Chapter 84: How Did I Get Dragged Into This?

The one who had made the suggestion was dressed in the uniform of a high-ranking military officer, a style reminiscent of Western Europe. His grey tunic was immaculate, adorned with medals, ribbons, and epaulets. He wore tight-fitting trousers and a ceremonial sword at his hip. His face, framed by a neat, grey mustache, was stern and severe.

“And what is the meaning of this?” another figure asked, his voice a low, cold hiss. In their line of work, one’s true identity was a closely guarded secret, a vulnerability to be hidden at all costs. To be exposed was to die. And this old soldier was suggesting they all reveal themselves? To what extent? Real name? Occupation? Location? Social status? What kind of joke was that? Telling someone all of that was no different from suicide.

“My meaning is simple,” the old officer explained, his voice calm and reasonable. “We have established that the coming of our Lord is a certainty. And as our… Pope… has just said, we must reorganize, we must end our scattered state. To do that, we need a proper, hierarchical organization.” 

“We need a division of labor, cooperation, a chain of command. How can we assign tasks if we do not know each other’s skills? How can we coordinate our efforts? And in the future, how will we root out the spies who will inevitably try to infiltrate our ranks? If a brother is in trouble, how will we know where to find him?” The crowd fell silent. The old officer was making a grim sort of sense. If they were truly to embark on some "great cause," a proper organization was essential.

“First,” the officer continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled figures, “we must know who our comrades are. We must identify any… unstable elements. Like the madman. Or the beast.” His eyes lingered for a moment on a few of the more monstrous figures, and then, on me. He was implying that some among them were unreliable. Many of the figures here knew each other, or belonged to small, established covens. But others, like me, were complete unknowns, their behavior strange and unpredictable. 

“Does anyone know her?” the old officer asked, his voice sharp as he pointed a gloved finger directly at me. The sudden attention was a physical blow. It was no wonder he had singled me out. I had been lying here since I arrived, speaking to no one, while the others stood. I was an anomaly. A sea of monstrous heads shook in unison, or just kept silent. No one knew me. Of course not. I didn’t know any of them either.

“Who are you?” the old officer demanded, striding towards me, his voice a stern command. “What is your station? Your name?” Was he picking on me because I looked like the weakest one here? 

“And who are you to ask?” I retorted, my voice sharp with an annoyance that surprised even me. “Shouldn’t you introduce yourself before demanding the names of others? It’s only polite.” To be honest, I was completely out of my depth. I didn’t understand half of what they were saying, and their killing, posturing and squabbling was getting on my nerves. I just wanted to sleep.

The old officer stopped in his tracks, taken aback by my insolence. He had clearly intended to make an example of me, but he had chosen the wrong target. Normally, in a gathering like this, the one who seemed the most nonchalant, the most unimpressed by the displays of power, was often the most dangerous. He had made a mistake. But he couldn't back down now. He drew himself up to his full height and, in a strange, guttural accent, he uttered a single, sharp word of command: “Speak!” 

I felt a strange pressure on my mind, a painful, intrusive force. And it made me angry. “Speak? Speak about what?!” I snapped, my own exhaustion and frustration finally boiling over. “I’ve been translating those damned ancient texts all night, and I’m exhausted! Can’t a girl get some rest around here? Now be quiet!”

The old officer actually took a step back, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and a new, dawning respect. I would learn later that he had secretly used a Word of Truth on me, a minor compulsion spell to force an honest answer. And that I, in my exhausted, annoyed state, had simply… ignored it.

Now, he felt as if he had run headfirst into a brick wall. He had scanned the crowd, picking out a few potential targets to make an example of, to establish his authority. And the small, cloaked girl had seemed the easiest prey. He had misjudged. Badly.

Thinking on it now, their line of work—to put it bluntly, they were cultists—demanded secrecy. Every one of them hid their true identity, avoiding exposure at all costs. Any disguise would do, and the more inconspicuous, the better. A frail, helpless little girl was, of course, the perfect disguise.

And her words… that she was "translating ancient texts." It implied she was studying a demonic grimoire, a tome of blasphemies that only the most knowledgeable could hope to comprehend, let alone translate. This was not a task for some common, low-ranking member.

An unworthy soul who touched such a grimoire might be consumed by hellfire. To read it was to be exposed to forbidden knowledge that could shatter a lesser mind into madness. And one always had to be wary of the traps within its pages. Demons were fickle beings; a single line of text, read aloud, could trigger a spell that would suck the reader's very soul into the book.

Therefore, any of the brethren who dared to undertake the work of translation possessed both formidable power and profound knowledge, and were thus held in high esteem. After all, it was they who toiled in the most perilous of duties: to take the obscure and dangerous demonic lore, to bear the risks of madness and damnation, and to transform it into knowledge that was simple, accessible, and relatively safe for the faithful to study.

I looked around, confused. Why were they all staring at me with such… reverence? It had to be a trick of the dream. “You all carry on with your meeting,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “Just… keep it down.” The old officer actually bowed, a small, stiff gesture of respect, before retreating. It seemed he had mistaken me for some reclusive, powerful scholar, uninterested in the petty squabbles of power.

The Pope, ever the opportunist, seized the moment to reassert his authority. “We are all brothers and sisters in the service of our Lord,” he said, his voice once again smooth and conciliatory. “Perhaps this meeting was too sudden. We need not rush things. There will be other opportunities to… get acquainted.”

The Pope understood the old officer’s game perfectly. With the prophecy of their Lord’s return now established as fact, the game had changed. Status now meant power later; a higher rank in the new order would mean a greater share of the rewards. The officer’s demand to establish a hierarchy was a blatant attempt to carve out his own dominion, to chip away at the Pope’s authority.

The Pope could not allow the officer to seize control of the narrative. But the strange girl’s defiant outburst had conveniently derailed that momentum. Now was the time for him to step in and restore order.

“Our primary purpose today was simply to confirm that the great cause of our Lord’s return is at hand,” the Pope announced, his voice smooth and conciliatory, “and to deliver this news to you all. You must return to your own covens, rally the faithful, and prepare for the coming trials. I will summon you again soon.”

His words were acceptable to the assembly. “And when will the next conclave be?” someone asked.

“Likely next week, when the two moons next converge,” the Pope replied. “I will send a message to the brands on your arms three hours prior. Be prepared. Find a safe place to receive the summons. For now, our business here is concluded. I will send you back.”

For the Pope, the conclave had been filled with unpredictable elements. Years ago, after the old Church of the Sky had been shattered, its followers had scattered to the winds, growing wild and independent in the shadows. Now, no one truly knew what any of the others had become.