POV: Michael**
The walk to the cathedral was quieter than he expected. No words between them—just the distant hum of city life and the sharp echo of their footsteps against marble.
The woman moved with grace—measured, disciplined. Not like a priest or a monk. More like a soldier dressed in holy robes.
When they reached the upper steps of the chapel, she finally spoke.
"I'm Angela," she said. "Angela De Florin. Holy Knight of Fortuna."
Michael raised a brow, but his expression remained neutral. "Michael" wasn't the name he planned to use today.
She glanced at him. "And you?"
He didn't pause. "Antonio Marino."
Angela tilted her head slightly, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Italian?"
He shrugged. "My mother liked Italian names."
He cringed at his own answer.
One of the worst names I've ever used.
But Angela just nodded, taking it without suspicion.
Michael exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Calm.
She led him inside through the cathedral's grand doors—past rows of stone pews and towering columns that reached up into a ceiling painted with divine judgment. Angels, Sparda, fire and demons—each brushstroke worshipped.
Stained-glass windows bathed the floor in color. Red and gold halos stretched across the stone like silent sentinels.
They turned down a side hall, where two knights in white and silver stood guard. Neither questioned Angela. They opened the doors without a word.
Beyond them was a circular chamber. High ceiling. Quiet echoes. At its center stood an old man in ceremonial robes—tall, thin, pale. His hair was white, his expression composed. The Pope of Fortuna.
Eight knights stood around him, armored and masked, swords at their sides. Every one of them watched Michael as he stepped in.
Two more figures flanked the Pope. One was short and hunched, his robe lined with scroll pockets, ink stains blotting his fingers. The other was tall, cloaked deep in shadow, face hidden beneath a heavy hood—but their presence was sharp, cold, and watching.
Angela stepped forward and gave a respectful nod. "His name is Antonio Marino. He was present at the western gate."
The Pope turned to him, movements slow but deliberate. His eyes studied Michael—longer than comfort allowed.
"Welcome, child," the old man said, his voice soft, yet steady. "You fought… well."
Michael didn't answer.
The Pope clasped his hands. "You carry a weapon touched by fire. Ancient fire. I felt it from the chapel steps."
Michael stayed loose, but alert. Every knight in the room was watching for a twitch.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?" the Pope asked.
Michael met his gaze. "I've had a lot of bad neighbors."
Angela's lip twitched. Just a little.
The Pope didn't flinch. "We're grateful for your intervention, Antonio. Truly. Fortuna is not without its burdens. The gates grow restless. The veil… thins."
Michael tilted his head. "And you bring strangers into sanctuaries to thank them?"
A faint smile. The Pope raised one hand. "Only those who carry weapons that sing in the old tongue."
The hooded figure stirred, but didn't speak.
Angela cleared her throat gently. "We hoped to ask a few questions. And… perhaps offer a more formal path forward. If you're willing."
Michael's jaw tensed ever so slightly. He glanced around the chamber again.
So this is where they test people like me.
The Pope's eyes were calm—but they didn't miss a thing.
"You are not our prisoner," he said. "You may leave whenever you choose."
Angela looked at him, her voice quieter. "But if you're willing… we could use someone like you."
Michael lowered his gaze to the floor.
Then slowly, he looked up—past the old man, toward the stained-glass window behind him. Sparda, frozen in a moment of triumph, sword raised high as he cleaved through a horde of demons.
And yet the demons keep coming.
He took a slow breath.
"All right," he said. "Ask your questions."