Imbriz, Aldmeria
Another flambeau into the fire, and a torrent of shrieking rattled Captain Rodriguez's ears. He winced, turning his eyes away from the smoke, but more-so away from the manic woman tethered to the stake. He'd lost count of how many had burned today, and his core no longer quivered when he consigned them to oblivion. Abrahan Rodriguez was a pious man. He'd been sure of his faith all his life, and he was a soldier to the core, yet he was none too thrilled when assigned the task of purging the village of Imbriz. Abrahan crossed off another name on the parchment in his hand, looking down the row of ink that spelled the deaths of dozens.
"...Captain," a voice insisted.
"What?" Abrahan shot, suddenly agitated. He caught himself, suddenly ashamed, and said in a calmer tone, "Go on, Ensign."
"We've finished setting another row of pyres for the next lot, Sir. Shall we bring them in?"
Abrahan gave his adjutant a dejected nod, handing over the parchment. "I'll leave it to you, Ensign. I need a gulp of fresher air," he said, and left the inferno at Imbriz's square.
_____
The Pontifical Palace, Aldmeria
Mauricio Sánchez stood, gazing intently though the chamber window into the fields beyond the palace. Beyond the expanse of green, a steady black haze grew on itself, staining the complexion of the sky. The smoldering cloud had been there since morning, looming over Imbriz - the shadow of its sin, or so Mauricio told himself. At least sixty had been condemned today, and they weren't to be the last in the days to come. The Presbyter General turned away from the smoke with a smug satisfaction.
This was what it meant to be powerful, to have custody of the lives of men in one's hands. With the High Pontiff's life snuffed by old age, it was God's will that Mauricio set right the path of Antova in his stead.
Thanks be to God and Fiorentino. The warrior-clergyman clapped his hands and an emaciated custodian in the heraldry of he church stepped into the office. Mauricio procured a handful of identical scrolls, stamped the Pontificial seal.
"One for each of Antova's Pontiffs. Ensure every kingdom receives theirs."
The custodian bowed, taking the bundle of parchment and ejected himself from the room. The letters were addressed to each Pontiff of the Antovan kingdoms; the next High Pontiff needed to be elected. Mauricio was bound by duty to call them to office - had tradition not demanded it, he was not so sure he'd convene an election at all. But that was the way of things. The Church demanded a Pontiff at its head.
He ran a gnarled finger through the bush at his chin. It was under his orders that the Ambrusians resume their purges on the heretics and the magic-workers. With a High Pontiff-less vacuum, it had been up to him to restore order; to show that the Church was still a very real and present part of Antova. He knew he had allies in this, namely the old-timer bishops and more conservative men such as himself. But he frowned as he thought of Antova's Pontiffs. Though they represented the spiritual welfare of their respective kingdoms, those countries varied in piety, and he'd never been sure he could count each and every one as an ally.
That is a matter for the election, he told himself. He spared another glimpse at the smoldering mass in the distance, and exited his office.
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