Chapter 1
Winter 1545. Rome.
The air within the dank and musty cell hung heavy with darkness, suffocating any semblance of hope that dared to venture within its confines. Shadows danced menacingly along the walls, their elongated forms writhing like specters of despair. The stench of decay and filth permeated the air, a putrid reminder of the knight's wretched existence.
As Ser John was jolted from his restless slumber, a gasp escaped his lips, stifled by the searing pain that wracked his broken body. His wounds, neglected and festering, served as cruel companions, reminding him of his failures with each agonizing breath. He struggled to sit upright, his muscles protesting against the torment that pulsed through his weary frame. Every movement seemed to magnify the ache, yet he clenched his jaw, determined to conceal his suffering.
A commanding voice, sharp and unforgiving, pierced the darkness, shattering the fragile silence that enveloped the cell. The knight's weary gaze darted towards the source, seeking solace or reprieve from his tormented existence. But there was no solace to be found, only a harsh reminder of his shame and degradation.
"Awaken, Ser John!" the voice thundered, laced with disdain and impatience. "You slumber in the presence of His Holiness! Arise and make yourself presentable! Are you not a man of your station?" With each word, the voice's owner rapped his cane relentlessly against the cold iron bars, a grim percussion that echoed through the desolate chamber.
Summoning the last vestiges of his knightly grace, Ser John fought against the pain that threatened to consume him, his body trembling as he struggled to rise. With aching limbs, he lowered himself to one knee before the imposing figure seated upon a grand wooden throne, its ominous silhouette casting long, ominous shadows.
The Pope shrouded in a cloak of darkness, observed him intently, his gaze penetrating the knight's battered form. Time seemed to stretch as the weight of his disappointment bore down upon Ser John's weary shoulders. At last, the Pope spoke, his voice carrying the weight of authority and judgment.
"Recent news from Greece has been most concerning to us. Tell me, good knight, how does one even begin to lose five hundred souls?" His voice was a blend of curiosity and reproach, a question that demanded an account of the tragic loss.
"Your Eminence," Ser John rasped, his voice hoarse and strained, "they fought with unwavering resolve, but the demons... those Maleficarum... they overpowered us." His words carried a mixture of anguish and bitterness, the taste of defeat still fresh upon his tongue.
The knight's gaze turned distant, haunted by the memories of the merciless onslaught. "They slaughtered us like lambs before a lion. Our brothers turned against us, twisted by unholy influence. Our sacred blades crumbled in our grasp, and our shields transformed into writhing vermin that gnawed at our very flesh. They boiled us alive in our armor, their malevolence knowing no bounds. They were prepared for our arrival, their dark magic woven into every fiber of their being."
Silence settled between the Pope and Ser John, a heavy shroud that carried the weight of unspoken questions and unfulfilled expectations. The knight's anguished plea broke through the stillness, his voice trembling with both desperation and disillusionment.
"How can one fight against such witchery with honest steel alone? What good does faith do when demons openly parade our brothers naked, defiling their dignity in the streets? How are we to bring judgment upon these heathens who practice their vile arts with impunity?"
A swift, brutal strike from a cane interrupted his lament, jarring Ser John's senses and forcing him to the cold, stone floor. Cardinal Roberto, a figure of authority and rigidity, had delivered the blow, his disdain for the fallen knight palpable. Ser John had once served beneath him, enduring the bureaucratic machinations of a man disconnected from the brutal realities of the world.
"Perhaps if you possessed a measure of true faith, providence would have rendered the House of Black to ashes," the Cardinal rebuked, his voice filled with sanctimony.
"Oh, we had faith, Cardinal," Ser John retorted, his voice laced with bitter sarcasm. "We besieged the devil's lair, pleading and praying for divine intervention. But our cries were met with silence. The silence was our reward."
Pausing briefly, Ser John's voice wavered with a mix of anger and despair. "I ask you, where was the heavenly host? Where was the archangel Michael with his flaming sword? Where was Metatron, the vanquisher of Egyptian demons? Where was the trumpet that was promised to herald our victory?"
Before the knight could continue, the Pope raised a hand, silencing him. The weight of disappointment and judgment hung heavily in the air as the Pope turned away, his silent departure a profound dismissal. Cardinal Roberto, quick to follow, left no trace of sympathy or remorse in his wake.
The Roman Inquisition, for all its bravado, had failed. Malleus Maleficarum was a lie. The threat was much more sinister than any one of them could comprehend.
As the midnight hour chimed, two burly men entered the cell, their shadows melding with the darkness as they approached Ser John. The doomed knight, his fate sealed by the crime of blasphemy and the stain of failure, was soon carried away, further into the abyss of the gallows. Death, the only respite from his shame, awaited him with open arms.
