There was no violent crash this time as the door opened, only the measured, terrifyingly calm entrance of the Church's authority.
Pope Clement XII stepped into the suite, his white robes shimmering with a cold, pale luster that seemed to repel the warmth of the fire. Behind him, Elian and a wall of silver-clad Purifiers stood in silent formation. And let's not forget the High council members in tow.
The Pope's gaze swept over the room, lingering for a second on the Duke's hand, which was still resting on the hilt of his sword.
He had reached for it the moment the door opened, as if whoever would emerge was a threat to both their safety.
"This is not the Viremount Empire, Grand Duke," Clement said, his voice a smooth, low melody that carried the weight of centuries. "I would ask that you remember whose ground you stand upon. We do not draw steel in the presence of the Light, nor do we treat the Inner Sanctum like a common garrison."
