The Pontiff's Solaris Sanctum, with its golden glow and suffocating implications, felt like a distant, gilded nightmare. Yet its shadow stretched long and cold into the everyday reality of the Grand Cathedral's corridors. Within hours, the carefully guarded secret Elias had carried back from the spire like a lead weight was common knowledge. Whispers slithered through the marbled halls, carried on hushed breaths during Matins, exchanged over parchment in the scriptorium, murmured behind hands in the refectory. Cardinal Vance. Sacred Conclave. Valerius's seat.
Elias felt the shift like a change in atmospheric pressure. The air itself seemed heavier, thicker with unspoken thoughts. Where once he'd moved with relative anonymity – the respected, perhaps slightly aloof Head Healer – now he was a focal point. Eyes followed him. Not the usual glances of deference to a Bishop, but something sharper, more calculating.
He walked towards the main infirmary, his formal robes feeling less like vestments and more like a target pinned to his back. A cluster of junior priests near the Chapter House doorway fell abruptly silent as he approached. Their gazes darted away, feigning sudden interest in the stained-glass depiction of Saint Caelum battling a shadow beast. He caught the tail end of a phrase: "...too young, perhaps?" Another muttered, "...Resonant Light, though... undeniable..." Their silence as he passed was louder than any conversation.
In the infirmary's bustling outer chamber, the atmosphere was more overt. Brother Anselm practically vibrated with vicarious pride, his solicitousness dialed up to an almost unbearable degree. "Your Eminence! Allow me! Please, rest your strength!" he fussed, attempting to take Elias's staff before he'd even leaned on it properly. Other healers offered strained smiles and deeper bows than usual. Their eyes held a mixture of awe, professional curiosity about the nature of his collapse, and… a wary assessment. Was he *really* strong enough? Was this promotion wise? Elias saw the questions flicker behind their practiced expressions.
Then there were the others. The ones whose smiles didn't quite reach their eyes. Like Deacon Marcus, a stern theologian known for his rigid adherence to doctrine. He intercepted Elias near the apothecary shelves.
"Cardinal Vance," Marcus said, his voice devoid of inflection, offering a minimal, correct bow. "A moment, if I may?" He didn't wait for assent. "The Sacred Conclave. A position of immense doctrinal responsibility. Vigilance against… deviations… will be paramount." His pale eyes fixed on Elias, cold and probing. "Your unique gifts will require even greater scrutiny, I imagine. To ensure they remain… aligned." The implication hung heavy: Don't step out of line. Don't be strange. Especially now.
Elias met his gaze, forcing a calm he didn't feel. "The Light guides all true servants, Deacon Marcus. Its purity is my only compass." He kept his voice level, though a familiar, bone-deep ache throbbed in response to the tension. He moved past Marcus, feeling the man's gaze boring into his back like twin ice picks.
But the most unsettling reaction came from Deacon Averey. He materialized beside Elias as if conjured by the sheer force of ambition, his approach as smooth and unctuous as oil.
"Your Eminence!" Averey breathed, his voice dripping with a reverence that felt palpably false. He executed a deep, flourishing bow that bordered on theatrical. "Such magnificent news! Truly, the Light shines brightly upon you! And upon the Cathedral, to have one so gifted elevated!" His smile was wide, showing a little too much tooth. His dark eyes, however, darted over Elias's face and frame with an unnerving intensity, missing nothing – the lingering pallor, the faint shadows under his eyes, the slight stiffness in his posture.
Averey fell into step beside him, his presence uncomfortably close. "To think, the Sacred Conclave! Your wisdom, your… unique connection to the Holy Light… it will be an invaluable asset to His Holiness. A beacon for us all!" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially, though there was no one immediately nearby. "You must be inundated with well-wishers. Such a burden! Please, know that I am at your complete disposal, Your Eminence. Any assistance you require, navigating the… intricacies… of the higher echelons, managing your schedule to conserve your precious strength – consider it done."
His eyes flickered again, sharp and assessing. "One hears such worrying things about the strain of your duties. That Benediction… a stark reminder of the cost of such pure devotion. It underscores the Pontiff's wisdom, does it not? The absolute necessity of focus?" He emphasized the word, his gaze locking onto Elias's with an almost predatory gleam. "Discarding all distractions, all… extraneous burdens… becomes not just prudent, but essential for one destined for the Conclave. Wouldn't you agree?"
Elias stopped walking. The infirmary doorway was just ahead, offering potential escape, but Averey's proximity and insinuating words felt like a trap. The Pontiff's warning – unnecessary drains – echoed in Averey's oily phrasing. *Discarding. Extraneous burdens.* He saw the calculation in Averey's eyes. This wasn't just flattery; it was a positioning. An offer of service laced with a veiled threat: I see what might hold you back. Let me help you cut it loose, and I'll be your man.
The pressure intensified, a physical vise tightening around Elias's temples. The ache in his bones flared. He wanted to recoil, to order Averey away. But the scrutiny, the sheer weight of expectation bearing down from the Pontiff's spire, from colleagues like Marcus, from ambitious sycophants like Averey, paralyzed him. He was caught in a gilded snare.
"Focus," Elias repeated, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears. He met Averey's gaze, trying to project an authority he didn't feel. "Is indeed paramount, Deacon Averey. As is the discernment to know what truly serves the Light, and what serves… personal agendas." He let the subtle rebuke hang for a fraction of a second, seeing a flicker of surprise, quickly masked, in Averey's eyes. "My duties, as ever, are my focus. Good day, Deacon."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned abruptly and walked into the relative sanctuary of the infirmary. The familiar scents of antiseptic, herbs, and illness usually grounded him. Today, they offered little solace. He leaned heavily against the cool stone wall just inside the doorway, closing his eyes for a moment. The murmurs of patients, the clink of bottles, the soft footsteps of healers – it all seemed distant, muffled beneath the roaring pressure in his own head.
Cardinal. The word echoed, not as an honor, but as a sentence. A demand for absolute purity, absolute isolation. The Pontiff's velvet-gloved warning, Marcus's cold scrutiny, Averey's slithering ambition – they were all facets of the same crushing expectation. He saw Theron's face – fierce, protective, agonizingly real. The memory of his hand, warm and solid in the dawn light, felt like a lifeline cast into a stormy sea he was now forbidden to touch.
The "glory" of the crimson robes felt like a shackle, tightening with every passing hour. The path to the Sacred Conclave demanded he sacrifice the one connection that felt genuine, that offered warmth in the chilling isolation of his power. The Pontiff wanted a beacon, purified and distant. But the cost… the cost was a piece of his own soul. The pressure wasn't just external; it was an internal vise, squeezing his heart between the rigid demands of his faith and the forbidden yearning in his veins. He was trapped on an altar of ambition, and the sacrifice demanded was the dragon knight who had kept him warm in the dark. The weight of the potential promotion settled on Elias Vance's slender shoulders, not as a crown, but as the heaviest, most exquisitely crafted burden he had ever known.