The Great Deception. (Act I)

“The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.”

— Fyodor Dostoevsky

The Great Deception

"What if everything you thought you knew was a lie? What if the Church is behind it all?"

The Great Deception is not just a story about Church corruption; it is a story about power, control, and the ultimate deception of mankind. For centuries, the greatest lie ever told has been whispered through sacred halls, carved into ancient stone, and hidden in plain sight. Now, it’s ready to be uncovered.

When a cryptic inscription on a long-buried artifact surfaces in the shadows of the Vatican, three unlikely allies—a fearless historian, a rogue archeologist, and a rebellious hacker—are thrust into a dangerous web of secrets. What they uncover will shatter their understanding of the past—and could rewrite humanity’s future.

Why were certain scriptures altered or excluded? Why did Constantine make Christianity the official religion? What drove Martin Luther to defy the Vatican? And who truly stands behind centuries of dogma and spiritual belief? The Great Deception masterfully connects historical and theological dots to reveal how the Church has orchestrated one of the most pervasive and enduring conspiracies of all time.

What begins as an academic pursuit becomes a heart-stopping race against time, where every clue unearths deeper danger. Forces beyond comprehension—both human and otherworldly—hunt them, desperate to protect the deception that binds humanity in chains.

As the Pope, the Order of Tannin, and the Red Dragon himself looms over their journey, the question remains: Will the truth set them free—or destroy us all?

Act I: Bad Religion

The Crash

Tires screamed—a high-pitched, shrill wail that sliced through the storm's pounding fury, a warning Nathaniel Ward barely had time to heed. His hands gripped the wheel, white-knuckled, trembling, as the car bucked and swerved, its rear end fishtailing wildly across the slick, rain-soaked road. The headlights cut jagged beams through the darkness, illuminating nothing but a smear of water, the road barely visible beneath sheets of rain.

"Watch out!" Natalie’s voice shrieked, thin and high, piercing the deafening roar of the storm. Panic. Raw terror.

Nathan's heart slammed against his chest as he slammed his foot on the brake, but it was too late. The clock on the dashboard blinked 1:13, its glow mocking him. His eyes darted to the road. Too late.

The headlights caught a glint—water, pooling in the shape of a lake. The car hydroplaned. Tires lost all grip. The vehicle lurched sideways, spinning, the earth beneath him twisting as if the road itself had turned traitor. His body was thrown against the door, hands futilely fighting the wheel, trying to control the uncontrollable.

In an instant, the oak tree emerged from the darkness—hulk-like and immovable. Nathan’s stomach dropped. “No!” he screamed, wrenching the wheel in a frantic attempt to steer away, but the car was no longer his to command.

The crash hit like a thunderclap. A sickening crack—metal folding like paper, the sound of twisted steel and shattering glass filling his ears. Time seemed to stretch into eternity. His head snapped forward, the seatbelt biting into his chest, and a sudden, deafening roar filled the air.

Glass exploded, raining down like shards of ice, tearing at his face, arms, and body. His head cracked against the steering wheel with a sickening thud, a burst of white-hot pain splintering through his skull. His body lurched against the seatbelt, but it held him in place—trapped, helpless.

Through the haze of pain and noise, Natalie’s scream tore through the chaos, a raw, desperate cry that clawed at his soul.

"Natalie!" Nathan’s voice cracked, hoarse and frantic, but it was swallowed by the impact, by the crushing weight of metal against wood.

She was weightless. Her body jerked forward in a moment of unnatural stillness, as if time itself had slowed. Her face twisted in terror, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream, arms reaching for anything to hold onto as she flew toward him—toward the windshield. Then, the glass shattered outward with a deafening crack.

And she was gone.

For a breathless moment, everything fell into nothingness. Silence. The storm still raged outside, but inside the car, there was only the hiss of steam rising from the wreckage. The scent of burning rubber and crushed metal filled the air. Nathan’s chest heaved with ragged breaths, the taste of blood in his mouth as he fought to undo the seatbelt. His hands shook violently, as if his body had forgotten how to move, how to breathe.

“Natalie!” His voice cracked, a raw whisper lost in the quiet.

Then—darkness.

A blink. And he woke.

Nathan shot upright, his breath ragged, sweat soaking his skin. The silence of his bedroom hit him like a slap. The nightmare. Again.

His hands still shook as he reached for the edge of the bed, gripping it as if it could stop the room from spinning. His chest burned as though the seatbelt still held him in its crushing grip. He ran a hand through his damp hair, forcing himself to focus on the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant tick of the wall clock.

But the crash was still there, behind his eyes, as vivid as if it had just happened. Natalie’s scream echoed in his ears, so real he half-expected to see her standing in the doorway, accusing him with those wide, terrified eyes.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help. The memories clawed at him, relentless. It had been years. Years, and the nightmare still ripped him apart night after night.

