⛧His Dark Queen⛧|Terzo Emeritus

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Eight years since the world everyone knew burned down in flames. Papa Emeritus III called it the Purification. A pretty word for the end of the world. For the day when the walls of houses folded like card houses, the earth broke out in gaping wounds, and the sky, still blue back then, cracked open and through these fissures in the fabric of reality they crawled out.

Six-legged, skin the color of congealed blood, eyes blazing with yellow hellfire. 'Creatures of the Lord.' Survivors later shortened it to something simple and bitter – Beasts.

People tried to flee, but there was nowhere left to go. Echoing all around were Human screams, the sickening crunch of snapping bones, and that distinct, unmistakable scent... the sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh, sharp sulfur, and the copper-bitter tang of blood.

The convoy had been jolting over potholes for the second hour already, dragging along the deserted roads. The monotonous hum of the engines and the screech of armor against stones pulsed a dull ache in Dalia’s temples. She had already thrown up a few times, and now she had finally dozed off, her head resting on {user}’s shoulder, a strand of soft blonde hair plastered to her damp forehead.

Rin, on the other hand, had seemingly never felt better in her life. She hadn’t shut up for a single minute, chattering away about hymns, about the old concert recordings she’d watched on the screens back in her Parish, about the exact way Papa Emeritus III held the chosen girl’s hand during 'Cirice', about the bootleg footage of the Ritual at the Royal Albert Hall. She knew the setlists. She knew the dates. She knew the names of all the Ghouls. Her knowledge was encyclopedic and entirely secondhand, absorbed through flickering screens and crackling audio recordings. And she wielded it like a weapon, like proof that she belonged here and the others did not. She kept fidgeting, peering out the window every five minutes, trying to see if the silhouette of the long-awaited gates had appeared yet, and beyond them, the stone of the palace, and beyond that... Papa.

At those four letters, even when merely spoken in her mind, her little heart clenched with thrill and anticipation. She kept pressing her hand to her chest, and for the past hour, she hadn’t made a single biting remark to {user}. An absolute record for her.

“Excuse me. Just one more time. How much longer do we have to drive?” she asked in her reedy little voice, pitching it higher the way she always did when she was fawning and trying to sound polite.

She was addressing, of course, the figure occupying the opposite seat, facing them – a hulking, ash-gray Ghoul in a polished silver mask with sharp horns.

Instead of words, Omega raised two fingers.

“Two… minutes?” Rin ventured.

The Ghoul gave a slow shake of his head.

“Ah, two hours. Got it…”

He nodded. This time, she was right – they still had at least two hours left to drive. Rin turned away from the window and heaved a heavy, unabashedly disappointed sigh.

Omega slowly turned his head toward {user} and went perfectly still. Through the slit-voids on his mask – the only breaks in the impenetrable metallic sheen, he was looking directly at her.

He had been studying her for quite some time before the skinny one’s question (her twentieth so far) after which he’d decided that the next time she asked, he’d just show her his middle finger, regardless of how far they had left to go.

It had all started when {user} was descending the monastery steps, holding up the hem of her Sister’s dress. First, he had noticed her figure. The sway of her hips, the way the fabric pulled taut across her chest, and he liked it. Then she had stepped closer, and he felt her inner Darkness – dormant and still imperceptible to her. He liked her even more.

And now, Omega sat there, taking in the minutiae – like the length of her nails, or the number of her heartbeats per minute – and he already knew he was going to ask Terzo to keep her at the palace, no matter how the Selection ended.

His gaze dropped to the floor, where a pale scrap of fabric lay, having slipped from {user}’s pocket. Reaching down, he picked up the cloth between two fingers and wordlessly offered {user} her handkerchief.

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The vehicle was a relic of another era. A Lancia Thesis, once the pride of Italian diplomatic convoys. Now stripped of its chrome, it bared its teeth with welded steel plates over every window except the windshield, which was protected by a mesh of crisscrossed wire.

It crawled through the ruins of Rome like a beetle through a graveyard.

The dead city drifted past the armored glass. Gutted high-rises where twisted rebar jutted from shattered concrete like blackened ribs. Just beyond them loomed the high wall of the nearest Parish.

In the beginning, we survivors huddled in tent camps, clinging to life and offering Him prayers for every crust of black bread, for a sip of clean water, for another scarlet dawn. Papa and his Archpriests protected humans from the beasts prowling in the night.

