The days in the Holy City began to speed like water, marked only by the shifting angle of the sun against the white marble.
A full month had passed, and the initial shock of the Holy City had worn down into a dull, repetitive ache in Julian's spine.
Julian had mastered the art of the 'empty gaze' during the long morning sermons, and his secret 'medical consultations' with the pork-eating elders had become a weekly routine that kept Lucius healthy and his own nerves steady.
But the silence from the North had been the hardest part. Because of the heavy censorship of the Holy Empire, letters were slow to arrive and even slower to be cleared by the Purifiers.
Finally, a single envelope arrived. It didn't have the Duchy's seal—that would have been intercepted immediately—but Julian knew the handwriting. It was sharp, aggressive, and leaned slightly to the right, as if the pen were trying to cut through the paper.
