Chapter 1: Coronation
Has any mortal ever tasted the agony of being consumed by fire?
In the quietude of sleep, an excruciating pain welled up from the depths of his body, burning his flesh and blood like a flame. Invisible blades and hammers, sharp and relentless, invaded his most tender organs, stirring and pounding without mercy. The pain clung like a parasite, greedily devouring his lifeblood, twisting all the sweet flesh and blood into a putrid mass.
It hurts….
His drowsy brain was pulled out of sleep and listened to the body’s instinctive cry.
It hurts so much…
The golden-haired youth snapped his eyes open. His violet irises, as clear as crystal, were clouded with a crimson hue of terror. The air was thick with the lingering scent of myrrh, a fragrant resin that had not yet fully burned away. The opulent chamber, dedicated solely to the sole monarch of the Kingdom of God on earth, was eerily silent. He was alone. The deacon, who used to wait at the door, ready to serve the Pope at any time, had vanished. Grasping the sheets tightly, he felt his veins bulge on the back of his hand.
Where was his deacon? Where were the priests guarding his door? Where were the Papal Guards? They should have been waiting at the door for his orders!
Blood gushed uncontrollably from his mouth, staining the pale gold silk sheets. The agony was so intense it rendered him speechless and paralysed. A chilling premonition washed over him.
Consumed by agony, the young Pope struggled to reach the dagger on the bedside table. Its ivory and gold hilt brushed against his skin, cold and unyielding. His trembling fingers failed to grasp this life-saving straw, and in his desperation, he knocked it to the floor. The dagger, a gift from the Queen of Assyria at his coronation, vanished into the thick wool rug.