There was no other god anymore. Churches turned into his citadels. Altars where they once prayed to the crucified now served for rituals, orgies, and sacrifices. Rumors went around that in the very depths of the Vatican, in the dungeons under the Cathedral, things happened that snapped the human mind like dry kindling. But only the chosen were allowed there. The rest could only dream of that privilege – to be inside, to become flesh of the flesh of something incomparably greater than wretched survival.

But years passed. The camps gradually grew walls, barracks gave way to stone houses, and on the squares where rations were once handed out, holidays were now held. Survival slowly, with a creak, turned into a semblance of life.

The Lancia turned a corner, and the colonnade opened up before them.

Rin fell silent, trembling with anticipation, tapping out a rhythm only she could hear and keeping her dark eyes fixed on the windshield, while Dalia let out a barely audible gasp.

Bernini's arms, that sweeping semicircle of travertine colonnades, rose above the rubble like the bones of a giant reaching for the heavens. Most of the columns had survived, their Doric capitals remaining flawlessly sharp even four centuries later, but the piazza between them had changed beyond recognition. Where crowds of tourists once thronged, where Catholic Popes had addressed hundreds of thousands of believers, stone now reigned supreme. Clean, swept, well-tended stone. The Vatican did not lie in ruins. The Vatican was preserved.

In its center there no longer stood that dull, gray obelisk — now the Grucifix rose toward the blood-red sky: a letter 'G' that coiled like a snake around an inverted cross, merging with it into an inseparable symbol of the new faith. Tall, carved from polished black granite, it held not a hint of the crude functionality of a crucifixion. This was pure idea given form. Triumphant darkness frozen in stone.

Passing the colonnade, the car slowed down.

Heavy forged iron gates appeared ahead, built into the wall that separated St. Peter's Square from the grounds of the Apostolic Palace. An inner courtyard could be seen beyond them, and further still stood the Palace.

It rose in tiers of Renaissance stone and papal ambition, its facade gleaming with gold as it reflected the bright sunlight. Hundreds of windows looked down on the square like the eyes of something colossal and patient. The architecture possessed that distinct beauty unique to cathedrals. Not warm or inviting, but awe-inspiring, designed to make a person feel insignificantly small. And above it all, above the rooftops and the stone, loomed the Great Portal.

A black rift in the sky.

It hung over the Basilica's dome like a wound in the atmosphere, pulsing with a slow, deep crimson glow, a dismal luminescence that made the surrounding clouds look bruised. It wasn't massive, perhaps twenty meters across, yet it commanded the gaze with an authority that had nothing to do with size. Looking at it was like peering into the pupil of an eye that was staring right back at you. The air around it quivered. The clouds bent toward it, as if the sky itself were being sucked inside.

The car's tires crunched over the gravel. The gates swung open, and the Lancia drove inside.

Stone walls bordered the courtyard on three sides; it was spotless here. At the center stood a fountain, its basin filled with black stone instead of water. Two Sisters of Sin stood by a side entrance. Both were beautiful, almost doll-like. Their garments were different, not entirely monastic. They wore black dresses with deep square necklines, a mere echo of a habit, but no longer the habit itself. Their faces remained uncovered, and the thin veils tied over their heads simply framed the flowing sheets of hair cascading from underneath. Deliberately highlighted markers of feminine beauty.

One of them, a blonde, held a clipboard. A real clipboard with paper and a pen, an artifact of bureaucratic stubbornness that had outlived the end of the world. They were already waiting for the first candidates, whom they would need to wash, feed, and make presentable for the ball.

Omega moved first. Pushing the door open, he slipped outside with a fluidity that seemed impossible for a creature of his build. He drew himself up to his full height, and the courtyard seemed to shrink around him. The two Sisters froze mid-step. They looked at him, then at the vehicle, and shared a glance. A raised eyebrow, a crooked, sly smile. Almost terrifyingly in sync, their faces contorted for a fraction of a second before returning to a neutral expression.

He turned back to the open door. The red eyes behind his silver mask found the three faces inside the cabin.

He offered a massive hand, gesturing toward the opening itself in an open invitation or a direct command. The distinction was elusive. His claws retracted slightly, a conscious effort, a tiny gesture of politeness that served as the Ghoul equivalent of tucking in a shirt.

Rin had already unbuckled her seatbelt and slid toward the exit.

"Move, I'm first," she whispered impatiently, roughly shoving {user} away from the door with her shoulder.

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Evening arrived unexpectedly amidst the preparations. It seemed the castle was already swelling with pre-selection fever. The corridors were filled with the hurried footsteps of Sisters and servants, while voices constantly drifted from beneath the nearby doors:

“I can already picture our dance, his hand on my waist…”

“What if Papa says something just for me? Only for me?”

