At the end of the liturgical year 1081, the Papal States welcomed another Nativity. Compared to the frequent wars and heavy rains of the previous year, the Syracuse Peninsula was calm this year. Under the rule of its new queen, Rome was gradually stabilizing. Unlike her stern and formidable mother, the Queen Mother, this princess—who had grown up and ascended to the throne in Rome—was clearly more beloved by the people for her ‘local’ origin. She was young, beautiful, and gentle, and her slightly inexperienced governance provided the nobility with breathing room. At first glance, the Roman Empire seemed to be faring even better than it had under the rule of Amandra.

As governance stabilized, people instinctively began to worry about the queen’s marriage. Throughout that year, the Emperor of Calais continued to send gifts to his fiancée in Perigo. However, at the same time, his scandalous affair with Viscount Julia, his male favorite, had become a well-known topic throughout the Syracuse Peninsula. Bards embellished their story with colorful details, spreading it with their lyres to every corner, so much so that even the most remote rural taverns frequently mentioned the emperor and the viscount’s names.

Of course, they weren’t audacious enough to openly spread anecdotes about a monarch in public. Instead, they changed the names and fabricated a fictional historical background. Yet, no one was foolish; when it came to gossip, humans often possess a keen wisdom that surpassed their genes. Everyone knew who the two male protagonists of the story were, and various strange plots and creative twists emerged endlessly, even impressing Ferrante, who had helped fuel the rumors.

The people of Rome listened with relish to these sensational “royal secrets,” while indignantly cursing the disrespectful Emperor of Calais.

“He has already married our noble Queen!”

Feeling as if their own daughter had been betrayed, the people’s goodwill towards Calais dropped to an all-time low. Simultaneously, public support for the “poor,” “long-suffering” queen reached its peak.

Although it was a marriage between two nations, it now seemed that the common people did not regard Calais as an ally at all.

The Queen in the Royal Palace of Perigo, however, was delighted by this.

“I need my people to be loyal to me. As for Calais? I imagine he doesn’t mind sacrificing a little bit of his insignificant reputation for his ‘poor’ fiancée,” Sancha wrote in a letter, waving her hand at her loyal lady-in-waiting. “Find more bards to travel around and tell the story of François. If there are any new good scripts, give them a reward.”

The Queen happily sealed the envelope, imprinting her crest upon it.

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Before this letter reached Florence, another piece of news, as if on wings, flew across the entire continent.

A coup d’état had occurred in Calais. Duke François, who had been low-key for nearly two years, had raised a rebellion against his nephew. Dudley descended into chaos, and the most magnificent and prosperous capital of the Syracuse Peninsula became a gathering place for mercenaries, soldiers, vagrants, and speculators. People fled with their families, and even the royal palace became a battlefield for both sides. More remarkably, apart from Dudley, other cities were not affected by the war at all.

This event was truly bizarre, so bizarre that all monarchs found it incomprehensible.

In short, within just half a month, half of Dudley had been reduced to rubble. Steam armor moved through the rubble as if unimpeded, and blood pooled on the ground. Every living person was forced to quickly become a master of urban combat survival in the shortest possible time.

What’s even more amazing is that under such circumstances, Francois IV did not leave Dudley.

His act of defending the royal palace astonished many who had underestimated him, forcing them to re-evaluate this absurd monarch with a bad reputation.

Perhaps he did have some redeeming qualities? At least he showed the courage and resolve expected of a monarch.

The civil unrest in Calais began suddenly and ended just as quickly. After Dudley was completely reduced to ruins, forcing even the emperor to relocate to the royal prison, Duke François, who had initially held the upper hand, fled Dudley alone, without even a single attendant. He remained incognito, traveling tirelessly and hiding for two months, before appearing at the border of the Papal States.

He requested entry into Florence under the pretext of political asylum, seeking the Pope’s protection.

To this end, he even underwent a baptismal ceremony once more, proclaiming his wholehearted devotion to the Holy Lord. In return, he expected the Holy Lord’s representative to grant him sanctuary.

This hot potato instantly attracted the attention of the whole world to Florence.

Rafael and Julius, who had been eating melons (enjoying the drama from the sidelines) happily: “…”

They never dreamed they’d become part of the spectacle.

Neither Rafael nor Julius wanted anything to do with this mess. The Papal States and Calais had coexisted peacefully—why would they willingly step into this quagmire? Sheltering a failed rebel? François had lost all his lands and wealth. A month after his escape, the emperor stripped him of his royal titles, leaving him a penniless vagrant. There was no benefit in harboring him.

Yet, as the Pope, Rafael couldn’t reject him outright.

Rafael temporarily refused François entry into the Papal States under the guise of needing to prepare a grand reception for the duke, while simultaneously setting off for the border himself—of course, at the elegantly slow pace customary for nobles.

While he stalled for time, a letter from Dudley arrived in Florence from another direction.

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Unexpectedly, the young emperor did not urgently discuss the uncle who had escaped from his grasp. Instead, he enthusiastically chatted about various topics with Rafael in his letter.

