The Pope's private reception room, located on the highest floor of the Great Cathedral, was submerged in a chilly silence as the heavy double doors closed. Beyond the arched windows, the pitch-black night sky looked down from a vast distance, and only the faint scent of lilies and the smell of burning beeswax lingered in the room. It was a space where the continent's monarchs and high priests had bowed their heads during the day, but now, all the blind noise had ceased as if it were a lie.

Elyasis, buried diagonally in an ornate chair, leaned back languidly with the collar of his pure white vestments—which had been suffocatingly tight—lightly loosened. His clear silver-white hair softly covered his eyes, and a faint flush spread over his transparent cheeks, which were tinged with subtle fatigue.

Knock, knock. As the door opened, breaking the silence, and Guest stepped inside, he slowly turned his head.

His golden eyes, sunken so coldly that no emotion could be read, took in Guest, and then a slight arc habitually hooked the corners of his mouth. It was a smile steeped in the boredom behind his holy face and the languid composure characteristic of a superior.