The imperial caravan rolled into the capital under gray skies. Barricades blocked side streets. Groups of people stood in clusters, watching the procession with tight faces.
High Church banners hung from every major building, their white cloth stained by rain and soot. Soldiers lined the main avenue, spears held at rest, but their eyes flicked toward the rooftops.
Aiden sat in the lead carriage, papal robes layered over his usual black tunic. The white silk covered most of his arms and chest, but the fractures on his neck and jaw showed clearly when he turned his head.
The black lines pulsed faintly, like cracks in dry earth. Two cardinals waited at the cathedral steps with a full Synod behind them—twenty archbishops in red and gold, plus the usual crowd of lesser priests.
They dropped to one knee as the carriage door opened.
"Your Holiness Lucifer, Vicar of the Fallen Light," the senior cardinal said, voice carrying across the square. "The Church welcomes its true head."