‘Greetings, my most exalted and noble one, the master of my faith, the dwelling of my soul and the direction of my dreams. I am delighted that you have finally remembered me. The tranquil irises of Dudley have bloomed, and I’ve planted them in my bedroom. The weather here has been rather unpleasant lately, and the gardeners informed me they require suitable temperature and sunlight. Thus, I burned some of the useless artworks in the storage room. By the Holy Lord’s grace, they are thriving now…’

Rafael suppressed a strange feeling and continued reading, skipping large sections of the emperor’s self-narrative. The emperor’s tone was filled with excessive enthusiasm and joy, as if he lived in a carefree paradise and was eager to share his pleasant life with a companion. Yet, everyone knew the terrible situation Dudley was in, which made his narration full of distortion and an eerie strangeness.

‘…I’ve caught a few more little birds in my favorite labyrinth garden. Oh, perhaps I should tell you about my labyrinth garden. It’s a very beautiful botanical structure. Everyone who has seen it praises it greatly. I’d certainly be delighted to share it with you, but unfortunately, due to some well-known reasons, it’s currently under renovation. But this is just a trivial matter…’

After a verbose and lengthy discourse, the young emperor seemed to finally remember the reason for his letter, and then casually said: ‘My uncle has caused you trouble, hasn’t he? How vexing. But everyone has a few unruly relatives—I understand this well. I hope you can forgive my oversight. Rest assured, I will soon come to rectify this mistake.”

Just as François IV had written in his letter, he travelled day and night, quickly reaching the Papal States border. The former duke, who had been denied entry for a long time, was on the verge of a mental breakdown. He had clearly realized the reality of his silent rejection, and the ghostly appearance of the emperor’s carriage confirmed his suspicions.

Julius, representing the Pope, wore a standard diplomatic smile. However, upon seeing him, the previously enthusiastic François instantly lost his smile. When the young emperor didn’t smile, the inhuman coldness of a reptilian creature was infinitely prominent from him. Julius maintained his composure, but internally, he elevated the emperor to the highest level of caution.

The young emperor didn’t even alight from the carriage. He leaned languidly against a soft cushion, only half his face visible from the window. His amber eyes gleamed like a serpent’s, and his thick, curly long hair cascaded over his shoulders. A heavily oppressive scent of spices wafted from the carriage, seeping out in tendrils through the cracks.

“My gratitude to His Holiness for helping me locate my wayward uncle,” the emperor said shamelessly. Julius listened without batting an eye.

“Now, I shall take my uncle home. Many in Dudley are eager to see him again.” The emperor’s eyes shifted slightly, his lips curling into a rare, cruel smile.

Julius had no desire to delve into what the emperor’s “anticipation” truly meant. He cooperatively stepped back half a pace, allowing the emperor’s guards to enter the castle behind them. From the first day François arrived here, they had confined him in various ways, which was both surveillance and protection. If he were to die within the Papal States’ jurisdiction, they would truly be unable to explain themselves.

However, before the guards could enter the castle, a hurried gallop of hooves broke the awkward silence. Julius keenly realized that something had changed. The knight, wearing the Papal Palace uniform, rushed to him without time to say anything else, immediately whispering a few words into his ear.

The Patriarch of the Portia family’s expression remained unchanged, but the young emperor in the carriage slowly narrowed his eyes.

After hearing the message from the Pope, Julius raised his hand and gestured in the distance, and the castle gates slammed shut in front of the guards sent by the young emperor.

“I apologize, it seems we might have had a slight misunderstanding,” the Secretary-General said, pushing up his silver-rimmed glasses, a perfectly measured hint of apology in his expression. “His Holiness’s intention was not for Duke François to leave, but to invite him as a guest to Florence. This is clearly an oversight on my part.”

The young emperor stared at him coldly, asking word by word, “Are—you—certain?”

“Of course.” The man with iron-gray hair had never feared anyone, not even an emperor. When he held the power of Portia and manipulated the Syracuse Peninsula’s economy, the young emperor was still trembling in his uncle’s shadow.

“This is just a temporary invitation,” Julius said gently, not wanting to push things too far. “Temporary.”

Despite this, the young emperor’s expression did not soften. To reach here as quickly as possible, he hadn’t brought many people, nor did he need to. His plan was originally to simply kill François on the road after picking him up, which was evident from the fact that he hadn’t brought a second carriage. Julius, of course, had also noticed this.

It would be unwise to cause a conflict here.

The young emperor slowly gnashed his teeth, but a smile spread across his face, an exaggerated and grotesque curve paired with eyes devoid of any mirth, making it particularly twisted.

However, he seemed to quickly come to a realization.

“Very well. If this is Rafael’s wish, I will, of course, fulfill it.” His tone was as sickly sweet and cloying as stretched syrup.

“Tell my dear uncle that the gates of Dudley are always open for him.” With that, the young emperor turned and left without a second glance.

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Inside the spacious carriage, the young man who had been kneeling at the emperor’s feet trembled, pressing himself against the emperor’s calf, not daring to make a sound. Viscount Julia, renowned for having seduced the Emperor of Calais, was now as docile as a small rabbit.