The red glow of the alarm clock glared at him. 1:13 a.m. Always the same time.

Nathan pushed himself off the bed, legs unsteady, stumbling to the sink. He splashed cold water on his face, gasping at the shock of it.

“Get it together,” he muttered, gripping the sink. The words felt hollow. The ghost of Natalie lingered in the silence, a shadow he could never escape.

The face that stared back was one he barely recognized. Mid-forties, worn beyond his years. Deep lines framed his eyes, a roadmap of grief and regret. His once-thick, dark hair thinned at the temples, streaked with gray. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, seemed dulled by exhaustion. They told the truth he tried to hide—this was a man weighed down by a burden he couldn’t put down, a man who had stopped living, choosing instead to exist in the cold comfort of academia.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he whispered, his voice raw. But no one answered.

Renouncing Religion

The day had stretched on longer than Professor Nathan anticipated, each hour dragging with a weight that felt heavier than the last. He sat now at the edge of the panel table, his hands clenched in his lap, the smell of stale coffee and quiet murmurs of conversation drifting around him. The conference hall was still filled with scholars, journalists, and the usual contingent of agitated atheists, all gathered in their intellectual bubbles, unaware of the storm brewing beneath the surface.

The hum of conversation filled the grand hall as attendees filtered into their seats, the murmur of eager voices blending with the rustling of programs and the clicking of pens. The room was a mix of polished scholars in dark suits, reporters with their notepads and cameras at the ready, and the occasional sharp-eyed atheist, arms crossed, scanning the crowd with skepticism. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, ink, and anticipation. At the front, a long, dark wood panel table gleamed under the bright stage lights, adorned with microphones and nameplates, each one marking a distinguished scholar or panelist.

Professor Nathan sat quietly in the back, a small, inconspicuous figure in the sea of experts, his neatly pressed suit and slightly rumpled tie betraying a sense of unease that only those who knew him well would recognize. He wasn't there to compete for attention, not like the firebrands at the table whose names alone carried weight, nor like the brash atheists who would surely challenge every word that came from anyone who called themselves a Christian. His job was to represent the small Christian college that had sent him, a place nestled in the outskirts of the city, known more for its sincere commitment to biblical scholarship than its reputation in the wider world of academic circles.

As the panel began, the first speaker—an esteemed theologian known for his groundbreaking work on early church history—took the stage, and the room fell into an almost reverent silence. The audience, a mixture of religious historians, scholars, and an ever-watchful group of journalists, leaned forward, eager to engage with the ideas that would be presented. The sharp-eyed atheists, however, appeared far less interested in the lecture and more intent on sizing up their targets for debate. Nathan knew this well. He’d been to enough of these conferences to understand the chess game of intellect that would unfold, but today felt different. The tension was palpable. There was something in the air, a kind of restlessness, as though everyone was waiting for someone to break the silence with a truth they didn’t expect.

His thoughts were interrupted as the moderator introduced him—Professor Nathan, representing the small but growing Christian college, a man with a reputation for quietly challenging conventional wisdom. He stood and made his way to the front, his shoes tapping lightly against the hardwood floor. He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him, some curious, others critical, but mostly indifferent. He wasn’t part of the academic elite, not a famous name, but that was exactly what made him dangerous. His was the voice that could disrupt, not because of his notoriety, but because of his honesty.

He took his seat, nodding politely to the panelists around him—historians, philosophers, theologians—and offered a quick smile to the reporters at the edge of the stage. The stage lights warmed his face, but the cool air conditioning chilled his neck. He adjusted his tie once more, a nervous habit, as he looked out at the room. Most were waiting for the usual academic fare—debates about doctrine, history, and the role of religion in society. But somewhere in the crowd, an impatient observer was ready to challenge everything.

As the first few minutes of the panel passed, Professor Nathan felt an odd mixture of calm and tension settling over him. This wasn’t going to be just another academic discussion. The question was no longer if he would be questioned, but when—and by whom. The nervous flutter in his chest remained, but he steadied himself. He had come here not to present polished ideas or bow to popular opinion. No, he had come to speak a truth that few were prepared to hear, but one that had been quietly growing in his heart for years.

And soon, he would find out just how much of a stir that truth would cause.

“Professor Nathan,” a sharp voice cut through the stillness, “is it true you’re not a Christian anymore?”

The room seemed to hold its breath. The reporters, always eager for a headline, turned their pens toward the professor. A few theologians exchanged glances. His stomach churned. The words had been spoken—loud enough for everyone to hear, piercing through the polished discussions like a crack in glass. The moment had arrived.

“No,” Professor Nathan replied, his voice cutting through the silence, the shock rippling across the audience. “I’m not a Christian anymore.”

