Pope Lucifer lingered in the sunlit solar long after Empress Elizabeth stormed out, savoring the lingering heat of her fury. His crimson eyes—contacts masking the true molten gold beneath—gleamed with predatory amusement.
The barb about her daughter had struck exactly where he intended: straight into the proud heart of a woman who believed herself untouchable. Jealousy was such a delicious accelerant to the slow-burning incubus essence he had been feeding her for months.
Prideful, imperious Elizabeth could resist many things, but not forever. The seeds were fully sprouted; now came the harvest.
He rose with deliberate grace, the hem of his papal robes whispering over marble, the black staff tipped with a crystal of captured starlight tapping a soft, measured rhythm.
Courtiers parted before him like reeds before a serpent, bowing low, their whispers trailing in his wake: *the Prophet walks with purpose*.
