POV: Michael
The Fortuna Cathedral library stretched three floors underground.
Soft light spilled from crystal lanterns suspended between tall stained-glass skylights, casting tinted shadows over aisles of chained tomes and armored statues. It felt less like a place of study and more like a shrine to curated knowledge—every corridor lined with relics of faith and war.
Michael had already spent hours there.
Angela's clearance got him into the lower levels, where an attendant kept watch from behind a desk, half-asleep and wholly uninterested. It suited him. He didn't need guidance—only silence.
He moved past the scriptures, past the embellished portraits and psalms. He didn't care for saints or hymns. His fingers ran along aged spines until he found what he was looking for: history.
The volumes were old. Stylized. Slanted toward the Order's doctrine.
But they were useful.
Sparda: Savior and Betrayer of His Kin.
Michael flipped through the yellowed pages, skimming chapters that painted Sparda in grand, conflicted strokes—how he turned against his own kind, sealed the gates to the underworld, then vanished after a "final sacrifice." It was vague. Romanticized.
But buried between the myths were fragments that didn't quite fit. Rumors. Scattered relics. Vague accounts of sightings centuries apart.
Pieces.
He noted them down.
Then another text caught his attention.
The Modern Order and Its Reformation – Year 8 of the Silver Reign
It chronicled the Church's new rise under the current Pope, who'd assumed power eight years ago—after his predecessor died suddenly. No cause of death was listed. Just a line: "The torch passed to one who saw clearer."
Michael frowned.
Eight years ago meant Nero was already in Fortuna.
'So he grew up under this version of the Order,' he thought. 'The rituals. The expansion. The tightening grip.'
He stared at the parchment for a moment longer, then returned it to its shelf.
A faint sound broke the silence.
Footsteps—measured, deliberate—echoed from the upper stairwell.
Michael turned toward the aisle just as a tall figure emerged from a side passage. Deep blue and white armor gleamed in the low light, a long cape flowing behind. The helmet was full-faced, angular, with glowing slits for eyes—inhuman in design.
An Angelo.
Michael narrowed his gaze.
It wasn't the armor that unsettled him. It was the feeling.
A sharp tug in his mind. Something half-remembered.
The Angelo moved with unnatural precision, its gait almost mechanical. Too fluid. Too perfect. It passed through the corridor like it belonged there—like it was watching.
Michael stepped casually to the side, pretending to examine a nearby shelf. He kept the figure in his peripheral.
The Angelo paused.
Then turned its head. Directly toward him.
Michael met its stare through the glowing mask.
Seconds passed.
Neither moved.
Then, without a word, the Angelo nodded.
And walked on.
Michael didn't breathe until the footsteps faded.
His fingers curled slightly, tension resting in his shoulders.
He turned back to the shelves and lingered for a few minutes longer—just enough to be sure he wasn't being followed. Then he made his way to the upper wing.
The demonology section was smaller but older. The kind of knowledge buried instead of taught. Dust thick on the spines. Ink faded from time.
One book drew his attention: Manifestations and Possessions: Signs of Demonic Interference.
He pulled it down and cracked it open.
"High-order demons rarely possess. When they do, they don't take bodies—they take wills. Their presence seeps in. Silent. Rotting from the inside."
Michael read on, flipping quickly.
"The afflicted begin to mirror their influence. Leaders become zealots. Doctrine reshapes. Faith twists to serve the will of something other."
He turned another page.
There, inked in rough lines, was a figure in armor.
Cape. Full mask. Light glowing from its eyes.
The label read: Vessel of the Fallen Seraphim.
Michael stared at it for a long second.
Then closed the book slowly and tucked it under his arm.
He didn't need more proof.
Whatever the Pope was hiding—it was older, deeper, and much more dangerous than anyone in this city realized.
And it was watching him.