The gasps that rippled through the room were audible, a wave of disbelief sweeping across the audience. People exchanged looks, some in shock, others in confusion. The murmurs started to grow louder, but the professor held his ground.

The tension in the room thickened as the audience waited for Professor Nathan’s response. The question lingered in the air, hanging like a dark cloud. He stood there for a moment, the weight of the silence pressing in on him, before he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.

A brave voice from the back, a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket, spoke up: “So, you denounce your faith?”

Professor Nathan turned, facing him fully now. His eyes were sharp, his gaze unyielding.

"I didn't say that!" he responded with a sudden intensity, his voice rising above the murmur. "I said, I’m not a Christian anymore. There’s a big difference.”

The room went silent again, as if the air itself had been sucked out of the space. The professor took a breath, his expression softening but his words growing more deliberate.

“You see, the greatest lie ever told didn’t come from the atheists or the agnostics. It came from the serpent, in the Garden of Eden.” He paused, making sure everyone was following. “Genesis 3. The first lie: ‘You will not surely die.’ That was the beginning of the great deception.”

He looked around the room, letting the weight of his words sink in. “That lie has been perpetuated for millennia, not just in the secular world but in religion itself. The lie that we don’t have to die to ourselves to truly live. The lie that we can hold onto our traditions, our rituals, our systems, and still claim to know the truth.”

The professor’s voice grew more impassioned as he continued. “It’s the same lie, re-packaged, that we find in every corner of religious history. And I’m telling you right now, we’ve all been fed that lie. We’ve bought into the system that says you can be part of the church without truly dying to the world, without being transformed by the living Christ. It’s the religious who are most vulnerable to it.”

He leaned in, his eyes narrowing. “The religious are a brood of vipers. That’s what Jesus called them. Those who, instead of truly following Him, build walls of traditions and empty rituals around themselves. And you know what happens to those walls? They fall apart under the weight of truth.”

A deep silence followed. The professor didn’t look at the audience; instead, his gaze was distant, as if he was seeing something far beyond the walls of the conference hall.

“The truth is,” he said quietly, “the call is not to religion. It’s to a relationship. A relationship that requires change. A relationship that requires a death—your death, to everything that is not of Christ.” He straightened up, his voice returning to its steady cadence. “That’s why I’m not a Christian anymore. Because I’ve realized that being a Christian is not about wearing the title or attending the right services. It’s about dying and being reborn.”

The room was still, and the tension was palpable. The audience seemed paralyzed, unsure whether to challenge him further or let the moment breathe.

“And to answer your question,” the professor added, now speaking to the entire room, “no, I haven’t denounced my faith. But I’ve come to understand that true faith is not something that can be confined to a title or a tradition. It’s something much more—something living, something alive. And that’s what I’m searching for now.”

The room was filled with an uncomfortable tension as Professor Nathan stood at the podium, the question still lingering in the air. He had just stunned the audience by admitting he was no longer a Christian, and now the entire room was waiting for him to explain himself. The murmurs grew louder, people exchanging confused and concerned glances, when the professor took a deep breath and, without hesitation, began his long-awaited dissertation.

"No, I am not a Christian anymore," he repeated, his voice calm but firm. "But before you jump to conclusions, let me explain what I mean."

He paced across the stage, letting his words settle in. "Religion," he began slowly, "has been the greatest deception ever sold to humanity. From the earliest days of mankind's search for truth, religion has been the mask that hides the face of the living God. It's the system that keeps us distracted from true transformation, shackling us with rituals and traditions that have nothing to do with the radical, life-altering truth of Christ."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "From the very beginning, humanity sought meaning, purpose, and connection with the divine. But what did they find? The prejudices of nomadic tribes. The primitive gods they created to explain the world. Their understanding of the divine was shaped by fear, superstition, and a need for control. And over time, those tribal religions morphed into something more institutionalized—something far more dangerous."

Professor Nathan’s voice became more intense as he continued. "Take the Jews, for example. Their religion, once meant to set them apart as God’s people, became a system of laws and rules that only served to oppress and divide. Legalism took root, and the beauty of their covenant with God was replaced by rituals that no longer connected them with the divine, but instead kept them trapped in their own self-righteousness."

He leaned forward, eyes blazing. "And then came the Romans. The so-called 'Christian' empire, the Church that bastardized the teachings of Jesus. What began as a simple call to follow Christ became an empire-building machine, driven by power and control. They blended pagan traditions with Christian teachings to create a system that maintained their grip on the people. Christmas? Easter? Pagan festivals repurposed as 'Christian' holidays. The saints? Simply renamed Greek and Roman statues of false gods. And don’t get me started on the Papacy—the Pope, claiming to be Christ’s representative on Earth, despite the Bible clearly warning us to call no man Father."

