Finally, Clement leaned back, his white robes rustling like dry leaves against the dark wood of the chair. He didn't seem offended by the bluntness anymore; he looked like a man who had just confirmed a terrifying suspicion.
"Is there something you refuse to tell me?" Clement asked, his voice dropping to a low, intense tone. "Have you perhaps... been blessed with a prophecy?"
The word hit the room like a physical blow. Behind the Pope, the Purifiers went stiff, their armor creaking as they instinctively straightened. Even Elian stiffened beside the door.
Prophecy.
To the Church, a prophecy wasn't a gift—it was a catastrophe.
History taught that the heavens only broke their silence when the world was facing a crisis that could cause its total destruction. Lucius didn't understand the word, but he understood the shift in the adults; he gripped Julian's fingers so hard his own knuckles went white, his small face pale with fear.