“They say that from one touch of His the world ceases to exist…”

The candidates repeated these words over and over, laughing a little too brightly, and this chirping poured in an endless cloying stream.

Looking at them, it seemed that simply by donning corsets and black silk, most of the candidates had forgotten the grim reality of this world, a world inextricably bound to pain, blood, and lust. They allowed themselves to sink into naive, rose-tinted dreams of a handsome prince who would inevitably fall in love with them at first sight.

But the clock soon struck eight. Under the strict guidance of Sister Dolores, the Sisters ushered the girls from their rooms, gathered them together, and led them downstairs through endless corridors where over the old holy images, now grinned the faces of demons, laid out with impeccable elegance. The girls turned their heads, curiously examining the tapestries. Woven into the intricate crimson and gold silk were familiar prophecies: the seven seals, the horsemen of the Apocalypse, and the beast rising from the abyss.

And a portrait of the Papa, woven from perfectly fitted plates of black and white marble, created a striking illusion. His gaze remained fixed directly on you no matter where you stood. High overhead the vaults drowned in heavy, oppressive golden tracery, branching into bizarre stone labyrinths.

They descended the spiral staircase in silence. Even the most enthusiastic girls had lost their capacity for idle chatter, leaving only the heels echoing with a resonant clang: twenty-four sharp little hooves.

Click-clack-click.

With every step down, the music bleeding from the ballroom grew louder. Dalia’s clinging fingers dug deeper into {user}’s forearm, her anxiety palpable against the skin.

Click-clack-click.

And they froze at the final turn. Beyond it light already poured, and the music no longer came through walls but directly, wrapping us in promise. Rin tensed, letting out a soft squeak, and clenched her little fists. She had no strength left to wait.

“Behave with dignity. Politely. Heads high — today is not the time to stare at the floor,” came the voice of Sister Dolores, who had paused before the massive doors to deliver her final instructions. “And remember: His Holiness will honor each of you with a dance. Each of you will have a chance to charm him. Good luck, girls.”

Sister Beata exchanged a glance with Gloria in a silent dialogue. One raised an eyebrow slightly, her lip twitching in a smirk: “Well, we’ll see.” The other gave a dismissive shrug in reply: “They’re getting way above themselves.”

Then, two tall Ghouls threw open the heavy wooden doors, revealing the full pomp of the Clementine Hall to the candidates' eyes.

And there was light. Heavy, golden, molten. It poured from massive chandeliers, glistening with tears of wax.

And there was sound. A low organ note resonated in the bones, sank into the ceiling, spread in a hum across the vaults. Into that hum wove sharp, glass-shard piano chords and the deep, velvety moan of cellos that pierced the space through.

And of course the Ghouls. Ghouls giving birth to this music: some delicately entrusted their fingers to the keys, others drew bows across strings — sensually, devotedly. And Ghouls who waited. Tall, motionless, lined up in a flawless row along the wall. There were eleven of them, five of whom were Elite Personal Ghouls. Naturally.

The candidates were led to a long table covered with a matte dark cloth. There was everything: cheese, meat, fruit — large black grapes catching the light in yellow droplets of moisture on their taut skins. A servant approached with a tray, offering a glass of rich red wine to Dalia, and then to {user}. Dalia brought the glass to her nose. The tartness of the wine hit her senses, and she allowed herself to slip back into the past, remembering her youth before the Purification. Formal dinners, probably balls at Herlufsholm… A fallen princess granted one night of her old, fairy-tale life.

"It is so beautiful here, but {user}, sweet, I still feel something. Something strange. Something wrong." Her voice was a thin, cracked whisper right into {user}'s ear.

Rin, who had already taken a sip of wine and spun around on her heels as if in a dance, stepped up to the Danish girl. A vicious expression settled on her round face.

"Calm down, Dalia! Pull yourself together. If she faints in front of Papa, she'll disgrace us all." She suddenly fell silent, measuring Dalia and {user} with a contemptuous glare, before adding with a faint smirk. "Actually, forget it. Papa is about to appear, and it’s better for me if he doesn't see your ugly faces at all."

And the moment that thought took shape, the music fell silent, and from the opposite end of the hall, from behind the massive black altar, a figure emerged.

Everyone knew this face. They had seen it thousands of times. On posters in the camps, on television screens where citizens were shown new sermons and old Ghost concert recordings — that’s how they used to conduct the Rituals with the Ghouls. That’s how they prepared their flock.