The professor's gaze sharpened as he turned his attention to the historical figure of Constantine. "Constantine's 'conversion' may well be one of the biggest hoaxes in Christian history. It wasn't a spiritual awakening—it was a calculated move to consolidate power. He used Christianity as a tool to unite an empire, masking his political ambitions with a veneer of religious legitimacy."

He paused, looking around the room, sensing the growing discomfort of his audience. "Then came Martin Luther, the man who tried to uncover this truth. Luther’s research exposed the corruption within the Church, and he allegedly documented everything—the names, the dates, the facts needed to bring down this institution built on lies. But Luther, too, was silenced. Forced to hide the full extent of his findings, he cleverly distracted the world by nailing his 95 Theses to the door—a small rebellion compared to what he truly knew. And what happened to him? He was exiled, and the truth was buried once again."

The professor’s voice grew darker. "Throughout history, anyone who got too close to the truth was silenced. Athanasius, Origen, all of them tried to expose the falsehoods and were pushed out of the narrative. It’s the same story, over and over: the powerful, the influential, the gatekeepers of religion, will always do whatever it takes to preserve the lie."

The room was utterly still now. No one dared to speak. Finally, a brave voice from the back of the room broke the silence. "So, are you saying Protestantism is the closest to the truth?"

Professor Nathan turned and faced the questioner, his gaze steady. "Not exactly," he replied. "Protestantism, too, is a series of personalities seeking personal platforms and influence, rather than the truth. Each of the reformers carved their own path, yes, but in doing so, they only created new factions. The church today is divided more than ever. Social media has become the battleground, with new denominations rising, each claiming to be more 'right' than the others. It’s the same old story: we argue over non-essential doctrines and create divisions where there should be unity.

In the modern era, protestant churches often present themselves as a return to the simplicity of early Christianity. They reject the perceived rigidity of traditional denominations, seeking to revive a more personal relationship with God, guided solely by the authority of scripture. These churches claim to prioritize salvation through faith rather than works, and promote an intimate connection with God, untainted by the influence of institutionalized religion. They foster a grassroots approach to worship, mirroring the informal gatherings of early believers.

Yet, despite their noble intentions, these churches often fall into the very traps they seek to avoid. Their emphasis on rejecting denominational structures and hierarchy ironically leads to new forms of fragmentation. Rather than uniting believers, they perpetuate the very divisions they claim to combat. Satan, in his subtle and deceptive work, may not be merely satisfied with the creation of different denominations, but with the careful cultivation of factions that cater to personal preferences, biases, and egos, further distancing the Church from the unity Christ intended.

Take, for instance, the variety of denominations that have emerged over the centuries, each with its own focus and appeal, yet all contributing to the division of the Christian body. Some denominations, like those with a strong liturgical tradition, attract those who are drawn to ritual and ceremony, but all too often, this reverence for tradition carries with it an air of self-righteousness, leaving little room for grace. Others, especially those that embrace the more emotionally charged aspects of worship, appeal to individuals seeking dramatic spiritual experiences but risk reducing the faith to mere feelings, where the depth of discipleship is lost in the fervor of momentary highs.

Meanwhile, those rooted in intellectual traditions foster an elitist sense of superiority, where knowledge of scripture is esteemed over the simple, transformative power of faith. Some denominations have become platforms for ideological movements, adapting their teachings to accommodate societal trends, creating divisions based not on doctrine but on personal ideologies. And in the case of megachurches, Christianity is reduced to a consumer experience, offering prosperity, entertainment, and self-help, where spiritual transformation takes a backseat to the quest for material success and emotional satisfaction.

In all of this, the irony is glaring. Non-denominational churches, in their quest to reject institutionalism, often mirror the very pitfalls of the structures they criticize. The decentralization they promote, rather than fostering true unity, often results in doctrinal vagueness, leading to churches where the gospel message becomes watered down, replaced by motivational speeches that appeal to the desires of the masses rather than challenging them to live a life of true discipleship. The emphasis on personal preference and convenience leads to shallow discipleship, where people come to consume rather than to be transformed.

And so, in rejecting ‘religion,’ these churches frequently create their own form of religion—a religion built on the personality of the pastor, on the spectacle of worship, and on the promises of worldly success. The focus shifts from a relationship with Christ to a relationship with the church or the charismatic leader. Leadership structures that claim to be free from the confines of denominationalism often fall into the trap of creating new hierarchies, where authority is concentrated in the hands of a few, and transparency is sacrificed in the name of growth and success.

