Returning to the cathedral after the clandestine meeting with Francisco should have been a relief. Instead, every step Paula took through the cold, silent corridors seemed to echo with a sense of foreboding. The familiar scent of incense and candle wax gave way, as she neared the reserved wing, to a strange, penetrating odor: the acrid smell of burning, mixed with something sweetly putrid, like rotting fruit and chemicals.

  What is that? she thought, quickening her pace, her anxiety growing with the smoke that had begun to hang in the air at the end of the corridor.

  Upon reaching the door of her secret laboratory—or what had once been secret—she stopped, petrified. The door was wide open. From inside came sounds of destruction: the sharp crack of breaking glass, the dull thud of furniture being dragged, men's voices issuing curt orders.

  She entered a scene of chaos. Men dressed in the simple robes of novice monks, but with the hardened expressions of soldiers, moved with brutal efficiency. One was overturning her wooden workbench, sending flasks and notebooks crashing down. Another was tearing pages from her meticulous notes, tossing them into a large metal bucket where orange flames already consumed other papers, sending up sparks and foul, black smoke. In a corner, a third man was throwing her precious cultures in glass jars to the floor, one after another. The pink neuronal liquid spilled across the stone floor, mixing with shards of glass and the bluish-green mold of the penicillin fungi, which was being trampled without ceremony.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Paula's voice came out as a strangled cry, louder than she intended. She rushed to grab the arm of the man tearing up one of her oldest diaries. "Stop! Immediately!"

  The monk, a young man with icy eyes, simply shoved her aside with his shoulder without even looking at her, returning to his task of destruction.

  "I am the Popess!" she shouted, now with all the authority she could muster, planting herself in the middle of the ruined room. "I order all of you to cease this insanity now!"

  No one stopped. No one even hesitated. The looks she received were empty, obedient to an authority higher than her own. The feeling of powerlessness burned in her throat, more bitter than the smoke.

  It was then that a familiar figure filled the doorway, blocking the scant light from the corridor. Dom Orsini observed the scene with an expression of false pity, his hands clasped over his vast belly.

  "No one is going to stop, my dear Holiness," he said, his tone condescending, echoing in the stifling room. "After all, they are merely cleaning God's house, burning heretical material. Fulfilling the duty you, due to worldly attachment, have neglected."

  Paula crossed the devastated room, passing among the monks as if they were furniture, until she stood face to face with Orsini. Up close, the smell of his sweat and cheap wine was offensive.

  "I have reported every discovery, every observation, to the Holy See!" she argued, trying to keep her voice steady, but a tremor of pure anger ran through it. "There is no heresy here! This is research into life, into divine creation! They are tools to alleviate suffering!"

  Orsini let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head slowly.

  "We both know that isn't true, Paula. You concealed, reinterpreted, diverted. I've seen your reports, and I've seen what you really did here." He made a vague gesture toward the destruction behind her. "And, look, I take no pleasure in this. I am a man of intellect, I appreciate progress. I would rather see you continue your... curiosities. But Pope Henry, you see, he harbors a personal distaste for you. And his envoys"—he inclined his head toward the monks—"are here, with watchful eyes and ears. I need to give them a show. A sacrifice of smoke and broken glass to appease their suspicions. It's politics, my dear. Ecclesiastical politics."

  The fury that flooded Paula then was of a white-hot, blinding intensity. It was a rage that rose from the ashes of her fungi, from the lost liquid of her neurons, from years of meticulous work reduced to trash and black smoke. But, beneath the fury, a glacial clarity formed. She said nothing more. She turned and walked out of what had been her sanctuary, her footsteps echoing with sudden determination in the corridor.

  Before, I feared abandoning the Church, the thought hammered in her mind, sharp and cutting like broken glass. I feared the instability, the scandal, the unknown power of Carlos. But now... now I hope he uses all those firearms he helped create. I hope he comes and takes this rotten city down to its foundations. This is not the house of God. It is a den of vultures dressed in purple. They do not understand God's will, they only understand power and control.

  Without looking back, she went straight to her office, the imposing room she had always felt was a gilded cage. Orsini, breathing heavily, followed her, closing the heavy door behind him with a final click.

  Paula did not sit in her papal chair. She stood behind the desk, her hands resting on the polished wood, her fingers white from the pressure.

  "Do you perhaps wish to burn me at the stake as well, Dom Orsini?" Her voice came out icy, each word a shard of ice. "Why follow me here? You've already destroyed what was of value to me."

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  Orsini sighed, a theatrical sound of an overburdened man.

  "I understand your fury, Paula, I truly do. But you insist on seeing me as an enemy. I do not want that. Remember our conversation: I need your help. And, speaking of which... you have already secured me quite a bit of help." A reptilian smile appeared on his lips. "Carlos has replied. The good President has sent us, via a... confidential messenger, the secret to producing the Republic's quality steel. It's all here."

  He pulled a scroll of parchment from within his habit and placed it on the desk with a triumphant gesture.

  The floor seemed to vanish beneath Paula's feet. A chill ran down her spine. But what? Why would he do that... unless... The conclusion was instant and dangerously relieving. ...unless it's fake. Of course. It must be.