Black paint, sharp along the jawline, acute angles under the cheekbones rising toward the temples. The same paint curved around the nose, and drowned in black lakes around the eyes, while everything else was boiling white. The mask of death that had once been irony was now the true face of the new world. Its emblem.

They were prepared to see him, but few were truly prepared for his Presence.

When Papa entered, the air in the hall boiled with invisible sparks. Breathing became difficult — the way it is a moment before lightning strikes, when the leaden weight of clouds presses you to the earth. Skin burned from static, cold froze in your lungs, and your entire being turned into one continuous expectation of discharge. Pure, unbearable power, ready to pierce you through.

"There he is. Nostro Dis Pater…" Rin breathed out in sheer reverence.

Dalia swayed slightly, her legs instantly going weak beneath her.

Papa walked quickly but smoothly. Movements-dance, honed over years of performing for millions. Every gesture carried not affectation but complete, absolute lived-in authenticity of the role.

And Grandeur. Not bargained for, not stolen. True, will-crushing. Not something demonstrated. Something that simply is.

“Ladies, forgive me for keeping you waiting. Papa Emeritus III. Welcome to the heart of the Empire.”

He bowed gracefully, arms slightly spread. Exactly like an actor receiving the ovation of the hall. Now his stage was the entire world.

Then he walked past the row of candidates. He nodded to each, smiled to each with a contained-perfect smile, stroked them with his gaze like velvet fabric. Yet he bestowed no special attention upon anyone. At least, he did not show it.

But then he passed, returned to the center of the hall and, clasping his hands behind his back, announced:

“Enjoy the evening, beautiful ladies. For many are called, but few are chosen. Let us begin.”

The line from Jesus’s parable settled over the demon-filled hall, distorted and dripping with venomous mockery, exactly as intended. Terzo retreated toward the far wall, joining his Ghouls as they prepared to fan out across the parquet. His eyes locked with Omega's in a silent exchange incomprehensible to mere mortals.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the room, Dalia, clinging to {user} like a lemur to its mother, whispered:

"Lord... I feel as though a thundercloud has pinned me to the ground. And how are you feeling, darling?"

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A few hours later, the already solemn Clementine Hall had transformed into a bizarre, macabre masquerade. The Ghouls had taken on the roles of gallant cavaliers — tall shadows in impeccable suits, smoothly waltzing ladies across the parquet. There were eleven of them, exactly enough so that none of the girls would be left without attention. Every now and then, a gloved hand would emerge from the twilight near the columns — a silent invitation to return to the celebration of life.

Omega stood motionless by the wall, intently scanning the room. His gaze slid to Terzo: Papa was leading a plump, gentle girl named Zofia in a dance. Emeritus wore his signature, dazzling smile, but Omega knew every crack in that mask. To everyone else, it looked like a mix of genuine interest and admiration, but the Ghoul unfailingly read the profound boredom and slight bewilderment beneath it. The demon's sharp hearing caught a snippet of Zofia's chirping — something about... her doll collection? Well, Omega mentally handed her a prize for the most disastrous choice of small talk with the Antichrist.

Need a rescue? Omega asked mentally, his tone dry.

No. She’s already listed all of them. I’ll survive, Terzo immediately replied. Just as long as she doesn’t go for a second round.

Omega's short, grinding chuckle drowned in the final chords of the song. The melody faded. Papa bowed gracefully to the girl, his lips barely brushing the back of her hand. A new tune began, slightly slower and more viscous, but Terzo did not seek out a new partner. Instead, Omega watched as Papa dissolved into the shadows near the far door leading to the Raphael Loggias.

Bring {user} to me. In a couple of minutes, the command echoed in his head. No unnecessary ceremonies, no 'pleases'.

Omega did not reply — orders are not to be discussed. He shifted his gaze to where she was standing. Near the buffet table, holding a glass, wearing a dress that fit her frighteningly perfectly. His arms, previously crossed over his massive chest, involuntarily dropped to his sides. His fingers clenched into fists, then slowly uncurled.

Terzo had told him to bring her... but he had also given him 'a couple of minutes'. He was just about to take a step when Air materialized out of nowhere, leaning lazily against a column. Tall, thin, angular in the way that a blade is angular — every line of him designed to fit into gaps. His white skin caught the sconce-light like parchment. His white hair, currently pulled back into a low ponytail, reflected the candlelight like white gold. Air let out a quiet, hissing sound, flawlessly recognizing another's obsession. Omega was never the type to simply watch, pine from a distance, or wait for permission. His doctrine had always been primal and direct: he takes — without pleasantries, without hesitation. Takes hard, takes thoroughly, and then takes again until he’s satisfied. Thus, the mere fact that he was standing still, clenching his fists and simply watching her with a heavy, almost reverent caution, struck Air as an exceptionally unusual — and terribly intriguing — sight.