The result of this fragmentation is a Church that is divided not just by doctrine, but by preferences, ideologies, and personal biases. Satan’s strategy is not only to create divisions but to make those divisions feel justified—whether it’s in the self-righteous attitude of liturgical traditions, the emotionalism of charismatic worship, the intellectualism of certain denominations, or the consumer-driven megachurches. Each faction caters to its own desires, drawing lines that prevent believers from uniting under the central message of the gospel.

The world, too, feeds this culture of division. The marketplace of ideas thrives on catering to specific niches, promising a version of Christianity that fits personal tastes, all the while distracting believers from the unity Christ prayed for in John 17. Whether it's a Lutheran church that values tradition but lacks grace, a Pentecostal church that prioritizes emotional highs, or an Episcopal church that accommodates the changing tides of societal values, each faction risks distorting the truth of the gospel in the pursuit of something else—something more comfortable, more palatable, more aligned with the world’s definitions of success and belonging.

In the end, the Church's true mission is not to cater to personal preferences or to offer a version of Christianity that suits individual biases, but to unite believers in the transformative power of Christ's gospel. That is where true authenticity lies—not in the rejection of religion, but in the rejection of superficial spirituality that prioritizes convenience, comfort, and ego over the call to discipleship and sacrifice.

Ultimately, we must ask ourselves: Are we seeking a faith that unites us in truth, or are we creating a fragmented, consumer-driven Christianity that serves our desires and divides the body of Christ? The challenge remains: to resist the allure of false unity, to seek a faith that is deep and transformative, and to live out the gospel in a way that reflects the humility, sacrifice, and love of Christ—not the self-serving, divisive spirit of our time.”

He took a deep breath, his final words cutting through the tension like a blade. "The truth is, religion is the ultimate lie. It distracts us from a personal, living relationship with Christ. It keeps us busy with rituals, with laws, with denominations, with systems that have nothing to do with the transformation that Jesus called us to. We’ve been given the greatest gift, and yet we’ve spent thousands of years building walls around it. It’s time we tear those walls down."

He turned away from the audience, his final words lingering in the silence: "Religion isn’t the answer…”

The Ghost of Constantine

The following day as the sun had just begun to rise as Nathan pulled into the university parking lot. The fog that clung to his mind had lifted enough for him to navigate his day, though the tightness in his chest remained. The campus buzzed with its usual energy—students crisscrossed the quad, their laughter and chatter filling the air, while faculty clustered by the coffee carts, exchanging pleasantries and debating the latest academic squabbles.

Nathan moved through it all like a ghost, offering a polite nod here, a distant smile there. To them, he was the brilliant but aloof professor, a fixture in the history and theology department. Respected, but not particularly known. Few cared to look deeper, and he preferred it that way. They didn’t need to know about the nightmares that stalked him or the guilt that coiled around his heart like a snake.

His classroom was a sanctuary—the one place where he felt in control. He entered the lecture hall, his students already seated, their faces a mix of eagerness and indifference. Standing at the podium, Nathan cleared his throat and began.

“Today, we’ll continue our discussion on the fall of the Roman Empire and the rise of Christianity—a pivotal moment in history shaped by one man: Constantine.” His voice was steady, the cadence deliberate.

He clicked to the next slide, revealing an image of the ghost that had stolen everything from him. Constantine the Great, regal in marble. “A man who claimed divine vision. A man whose conversion to Christianity altered the course of Western civilization. But a man whose motives have long been debated. Was he a true believer? Or a shrewd politician?”

A hand shot up from the back of the lecture hall. Nathan paused, nodding to the student.

“Professor, there’s this rumor about Constantine—some say he was connected to a secret society. Something so powerful it could shake the very fabric of the Catholic Church. Is there any truth to that?”

The room grew still, a quiet hum of intrigue spreading among the students. Nathan leaned against the podium, considering his words carefully. “In the words of Napoleon Bonaparte, ‘Truth is only a lie that has been repeated enough times.’”

As he turned back to the image on the slide, his gaze lingered on Constantine’s marble likeness—the face of an emperor cloaked in both triumph and secrecy, the same face that haunted him daily.

The lecture hall now filled with the hum of quiet conversations as students settled into their seats, awaiting the day’s discussion. The professor, a man with a reputation for stirring deep thought and controversy, stood at the front, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed across the room. The air was thick with anticipation, for today’s topic was one that would challenge everything they thought they knew about history, faith, and power.

"Today," the professor began, his voice steady and commanding, "we delve into one of the most pivotal moments in Christian history—the conversion of Constantine. But not as it’s often told, not as a victory for Christianity, not as the heroic tale we’ve all been led to believe. Instead, we will explore what may be one of the most monumental deceptions ever perpetuated by the Church."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. The room fell silent, and the students leaned in, sensing the gravity of the professor’s direction.