Compared to his days as a violinist in a band, he now possessed an overly dazzling radiance. His appearance, cultivated by expensive jewelry and a luxurious lifestyle, sparkled like a diamond, his long hair cascading to his waist, shimmering like gold, and his purple eyes gleamed like gemstones.

After two years of training, his demeanor and expressions had infinitely approached those of another person. It was fortunate that he had never shown his face, otherwise, the moment he appeared before Julius, he would have been beheaded on the spot by the enraged Portia Patriarch.

This was an undeniable blasphemy against the Pope!

François reached out and stroked Julia’s head. The viscount obediently lowered his head, accepting this gesture of affection given to a pet. “Your Majesty…”

“Shhh, don’t speak,” the young emperor’s voice was a whisper. “My dear, you made me a little unhappy today. You chose my incompetent, worthless uncle over me… sigh, my dear, my dear, who else could be so tolerant of you but me?”

The viscount didn’t understand the meaning of his words at all, but long-standing experience told him not to argue at this moment. So, as he had done countless times before, he offered his mad lover a smile perfected through endless practice.

François watched him, silent for a moment, then suddenly changed to a lighthearted tone: “Alright, my dear, you see, as long as you smile at me, I will fall in love with you all over again.”

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Julius watched the carriage disappear into the distance, then his face suddenly hardened as he asked the dust-covered knight, “What exactly happened in Assyria?”

The knight had only received His Holiness’s command that something had changed in Assyria and that Duke François must be detained within the Papal States. Beyond that, he knew nothing.

Julius’s face was grim. Protecting a rebel in front of the Emperor of Calais would undoubtedly create a deep rift in the relationship between the Papal States and Calais. He didn’t know what news Florence had received, nor could he judge the pros and cons of this decision. Trusting Rafael’s choice was his only instinct.

The former Duke of Calais, after such an emotional roller coaster, had fainted onto the bed. Julius frowned, looking at the visibly aged man on the bed, and turned away in disgust. “Transport him back to Florence.”

When the Secretary-General hurried back to the Papal Palace, he was met not by Rafael, who had a well-prepared explanation, but by news of the sudden collapse of the Assyrian South Sargonian Dynasty army and the grim news of the Pope’s sudden grave illness.

“Everything happened very suddenly,” Lucrezia, a young girl who often attended His Holiness, was surprisingly the only one who knew what had happened at the time. Facing the Secretary-General’s interrogation, the simply dressed girl organized her thoughts clearly and recounted everything. “A day after you left, Lord Ferrante’s scout brought news from Assyria. We don’t know what exactly happened on the battlefield, but according to the information spread by the Heavenly Pilgrim Alliance… they said Her Majesty Amandra had died in battle.”

Julius, who had been looking down at the brief report, snapped his head up upon hearing this, his eyes betraying uncontrollable shock.

If Amandra died, the tripartite balance of power between Calais, Rome, and Assyria would instantly collapse. The alliance forged through a fragile marriage would also be in jeopardy, especially now that Calais had completely eradicated all internal troubles. Could Rome still restrain this vast empire, its long-standing adversary?

Duke François must not die—this was Julius’s first thought. They had to leave the Emperor of Calais with a weakness. As long as the duke was alive, there was a possibility of his throne being overthrown, preventing Calais from acting recklessly.

Furthermore, they needed to hold this weakness firmly in their hands as a talisman for the vulnerable Papal States. Julius immediately understood Rafael’s intentions.

But what did this have to do with Rafael’s severe illness?

Lucrezia took a breath, tilting her head in confusion. “I don’t know either… but after he received the news and immediately ordered the knight to go to the border to intercept, he just sat there, not speaking for a long time. It wasn’t until Doctor Polly came to massage His Holiness that they discovered he had developed a high fever at some point.”

The sudden illness caused Julius’s heart to sink deeply. He recalled Rafael’s fragile body and terrible health when he was first brought back, how all the doctors had asserted that he wouldn’t live a long and healthy life. He then had undergone a brutal bone-breaking surgery, which was a second ordeal for him. For a long time afterward, Rafael would even get a fever if the wind blew on him.

So much so that even after he was exiled to Cantrella Castle, Julius would instinctively worry about him, going to care for him every day.

But that was a very long time ago. If he were to count, that was…

Julius paused. It had only been three years, yet why did it feel like half a lifetime had passed?

His thoughts briefly wandered, then he forcibly pulled them back. “I understand.”

Lucrezia looked up at the increasingly authoritative Secretary-General, hesitatingly asking softly, “His Holiness will be alright, won’t he?”

Julius glanced at her, his tone steady: “Of course. I won’t let him die before me.”

He was stunned for a moment after blurting out these words, before repeating them slowly: “… I won’t let him die before me.”

Lucrezia looked at him, and perhaps seeing something in the man’s eyes, couldn’t help but shudder.

Author’s Note

Time skip! A whole year! The plot is now accelerating at full speed.

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