Post

The cruiser rocked side to side in the evening light. They had moved over from the Sanguis, making the planned voyage upriver easier. The rest of the fleet would join soon enough, as would additional support. Enforcing this treaty would be a strange affair, and a dangerous one.

Michael stood at the bow, gazing south. The metal providing no sturdy ground beneath his feet. It didn’t matter. Being on the water he felt most at home.

“Sir, we’ve sighted the Canicas. We should be in the Vatican before the next dawn. I’d recommend coming belowdeck soon though, the seas will only grow rougher and colder.”

Michael turned to see the Captain. The man standing in front of him was formidable, but not unyielding. He could see it in the Captain’s eyes. These waters intimidated this foreigner. Not surprising given the majority of the man’s lengthy naval service had been in the relative shelter of the Mediterranean. But for Michael, the air was inviting.

Michael looked back south. The rocky outline of shore sat veiled in fog. A familiar sight, but unlike each time before, it wasn’t inviting. His hand fell to his scabbard, then paused.

“Captain, inform the Knights we’re approaching.”

“Of course, your Grace. Sail to the Vatican as planned, yes?”

“Yes, Captain. I want to avoid having the Knights out whenever possible. Their armor will attract attention.”

“Unfortunately so, but you know the rules of this affair. You have your copies of the treaty?”

Michael looked at the leather canister in his cloak, his mind racing just at the thought of that map. It wasn’t his fault; he’d had no say.

“Yes I do, Captain.”

“Excellent.”

The Captain walked away. Michael stayed. He could feel the salt in the air fade. Not lost. Diluted by the changing winds.

The Vatican, on the River Risade

A priest in red robes stood on the stone. An initial look of invitation soon turned to confusion, then fear. The white, avian-like armor was unusual for most, but a little understandable as Michael was part Kyavani. But his presence wasn’t understandable.

“Michael, you’re supposed to be in Colombia. What brought you here, and what are you wearing?”

“I’m sorry, Father Cassius, but I must meet with the Conclave at once.”

“They are in the middle of a very important-“

“I don’t care. The urgency concerns both the Grandmaster and Alexios, and matters of the war.”

The priest’s face went pale. “Right this way.”

As they walked, the priest couldn’t help but notice the white-painted metal clad figures following Michael.

In the Heart of the Red Cathedral

“Bishop Joshua, you cannot possibly be serious. There has never been a wo-“ The doors flew open. In strode Michael, moving right to the center of the room. The Knights followed, forming a circle around the figures in meeting. The old bishop who had been interrupted turned to face the boy.

“Michael, how dare you. The Conclave is in session, have you not seen the black smoke?”

“I have, but I have news from the fronts.”

“And this couldn’t be delivered to us some other way because?”

“Because the world has found peace.” Michael pulled the canister from his robe, unfurling its contents. Two pages of demands, accompanied by three maps.

“Victory I hope, young Michael?”

“You could say that. I believe we should-“

The old bishop saw the second map. Austoream, the Order, with lines drawn across it. Kynor. Core Pillar. Michael IV. His eyes widened. He leapt to a fighting stance, an arc of fire flying from his hand.

The Knights surged forwards, the flames doing little to slow their blades. One by one, the bishops in the room fell. Soon, only Michael and they stood there, amongst the dead and the charred and the pools of blood.

“Secure the Cathedral at once. I want religious and government documents locked down, artifacts catalogued, and knowledgable craftsmen rounded up. Send for the clergymen back on the ship. We have a number of Bishops to appoint, and after that we have treaty terms to enforce.”

The Knights dashed from the chamber. As they ran, Michael began to sift through the administrative documents. As annoying as the old farts that had run this place were, they were excellent record keepers. His hand drifted over the many mapscreens and digital ledgers. By the time the sun had risen, some Knights had returned. A simple nod from the Captain made everything clear.

“Excellent work. And the texts?”

The Knight dropped the body of a scholar at his foot, bloodied scrolls still in hand.

In one of the libraries, foreign clergymen begin pulling documents from shelves. Onto blank sheets of paper they rewrite, not perfectly intact, before tossing originals onto the pyre. Over the Cathedral, a plume of white smoke found itself plucked up by the breeze.