"Constantine’s conversion," he continued, "is often seen as a miraculous turning point—the emperor of Rome, a pagan warrior, suddenly embracing Christianity. It’s said that he saw a vision of the cross and was struck by divine intervention, leading him to declare Christianity as the empire's official religion. But here’s the problem. What if I told you this story, this narrative of divine favor, is one of the biggest lies ever told by the Church?"

A murmur rippled through the class as students exchanged confused glances.

"History is written by the victors," the professor said, his voice low but firm. "And the Church, after Constantine’s so-called conversion, certainly became the victor. But it wasn’t about faith. It was about power. Constantine did not ‘convert’ out of faith in Christ; he adopted Christianity because it was a means to unify his fractured empire, to consolidate power under a single banner that could bind together the diverse, often warring factions of the Roman world."

He paced back and forth, his hands animated as he spoke. "Constantine’s so-called vision of the cross was likely a strategic move, not a divine revelation. It was the catalyst for what we now call the ‘Christianization’ of the Roman Empire, a calculated manipulation. And as the Roman Empire adopted Christianity, the Church was suddenly faced with a dilemma: how to maintain its independence, how to avoid becoming nothing more than a puppet to imperial power."

A few students furrowed their brows, uncertain but intrigued.

"The story of Constantine’s conversion is only the surface," the professor pressed on. "There is a deeper layer, one that involves another key figure in Christian history—Martin Luther. Rumor has it, and mind you, we have no concrete proof, but many historians and theorists argue that the letters Martin Luther initially wrote—the ‘Luther’s Letters,’ if you will—were far more radical, far more dangerous than what we’ve been taught to believe. These letters, lost to history, were said to be an early manifesto challenging the very nature of the Catholic Church’s manipulation of faith to serve the interests of empire."

The class was now fully engaged, leaning forward as the professor’s words wove a web of intrigue.

"These letters, purportedly detailing Luther’s grievances with the Church’s unholy alliance with political power, would have posed a direct threat to both the papacy and the imperial system Constantine had helped solidify. But here’s the twist: those letters, conveniently enough, were replaced. What we have today, the famous 95 Theses, is a distraction—small, manageable, and easy to dismiss compared to the fiery critiques Luther originally penned. The real letters, many theorists claim, were hidden or destroyed, carefully erased from the historical record to ensure that the Church’s role in this grand deception remained undisturbed."

The professor looked at his students, letting the tension build in the room. "Some have suggested that Luther, a man of incredible intellect and passion, may have been on the verge of exposing the very nature of the Church's complicity in the power structures of the empire. But instead, his more radical writings were suppressed. What we are left with are the 95 Theses, the small critique that has become the cornerstone of the Protestant Reformation—a mere distraction, a smokescreen."

He stopped pacing, his eyes sweeping over the students, each one caught between disbelief and curiosity.

"No one knows for sure what was in Luther’s original letters. Some claim to have seen fragments of them, others say they were deliberately destroyed by the Catholic authorities of the time. But one thing is clear: the narrative we have been given about the Reformation, about Constantine’s ‘conversion,’ is incomplete—if not entirely false. And this, my students, is where history becomes dangerous. What truths have been buried, manipulated, and erased? And what does it mean for us today, as we continue to grapple with the intersection of faith and power?"

The room was silent, the weight of the professor’s words hanging in the air like a thick fog. The students sat motionless, unsure of what to believe, but certain that this was no ordinary history lesson.

As he spoke, his students scribbled notes—some captivated, others less so. But Nathan’s focus faltered. His words continued, but his mind drifted—to her. Then to the letters. To the clues she’d chased for years while he’d buried himself in the past.

The lecture concluded with an unusual applause, a gesture that barely registered in Nathan's preoccupied mind. He mechanically gathered his papers, slipping them into his bag with the practiced ease of someone who had performed this ritual countless times before. The room began to empty, the shuffle of feet and the low murmur of conversation gradually fading into the distance, leaving only the hum of the projector and the quiet clink of pens on desks.

Nathan stood in the stillness, his gaze once again locking onto Constantine’s stoic face. The emperor’s stone eyes seemed to stare back at him, as though weighing him, challenging him to continue unraveling the same tangled history he’d devoted his life to studying. The weight of it all pressed down on him, a quiet reminder that the past had a way of not letting go.

He turned away, his mind still lingering on those unresolved questions, and walked out of the classroom. The hallway stretched before him, empty and silent, each step echoing as he made his way toward his office. The weight of the evening’s thoughts, of the past he couldn’t escape, seemed to follow him like a shadow. Reaching the door to his office, Nathan paused, hand on the handle. Another deep breath, and he stepped inside.

But when he opened the door, his breath caught. Standing there, after all these years, was her. Lena.

“Nathan,” she said, her voice firm but her eyes soft. “We need to talk.”

