Cardinal Fonseca was now on the fifth day of his journey to Bologna, sent by the Pope himself. With just a few hours left before reaching Florence, he sat in deep contemplation inside the heavy carriage bearing the Vatican's sacred emblem. The gentle jolts of the horses did little to calm the storm in his mind. His eyes were not on the road, but lost in thought. He hadn't stopped thinking about the Pope.
"What if something happens to him while I'm away…" he whispered to himself.
He clasped his hands in prayer and bowed his head."God, please watch over the Holy Father. I am far, but my prayers remain with him…"
His reflection was broken by the voice of the driver. The small hatch between the carriage and the front opened.
"Your Eminence," said the escort. "We'll reach Florence by sundown. But the region between Florence and Bologna is mountainous… not ideal for travel at night. We'll need supplies. And it may be wise for you to rest there."
Fonseca nodded, hiding his unease."Very well, my son. Let's be prepared."
When they arrived in Florence that afternoon, he made sure to visit the city's grand cathedral. Archbishop Pedro had been a dear friend since Fonseca's early years in priesthood. Their brief but profound conversation helped lift the weight of the road and the fog clouding his mind. That night, he stayed at Pedro's home—a quiet sanctuary wrapped in friendship.
The next morning, they resumed their journey.
Two days had passed since leaving Florence, when an unexplained unease crept into Fonseca's chest. The skies were clear, the path smooth—but his heart was veiled in mist.
"What is this dreadful feeling, Lord?" he murmured. But finding no answer, he raised his head and pressed on.
When they entered the mountainous region, one of the guards spoke again:
"Your Eminence, these roads are treacherous at night. Perhaps it would be wiser to rest until morning."
Fonseca's voice was tired, but firm:"There is no time. We must press on."
Night was settling over the mountains. Moonlight grazed the peaks while darkness sank into the valleys. The path narrowed, rocky slopes made every step harder. Fonseca sat in the carriage, eyes closed, whispering prayers. Then suddenly—sharp whistling, followed by a thud.
Thwick!
There was a jolt up front. Fonseca opened his eyes, startled. He turned toward the front hatch.
"Driver! What happened, my son?"
No answer.
With growing alarm, he opened the small window. The sight made his blood run cold.
An arrow had pierced the driver's temple—clean through. The young man still held the reins, slumped lifeless over the front bench. Fonseca's breath caught. One of the guards shouted from outside:
"Your Eminence! We're under attack!"
Trembling, Fonseca opened the door and stepped out. As he set foot on the ground, he saw another of his guards collapse, an arrow lodged deep in his chest. The scent of blood thickened the night.
Fonseca raised his arms toward the heavens, pointing to the sacred emblem on the carriage:
"In the name of God! We are servants of the Holy Vatican! How dare you attack us?!"
His voice echoed against the stone. But the reply… came from the darkness.
A man emerged from the brush—tall, dark-skinned, a sword glinting in his hand. He laughed like a predator as he approached. But when he saw Fonseca standing tall, fearless, he slowed his steps. Meeting Fonseca's gaze, he sneered:
"Leonardo sends his regards…"
He raised his sword toward Fonseca.
Fonseca closed his eyes and began to pray. He did not fear death. He was a servant of God. Death was not an end—but a reunion.
But the sword never struck.
Another whistle. Thwak!
An arrow pierced the attacker's wrist, sending his blade clattering to the ground. Stunned, the man looked around, disoriented.
Footsteps moved swiftly through the shadows. A figure in a black cloak, face concealed, stepped forward and knelt beside the cardinal.
"Are you hurt?" the voice asked.
Fonseca looked toward the figure. He couldn't see the face.
—
After learning of the Pope's death, Murat and his companions had wasted no time. Throughout the night, they prepared in silence. Before dawn, they had secured strong horses, maps, and enough provisions from their inn in Bologna. When the innkeeper heard they planned to pass through Florence on their way to the Vatican, he offered a warning:
"If you're going that way, be careful. Bandits roam the mountain passes between Florence and Bologna. They especially target solitary travelers. If you're confident with your sword, that's one thing… but take this seriously."
Murat took the warning to heart—but time was short. At the break of day, he spurred his horse forward, with the others close behind. For two days, they rode with only short stops. There was no time to rest, nor luxury to seek it.
Ellie and Viki were not used to such harsh travel, but they had no choice. Holding on to pieces of bread and dried meat, they ate on horseback. Murat had only one thought: reach the Vatican before things spiral further out of control.
By the evening of the second day, they entered a narrow mountain path. The road twisted, flanked by dense trees that sometimes swallowed the sky. Murat slowed his horse and raised a hand.
"Slow down. This place feels off… stay sharp."
They had just begun descending from the first ridge when a voice rang out from the valley below:
"How dare you attack the Holy Church of Rome?!"
Murat froze. The voice was clear—a man's cry for help. Birds scattered from the trees. In the stillness, the shout had cut through like a blade.
Murat focused his nature energy toward the direction of the sound. His eyes gleamed slightly. Then he spurred his horse forward.
"Cafer, ride with me. Someone's under attack. We intervene if needed!"
Cafer said nothing—his bow was already drawn.
The path curved, opening into a clearing. There lay a battered carriage and two bodies. Upon the carriage flew a flag emblazoned with the Vatican's cross. Beside it, a man in dark clothing raised a sword over an elderly cleric kneeling on the ground.
"Cafer! Disarm him!"
Cafer's bow hummed. The arrow struck true—knocking the sword from the attacker's hand. The man spun, startled. Then the brush rustled—and eight or nine more men burst out.
Their leader shouted:
"Kill them all!"
Murat leapt from his horse, sword already drawn. His eyes gleamed like steel. Cafer loosed a second arrow—another attacker fell. Then he drew his daggers. Murat met the first wave with deadly precision, cutting them down one by one. Cafer moved like shadow, disabling four more in swift succession.
One man tried to flee—but Murat intercepted him, slashing him in the leg. The man fell. Murat held his sword to the man's throat but did not strike.
Breathing deeply, Murat turned. He approached the elderly priest, still kneeling, hands clasped.
"Are you alright? You must be a beloved of God… we came upon you just in time."
The old man looked up at Murat. In his eyes was not only gratitude—but something familiar."My son… I am grateful for your rescue. I do not know who you are—but you walk the right path. May God protect you."
Murat bowed his head slightly. Something caught his eye—the man's garments, the shape of his cross, his bearing. This was no ordinary priest.
Before he could ask, the old man swayed slightly, on the verge of collapse.
Murat turned to Cafer."We're taking him with us. We have questions. This isn't over."
And in the shadow of the mountains… fate had drawn its blade.