The banquet's music had quieted. In the private chamber beyond the gilded hall, a great round table had been set. Around it sat the most powerful men of Christendom—each draped in robes heavy with authority, each face lined by centuries of belief and division.
At the head, robed in scarlet and white, sat Pope Julius II, the Warrior Pope whose iron will had carved Italy in war and stone.
Across from him sat a young yet fiery Martin Luther, his eyes gleaming with conviction, already whispering seeds of reformation.
Beside him, stern and contemplative, sat the Patriarch of Constantinople, voice of the Orthodox Church, his beard long as his silence.
To Julius's right, resplendent in imperial regalia, sat Maximilian I, Holy Roman Emperor, the arbiter of crowns and empire.
Maximilian had shown himself at the grand hall and quickly retreated to participate in the Round Table of Faith.
And presiding over them all, though he claimed no throne, stood Aurelius, Grandmaster of the Order of Ash—mask of composure, voice calm yet edged with steel.
"Your Holiness," the Patriarch began, fingers brushing his prayer beads, "Orthodoxy has suffered for centuries under Ottoman yoke, yet we remain steadfast. But I must ask—why must Rome always speak of supremacy instead of unity?"
Julius's jaw tightened. "Because unity without truth is but a chain of lies. The See of Peter is eternal. Without Rome, your Orthodoxy withers in shadows."
"Shadows?" the Patriarch's tone sharpened. "It is Rome that bartered with kings and painted ceilings, while we bled beneath the crescent moon."
Before Julius could retort, Luther leaned forward, voice like a hammer: "Both of you cling to your titles and rituals while the people starve. Salvation comes not from popes or patriarchs but from faith alone! The Word of God is the only authority."
The air trembled with tension. Cardinals shifted. Even Maximilian frowned.
Aurelius raised a hand, and silence fell. His voice was low but carried to every ear:
"This table is not for quarrels of parchment and incense. Demons care not whether their prey chants in Latin, Greek, or German. Your squabbles serve only Hell."
Aurelius's eyes swept the table. "Tell me, then—why has the Church of the East not attended? Their absence is… conspicuous."
Julius folded his hands. "The Nestorians remain distant. They have long strayed, hiding in Persia and India. Some whisper they've even mingled their rites with pagans. They would not come."
Aurelius's mask betrayed no emotion, but his tone chilled. "Then their silence may cost us dearly."
He shifted the discussion. "And the New World? How fares the mission there?"
Martin Luther was first to answer, voice sharp with righteousness:
"The Protestants strengthen their foothold. Heretics are sanctified in fire, tribes converted by sword and sermon. Yet most remain under the thrall of devil's idols. False gods grip their souls. With the help of conquistadors, we are purging the land. Stability grows."
Julius's palm slammed the table. "Conquistadors? You dare call them the sanctifiers? Those brigands broke from the Church, they pillage in greed, not faith! They drape themselves in piety while mocking Christ with blood."
"Their blood or ours?" Luther shot back. "At least they carry the Word further than Rome's walls."
Maximilian's eyes darkened.
Again, Aurelius's voice cut through:
"Enough. Emperor Maximilian, I ask you plainly—refrain from kindling war among these lands. Europe is wounded. You can choose to salt the wound or help it heal. Aid us in bringing peace, not fire."
The Emperor leaned back, stroking his beard, heavy crown gleaming in torchlight. At last he nodded. "I will… try. No man can promise peace in this age, Grandmaster. But I will try."
Then, with a flicker of curiosity, he added: "By the way—I hear your Order's trials approach their final stage soon. New generation of hunters will rise. Is it true?"
Aurelius's square glasses tilted slightly, as though weighing how much truth to release.
"Yes," he said at last. "The world grows restless. The demons have taken their step after the Golden Age of Johann Weyer ended. My own disciple has already faced a Marquis of Hell—Kimaris himself."
The table went silent. Even Julius crossed himself. Luther's lips pressed tight. The Patriarch whispered a prayer in Greek.