The Proposal

Nathan hesitated in the doorway, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe, his gaze fixed on Lena. For a fleeting moment, the present blurred, and he was back in the seminar room—years ago, when Lena had been his brightest student. Her intellect had shone like a beacon, her relentless curiosity the envy of their peers. Together, they had spent countless hours unraveling the mysteries of Constantine’s reign, digging through manuscripts and artifacts, their minds united in a shared pursuit of truth. She had a rare gift, one that turned abstract theories into tangible discoveries, piecing together history with the fervor of a treasure hunter.

But those days felt distant, almost like a dream.

The crash had shattered everything. Nathan had retreated into his work, burying himself in sterile lectures and endless research. Lena, however, had seized the dream they had once shared and turned it into her own quest—chasing Luther’s letters, the key to truths that could shatter the very foundation of history.

And now, here she was, standing in his doorway like a ghost from his past, her presence stirring memories he’d long buried.

“Nathan,” Lena said, her voice rich with purpose. “You look… exactly as I imagined.”

He grunted, stepping aside to let her in. “Wish I could say the same for you. What are you doing here, Lena?”

She moved past him, her eyes scanning the office, taking in the cluttered bookshelves and scattered papers. “Straight to the point, then. No small talk. Just like old times.”

Nathan shut the door behind her, folding his arms tightly across his chest, trying to still the turbulence inside. “Get to it.”

Lena pulled a worn leather satchel from her shoulder and placed it carefully on his desk. “I found them,” she said, her voice steady but heavy with implication. “At least part of them.”

It took him a moment to process. “The letters?”

Lena nodded, her eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and something darker. “Luther’s letters. The real ones. Not the forgeries. They’re finally in my hands—or at least some of them.”

Nathan stepped toward the desk, but his movement was slow, hesitant. He ran his fingers over the fragile pages, the cryptic script jumping off the page—filled with veiled warnings and references to historical events. But what truly made his pulse quicken was the faint impression of a symbol at the bottom of each letter—a circular emblem with intricate, interwoven lines. The Seal of Solomon.

His eyes narrowed. “The Seal…”

Lena nodded, her tone almost reverent. “It’s appeared in every major discovery linked to the churches secrecy. If this is authentic, Nathan, these letters could expose the biggest lie ever told.”

Nathan recoiled slightly, stepping back, his fingers running through his hair as he struggled to contain the flood of emotions rising within him. “You’re still chasing ghosts.”

Lena’s voice sharpened. “Am I? Or are you just afraid? Afraid that everything we suspected might actually be true?”

The symbol at the bottom of each of Luther’s letters sent a chill down Nathan’s spine. It was the Seal of Solomon, some say even the Red Dragon—an emblem so ancient and cryptic, it had long been dismissed as myth, a legend among the few who dared study the hidden history of the church’s true origins. This was no ordinary mark; it came from Solomons signet ring and some religious theorist believe it links Solomon to an underground occult order. The order of Tannin—a para-religious order that had operated for centuries in the shadows, designed to protect the church’s darkest secrets while obscuring the true history of Satan's false religion. An order that predated even the Knights Templar, steeped in rituals and mysteries that few had ever dared to uncover.

The Seal was a circle, intricately woven with lines that intertwined in complex patterns, forming a dragon’s shape that coiled within itself. To the untrained eye, it might appear as a decorative motif, but to those who understood its meaning, it was unmistakable. It was a symbol of protection, yes, but also of concealment—an emblem placed on the documents that carried the true history of the church, safeguarding them from prying eyes and sealing them with the weight of their power. No one could access such knowledge without the sanction of the Red Dragon, and the Seal itself was a marker of authenticity—proving that these letters were not forgeries, but genuine relics of the ancient order.

Lena stood tall, her eyes locked on Nathan’s as he processed the implications of what he was seeing. She could see the questions in his gaze, the disbelief and fear that mixed with the wonder of discovery. He was as astounded as she had been when the first inkling of the truth surfaced.

"I found a partial document," she said, her voice low but filled with weight. "It's only a piece, but it's enough to suggest that everything the world thinks it knows about the church might be based on a lie. The Great Deception, Nathan... It might not just be a theory. It could be fact."

Nathan’s fingers hovered over the fragile pages, tracing the Seal once more. His mind raced as he pieced together the fragments of a history he had only ever dared to question in private. The idea of a conspiracy so vast, so deeply embedded in the very foundation of the church, was overwhelming. The Red Dragon’s role—its existence—was the key to understanding how the church had concealed its secrets for so long, how it had veiled the truth with layers of deception for centuries.

Lena continued, her voice steady but urgent. “This document… it’s just a fragment, Nathan. We need the rest. Without the full text, we’re only seeing half of the story, and without that, we can’t expose the full extent of what’s been hidden. We have to find the rest. We have to finish what we started.”