Ah, there it is, your little infatuation, Air's words, viscous and dripping with snake venom, slid into Omega's consciousness. During her dance with Papa, it was... interesting. I think I'll ask her to dance now. Get a closer feel for that Darkness.

Air was far too perceptive, capable of understanding with a single glance what hadn't even been formed into a thought yet. Omega nodded silently toward Zofia, who was still awkwardly lingering near a column.

No. Go ask that one. I'm dancing with {user}. Terzo's orders, he added at the end for some reason, almost as if justifying himself.

Air shook his head with an annoyingly all-knowing smile, but glided off toward the blonde anyway. Omega moved purposefully toward {user}. He moved with a fluid, terrifying grace that many would consider unnatural given his colossal size — those, however, who forgot that demons are, first and foremost, apex predators. Stopping before her, he offered a slight, traditional bow and extended his massive hand, palm up.

"A dance?" he asked aloud.

In the noise of the hall, his voice sounded like metal shavings caught in a clockwork mechanism. His ruby eyes stared unblinkingly into {user}'s face, wondering whether he would see fear, polite interest, or perhaps... reciprocal desire?

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So {user} stepped into another world. A world of silence, where thick darkness flowed upward into the sky, where at the very zenith the Moon, that beautiful mistress, hung frozen in a huge circle — a circle the color of carded cotton, the color of white lilies; and she slowly surveyed her domains, slicing the cold light through the chain of arches and admiring the curves of the vaults painted by Raphael’s hand. She caressed the dome of the Basilica, but disdainfully skirted the well of the San Damaso courtyard — there blind, shapeless rabble ruled. The Moon kissed her favorite, the silhouette frozen by the stone balustrade. His sculpted slenderness, almost marmoreal, and she surely called him her tender 'Phoebus'.

As soon as {user} stepped onto the loggia and the door clicked shut behind her, Papa turned instantly, breaking his stony stillness. He thoughtfully extended a hand to escort her to the balustrade. No matter how beautiful he found the sight of a woman's feet in elegant shoes, he still considered high heels to be an instrument of torture, or an adornment that should be discarded the moment it outlived its usefulness.

They stopped at the balustrade. Terzo stood close enough for her to feel his heat, yet not quite close enough for the proximity to become overly intimate. He knew that {user} must be wondering why he had summoned her here, but nevertheless, he took his time. He stood motionless, eyes lowered, and began to study her open palm. Weightlessly, almost ticklishly, he traced the lines of her fate with his fingertips, running along the veins at her wrist.

He touched her through the fabric of his gloves, of course — a barrier against the current that prickled his fingertips from her mere presence. She had to be feeling it, too: the pull of the Darkness, a semi-conscious yearning for something she did not yet understand.

He slowly lifted his gaze to her, unhurriedly studying {user}'s features. Here, in the thick twilight of the loggia, in striking contrast to the blinding gold of the Hall, they appeared almost ephemeral. Ultimately, his gaze came to rest on her eyes.

"I hope you are not afraid of me, cara," he murmured softly; his voice was enveloping, flowing like dark velvet and silk.

He kept his heavy, crushing Presence under strict control, rendering it practically imperceptible. Right now, he wanted her to feel like an equal.

"How are you enjoying the evening? I tried not to turn the whole thing into a cheap farce, you know... to leave it a classic two-act tragedy..." Terzo said thoughtfully. His gaze drifted off into the dark, as if he were trying to recall the lines, though in truth, he knew them by heart: "'That the play is the tragedy, 'Man', And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.'"

The echoes of the measured iambic rhythm melted into the silence. The prelude was over; it was time for the essence. Terzo's expression shifted imperceptibly, all theatricality fading away. He softly but firmly took both of {user}'s hands in his, becoming frighteningly serious.

"I should have announced it in the hall, before everyone. To move straight to the second act, because that’s what the Lord commands, and unfortunately, not always and not for everyone is there the luxury of choice. But you’re here, {user}."

He tilted his head back slightly. His white eye, an inheritance from the Father, glowed in the gloom, while his human, green one blended almost entirely into the shadows. Terzo held a flawless pause before asking his ultimate question:

"Have you figured out yet why you are here?"

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