"Not yet," I said, my voice a silken threat laced with promise, cutting through the throne room's haze of smoke and stunned whispers like a velvet-wrapped dagger.
The air hung heavy with the acrid tang of charred oak and melted gold from the throne's fresh pyre, tendrils curling lazily toward the frescoed dome overhead, where painted goddesses seemed to watch with wide, judgmental eyes.
Every soul in the vast chamber—nobles sprawled on gilded benches, maids' frozen mid-step, knights as rigid as statues—pivoted toward me, their breaths collectively held. "Pope, I am the saintess, right?"
Pope Vadime Barrek—that paragon of divine allure, with his towering frame, chiselled jaw—met my gaze. His full lips parted in raw shock, a faint flush creeping up his corded neck beneath the golden halo embroidery of his pristine white robes.
