Chapter 19: Coronation of Chaos
Today the sunlight didn’t simply rise—it spilled like molten gold through the jeweled mosaic windows, casting long prismatic beams onto the velvet-carpeted halls. Each chime of the cathedral’s ancient bells sent tremors through the ivory foundations, echoing like the last calm notes before a symphony of blood and ambition. I stood before a gilded mirror, adjusting the final touch of my ceremonial attire.
My form shimmered, angelic yet scandalous. Pink lips glossed to perfection, a powdered collarbone daring to peek above the sheer silk tunic. The thigh-high boots were perhaps a touch provocative—but then again, what was holiness without a little temptation? Hollow sat on the edge of the bench behind me, swathed in white robes edged with ecclesiastical gold. He looked like a statue carved by sinless hands. The only evidence to the contrary was the faint love mark I’d left on his collarbone the night before. Subtle, of course. Just enough to tickle memory.
"You’re remarkably calm," Hollow said, eyes fixed on me through the mirror’s reflection.
"I radiate composure like incense at a funeral," I replied, adding a silver chain around my neck. "Besides, what’s there to fear when the game’s already been won?"
He gave a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Don’t underestimate what the Council will do to protect their order."
I didn’t. Not really. But I also didn’t care. Today was the day the Church would be rewritten—by charm, by spectacle, and if necessary, by force.
The cathedral’s upper sanctum, where the procession would take place, was a theater of divinity: tiered balconies filled with the robed elite of the faith, priests and cardinals cloaked in shimmering vestments that hung heavy with centuries of tradition. Incense clouded the rafters. Murmurs rose like a tide.
On the center dais stood six contenders for High Priest, their faces composed in pious masks—each one a political knife sharpened over decades of sermon and schism. The Council watched from elevated thrones on the first tier balcony, their glares as cold and weighty as marble tombs. I spotted Cardinal Iareth immediately, a skeletal man with a spine forged of doctrine. He was the true threat. The others were just puppets with rosaries, hopefully.
Hollow stepped forward, flanked by ceremonial guards. He bowed his head and kneeled before the alter atop the dais.
"By divine consensus and with Council approval," intoned Bishop Lune, her voice shaking only slightly, "we have decided name Brother Hollow as the next High Priest of the Southern Cathedral."
A murmur spread, followed by a measured smattering of applause. Hollow stood, robes gleaming in the light.