The bells of St. Peter's tolled at the Angelus hour, their iron tongues echoing over the marble courtyards and the city's teeming markets.
Yet inside the Apostolic Palace, the air was thick not with prayer, but with tension.
Pope John XIX sat in the high-backed chair of the Consistory Hall, its carved arms depicting the Twelve Apostles.
Cardinals lined the walls in crimson robes, their faces stiff with unease.
The pontiff's fingers drummed on the armrest as a messenger, dusty from the road, his cloak salt-stained from the sea, knelt before him.
"You are certain?" John's voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of judgement.
"As certain as the sailors who saw it, Holiness. A hundred ships or more, flying the wolf-headed banners of the North. They left the fjords of Iceland with warriors beyond counting. The word from the ports is that they have made land in England's north. Villages burn. Monasteries fall silent."
