The reception garden trembled with a new wave of ceremony. Trumpets blared from the palace gates, and the crowd instinctively fell into hushed reverence.
First entered the procession of Catholic prelates—rows of cardinals in crimson and bishops in gold-threaded vestments. At their head walked Pope Julius II, the Warrior Pope himself, his beard flowing like white fire, his step heavy with both age and authority. The very air around him seemed to bend with the weight of his office.
The crowd parted, bowing deeply. Even Aurelius, whose defiance could silence kings, inclined his head with genuine respect.
Not long after, a solemn line of black-robed dignitaries swept in—the delegation of the Eastern Orthodox Church. At their front stood Patriarch Joachim of Constantinople, his staff glinting with silver icons. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of sorrow and iron resolve, as though the fall of his city to the Ottomans still weighed visibly upon his shoulders. His clergy followed, their beards long, their eyes sharp as hawks.
The Catholics greeted them stiffly. Old rivalries lingered like smoke, but tonight even rivals shared the same table.
The third delegation caused the most murmurs. They wore no uniform colors, their robes varied from somber black to plain wool. They were the early Protestant reformers, scholars and priests whose voices had begun to shake the old order. Some whispered of Johann Reuchlin, the German humanist, walking among them, and even young Martin Luther was rumored to be present as an observer, though he remained silent in the shadows.
They did not bow to Rome's pomp, but their presence itself was a statement—that even reformers could not ignore the council summoned here in 1512.
The moment all three groups had arrived, the palace doors opened. A herald's voice thundered:
"Let the Council of Faith convene within the Grand Hall!"
The nobles, envoys, and clergy began their stately procession inside. Golden torches illuminated the marble steps leading into the palace proper, a place vast enough to swallow entire cathedrals within its walls.
Aurelius leaned close to Azazel as they followed the tide.
"Now it begins. You must remember this, Lucien—tonight history itself is being written."
Inside, the hall opened into a cavernous space crowned with vaulted ceilings painted with angels and saints. Thrones and seats were arranged in three arcs for the delegations, with a long central table for discourse.
Before Azazel could take in the full splendor, Aurelius's hand landed firmly on his shoulder.
"I must speak with the heads of the churches in private," he said quietly. "Matters of grave importance, beyond what apprentices should hear. You will remain here, observe, and hold your composure."
Azazel stiffened. "Alone?"
Aurelius's gaze hardened behind his spectacles.
"This is the best place to learn, boy—not in the training yard, but in the spaces between words. Watch carefully, for silence here can teach more than any blade."
[He's right. Besides, you are not alone, grandson]
His grandpa's voice reverberated through his head.
It made him feel relief, at least a little.
And with that, Aurelius released him.