the sigil of command. "Gabriel Velk, Captain of the Twelve Paladin Regiment. We await his arrival."
"Captain Gabriel," Ezra said, relief threading her tone. "Then we stand ready."
One by one, the remaining Paladins arrived—twelve in total—arraying themselves in disciplined ranks along the colonnade before the Pope's Palace. Banners lifted. Halos of sanctified aura brightened the pale morning light. Clerics lined the steps, murmuring invocations; incense coiled in thin silver streams.
Outside, the city held its breath.
High above the basilica roofs the air split.
A sonic crack boomed across the capital—like the sky itself had been drawn and cut. A streak descended—fast as a falling star, guided by an unseen hand. The Shadow System's path aligned with the Basilica's central square.
The comet slowed.
Wind roared, robes snapped, banners strained.
Roman Crowell broke through the last veil of cloud and bled off speed in a spiral of gold and shadow, boots touching stone with the soft finality of a seal pressed to wax.
He landed at the foot of the Pope's Palace stairs.
Before him, the Twelve Paladins stood assembled, the Holy City watching in reverent silence as the Warherald arrived.