The entrance to the High Council of the Two United Worlds is a vast circular atrium, its gleaming marble floor reflecting the light like still water. From the atrium stretches an endless nave, lined with cylindrical columns—smooth shafts rising skyward, crowned with finely chiseled golden Corinthian capitals. Between each column, frescoed panels open up, depicting mythological scenes painted with elegance and care; from every column hang ornate, candlelit chandeliers, glittering like showers of light.
But when I lift my gaze, the ceiling seems to slip away from sight: thin clouds veil it, making the tops of the columns dissolve into a pearly haze. The vault feels suspended in an infinite sky, so distant it almost makes you dizzy.
"Wow…! This is breathtaking…" I murmur, unable to hold back my awe.
"They spared no expense, back then," Fiore replies, a shadow of disgust in his voice. I sense that this place, for all its vastness, must somehow feel suffocating to him.
We slip into a side corridor, running parallel to the main nave. No one in sight: our steps echo dully on the polished floor, as if the sound itself were trapped inside the walls.
"Where exactly… are we? I mean, really. Are we still in the Real World?" I ask Fiore.
"Not exactly. We're in a kind of crossroads, neither in the Real World nor in the Fantastic one. Think of it as a suspended free zone. It seemed like the most neutral place to establish the Council," he answers.
"And what is this Council, exactly?"
"Basically, an assembly. It was founded after the Council of Trent. Before that, the two worlds didn't exist: there was only one. Remember those History lessons about the witch hunts?"
"Uh… sort of."
Fiore slows his pace, as if choosing his words carefully.
"Fantastics of that time were brutally discriminated against. People believed they could harm the community through curses, storms, diseases, or by killing livestock. And it wasn't just them who were looked down on: even a suspicion of being on good terms with a Fantastic could get you paraded through the public square. And once the accusation started, there was no turning back."
I walk beside him, focused. I feel a deep sadness inside… I realize it's not mine. It's Fiore's.
"There was much more chaos than schoolbooks ever tell," he continues, darkly. "The Fantastic Creatures were systematically marginalized, hunted, and increasingly often, mercilessly killed."
He clenches his fists. His expression hardens even more.
"At a certain point, the tension erupted: there was a revolt, and the Fantastics defended themselves with all their might. Many died, on both sides. That's how the Council was born: everyone signed a non-aggression pact, with no domination of one over the other. At that time, the world was also split in two, and the Veil was created. But, as you can imagine, it's hard to get so many different minds to agree."
He pauses and sighs.
"Over time, three major parties formed: the Lodge of Light with their followers, the Luminous; the Dark Brotherhood with theirs, the Darks; and the Fantastic Alliance. They all have very different ideas about how things should be run, but if you ask me, they're all the same: they think in dogmas and have minds as closed as a walnut," he concludes, disgusted.
"Come on, Fiorenzo! You can't talk like that! The Alliance does what's best for us, Fantastics. And we all have to cooperate, even if we don't like it!" explodes the Massariol. In that vast space, the little man looks even smaller.
"I want to live doing only what I like. Besides, I don't care," Fiore retorts, carefree.
I glance at him. Despite his hedonistic attitude, I doubt he really believes that… but I don't know him well enough to be sure.
"Seriously!" insists the Massariol. "Don't you understand what's at stake?"
"Yes, but I don't care." Fiore raises a hand and covers his mouth before he can continue with his lecture. "I hate this place," he cuts short, hands in his pockets.
"Yeah, I noticed," I comment, letting a half-smile slip.
Finally, after what feels like a mile of walking, I hear voices in the distance.
"Someone's… arguing?" I ask, more to myself than to Fiore.
"Typical. Come on, I'll show you how the kind of folks who 'do what's best for us' behave," he replies, with a bitter smile.
At the end of the nave, a massive double door is slightly ajar. Fiore pushes it gently: the voices inside explode, as if someone had cranked the volume to full blast.
We find ourselves in an amphitheater packed with people and creatures of all kinds. Everyone is talking at once, voices overlapping in total chaos. At the center, in the arena, three lecterns face each other, forming an imaginary triangle.
Behind the first, the one engraved with a sun, stands an austere elderly woman: long white curly hair pinned in an elegant bun, dark skin, a cream-white tailored suit, cigarette pants, and a tailcoat.
Behind the second, engraved with a crescent moon, a towering man with a thick black beard, dreadlocked hair, muscular arms covered in tattoos, dressed in layered, tattered black clothes.
Behind the third, engraved with an animal paw… I couldn't believe it: a massive green orc, with long hair decorated with golden beads. He wears reinforced leather armor adorned with tribal patterns and unknown symbols. Draped over his shoulders is a fur cloak that looks like it came from a wolf.
Fiore taps my shoulder lightly. "Let's slip away from here, come on."
We sneak like thieves to the right of the stands, crouching slightly, trying not to draw too much attention.
Meanwhile, I can't help but look around in awe: on the Fantastics' side of the stands, it looks like a 3D bestiary. Gorgeous nymphs, hopping elves, witches with pointed hats… even the Befana*! I have to get her autograph, I can't believe it!
And then strange spirits with long cloaks, ghosts, bearded men, other orcs, gnomes, giant worms, and even what looks like a dragon. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Massariol hopping toward a seat before disappearing into the crowd.
The massive orc standing behind the lectern suddenly thunders, making me jump.
"Enough, some silence! We need to decide on this, and quickly! Desperate times call for desperate measures; we can no longer allow there to be victims."
The wild man responds firmly: "I agree, Zuan, but this is not the way! Shutting the Veil forever won't solve the situation."
"It solves it for me!" the orc — so he is the infamous Zuan — objects, pounding a fist on the lectern. "My people are dying more than yours, Nicodemo."
From the Fantastics' audience rises a clamor of approval.
"This isn't a competition to see who dies more!" snaps the severe-looking woman. "Permanently closing the Veil is unacceptable. We must stay united. I maintain that setting up a task force to recover the Heptameron remains our best play."
"And I keep saying the Heptameron is lost forever, Diamante!" Zuan roars at the woman.
"What is the Heptameron…?" I ask Fiore, continuing to walk, leaning forward to see better. The debate intrigues me.
"A white magic book written by Pietro D'Abano, the philosopher," he replies, glancing around — apparently looking for a way to slip away. "It was lost many years ago, along with the Book of Command, its twin in black magic."
"It's better to search for a precious book for our community than to just barricade ourselves and hope the problem solves itself!" proclaims Diamante. "That book can help us banish the demons, since, as far as I remember, none of us is capable of doing it!" she concludes, scanning the audience relentlessly.
I swallow, too absorbed in the scene to notice I've stopped in the middle of the corridor. Diamante's unwavering gaze sweeps across the hall… and stops on me. She looks at me with a mix of surprise and… recognition?
"Milo?"
I freeze.
How does she know my name?
Fiore, leaning forward, tugs at the hem of my shirt, like saying, "duck down!"
"Fiorenzo! Finally, you're here!" Zuan barks.
And in that instant, the entire amphitheater turns toward us.
*Befana: La Befana is a witch-like old woman in Italian folklore who flies on her broomstick on the night of January 5th, delivering sweets to good children (and coal to the naughty ones) as part of the Epiphany tradition.