  "It was all too easy, don't you think?" Orsini continued, as if reading her thoughts. His voice was soft, insinuating. "Easy enough to raise suspicions. Paula, a woman of your intelligence... must know that what we have here"—he tapped his thick index finger on the parchment—"is a sham. A well-wrapped lie."

  He leaned forward, his wine-heavy breath reaching her.

  "That's why I propose a trip. The two of us. A surprise, but diplomatic, visit to the Republic. An in situ inspection. Carlos cannot deny us the chance to see the process in practice, after all"—he patted the parchment—"he has already given us the 'formula'. It would be a grave affront to the Holy See to refuse verification of their own gift. If the method is true, splendid! The Church celebrates and our trade flourishes. If it's a lie..."—Orsini's eyes narrowed, gleaming with anticipation—"well, then we will have in our hands definitive proof of his duplicity. And, more importantly, the perfect justification for actions much more... decisive, starting with the termination of trade relations. Against the Republic, and against any allies it may have here."

  It's worse. He wants the justification. If they go there and discover the sham, it won't just be a matter of me looking foolish before Alba... The thought raced. It will be Orsini's golden pretext. He will cut off trade immediately, with Alba's applause. The Republic will be isolated, without salt, without tools, without cloth, without medicine... Strangled economically in a matter of weeks. It will be a slow death sentence, and the blame will fall on me for having 'believed' Carlos. Orsini gets two birds with one stone: he discredits me and suffocates the enemy, all with clean hands.

  The pallor that took over her face was not of panic, but of strategic horror. She saw the end of the Republic's dream, not by fire or magic, but by a lack of basic supplies.

  But years of survival in the papal court had taught her to disguise true terror. She forced her facial muscles to compose themselves, but her gaze grew more distant, calculating. The earlier rage gave way to tactical ice.

  "Whether it's false or true, the decision to sever trade cannot be based on a simple verification trip," she replied, her voice now measured, trying to buy time and deflect his logic. "It falls to the Holy See, to our experts in Alba, to analyze the method in writing first. A hasty trip could be seen as a provocation, Orsini. And if the method is genuine but complex, and they cannot replicate it on the spot? We would be the ones blamed for an unnecessary rupture." She paused, raising her chin. "Our commitment is clear: we maintain trade while Alba evaluates. That was the condition I preserved. Cutting ties now, without Alba's formal verdict, would be an affront to the very authority of the Holy See you claim to defend."

  Orsini laughed, a sound of genuine amusement now.

  "Indeed! I imagined you would say something like that. Noble, loyal... and tremendously naive." He approached the desk, leaning his hands on the edge. "But let's make a deal, since you insist on formality. If you believe so strongly in the veracity of this document... write the letter to Alba yourself. Give your vote of total confidence. Say that you kept trade open, against my explicit advice, and that you vehemently opposed my proposal for an in loco verification. Assume full responsibility for that decision."

  The pallor on Paula's face did not lessen, but the fog of panic in her mind dissipated, replaced by rapid calculation. This... is unexpected. He wants me to burn myself before Alba. To take the blame for a potential failure. If the method is false, I will be the scapegoat, and he, the astute overseer. But... I already intend to abandon this sinking ship. What they think of me in Alba matters little now. However, I cannot make this move without knowing exactly what Carlos is planning. I need direct, secure communication.

  She raised her chin, meeting Orsini's gaze.

  "Fine. I will write the letter to Alba. But first, I need to send a communication to Carlos. To... confirm the terms of the agreement and the authenticity of the information he provided. It is the bare minimum of diplomatic courtesy."

  Orsini studied her for a long moment, his small, bright eyes seeming to weigh every syllable. Finally, he stepped back, opening his hands in a gesture of magnanimous concession.

  "As you wish, Your Holiness. Courtesy, of course, must be maintained." He gave a shallow, ironic bow. "Send your letter. Afterwards, bring me the one destined for Alba. I shall be waiting."

  He left the office, closing the door softly, leaving Paula alone with the oppressive silence and the lying parchment on the desk.

  In the corridor, as he walked away, a broad, satisfied smile stretched Orsini's lips. His heavy footsteps echoed on the stone.

  I don't know what you have up your sleeve, Paula, he thought, in excellent humor. And frankly, I don't care. I've already spoken with Henry. He said that if I can discredit you and remove you from power here, he will have his unconditional support to make me the next Supreme Pope. And if you, by miracle or cunning, escape this trap... well, you will be left without allies, isolated. You will be forced to support my rise to survive. One way or another, I emerge victorious.

  He passed by a tall window where the late afternoon light streamed in, painting the floor gold.

  But know, Paula, that I root for you, in my own twisted way. You are too smart to end your days in this backwater. And you are innocent and foolish enough when it comes to the real rules of the game... which allowed me to discover almost all of your little secrets in record time.

  The smile grew even wider, a genuine gesture of pleasure at the complexity of the board he himself had set up. The game was in motion, and he felt confident that, no matter who moved the pieces, the checkmate would bear his name.