Nathan’s breath caught in his chest as the weight of her words sank in. The truth was within reach, but it was incomplete. He knew that without the full document, without all the pieces of the puzzle, they were nothing more than explorers fumbling in the dark. But the discovery they held in their hands suggested something far more profound than either of them could have anticipated. The church’s greatest secret—the Great Deception—was beginning to reveal itself, and the Red Dragon was at the center of it all.

“Where do we go from here?” Nathan asked, his voice quiet, laced with resolve.

“We find the rest,” Lena said, her gaze unwavering, the fire of their shared purpose reigniting between them. “And we bring it into the light.”

Nathan snapped, his words laced with frustration. “Lena, I’ve given everything to this. I’ve lost everything—friends, family, my reputation—all in the name of this search. Do you have any idea what that costs? To dedicate your life to unraveling the threads of the greatest lie in human history? A lie told so many times, it becomes the truth. And the world doesn’t want that truth, Lena. They want comfort.”

Her gaze softened, but her resolve remained unshaken. “I know what you’ve lost, Nathan.—But this is what we’ve been searching for. You told me once that the truth matters more than anything. That we don’t stop just because it’s hard, or because it hurts.”

Nathan turned away, gripping the back of a chair for support as the weight of her words pressed down on him. Memories flooded him—years of fruitless research, the mocking laughter of colleagues, the sleepless nights spent chasing answers that never came. His body tensed, and yet, deep down, a part of him longed to believe her. To believe that this time, it could be different.

He exhaled slowly, his voice quiet, strained. “The originals. Where are they?”

“My research suggests Athens,” she said, stepping closer. “But we need to move quickly. The Order… they know. They always know.”

Nathan shook his head, his inner conflict gnawing at him. “I can’t just drop everything.”

“You can,” she said softly, her voice unwavering. “What’s here for you, Nathan? What’s left?

Lena's gaze hardened, and she took a slow step toward Nathan, her voice lowering, its edge sharpening with each word. "You know," she said, a note of quiet but palpable concern in her tone, "after everything that happened at the conference... after you publicly critiqued religion the way you did... you won’t have a classroom to return to."

Nathan hesitated, his hand faltering as it hovered over the letters. Her words hit harder than he expected, pulling him from the reverie of discovery and back to the cold reality of his life. His breath caught, and his chest tightened with the familiar weight of his past mistakes.

Lena’s eyes softened for just a moment, but her resolve remained unwavering. “You’re a threat to the very system you’ve built your career around,” she continued, her voice calm yet filled with the heavy truth of her observation. "You’ve exposed the cracks in the foundation, Nathan. And now, those in power... they won’t let you slip through the cracks. They’ll silence you. They’ll erase you. And when the dust settles, you’ll be a pariah in the academic world, the one voice too loud for them to ignore."

Nathan shifted uncomfortably, his grip on the back of the chair tightening. He'd known the risks—the academic world was a delicate ecosystem, and any disruption to the status quo was met with swift retaliation. But hearing it spoken aloud, coming from Lena, made it feel all too real. All the years of tenure, the recognition, the credibility—everything he had worked for—was hanging by a thread, all because of his refusal to toe the line.

“I’m not blind to what’s happening,” Nathan said, his voice rough, as though the words tasted bitter.

Nathan stood there, struggling with the duality of his situation: the discovery in front of him, tantalizing with its promises of unveiling the greatest deception in history, and the harsh truth that he was rapidly losing everything he had built. The echoes of the conference, of his own words calling out the church and its institutions, now seemed to mock him in the quiet of his office.

Lena’s voice broke through his reverie. “You wanted the truth, Nathan,” she said softly, but her words carried a bite of finality. “Now you have it. But I don’t think you can have both—the truth and your career—at least not the way things are now.”

Nathan felt a cold chill, the reality of her words sinking in deeper than any discovery ever could. His mind raced as he realized that no matter how far down this path he walked, there might be no going back.

“Besides”, Lena’s voice came back into focus. “No one else can do this. No one else has your knowledge, your instincts. And Natalie would want you to do this.”

Her words cut deeper than she realized, but Nathan didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on the desk, where the fragile pages lay, taunting him.

“Don’t bring her into this,” Nathan looked stern, with voice loud and deliberate.

“Don’t mention her name.”

Lena’s expression softened, and she reached out, her voice quieter, almost gentler. “Nathan… she would have wanted you to finish what we started. She believed in the truth, just like you did. She wouldn’t want you to walk away now, not when it’s within reach.”

His breath caught, his chest tightening painfully at the thought of her—the one person who had truly understood him, who had been his partner in every way. And then the guilt hit, sharp and overwhelming. What if she had wanted this? What if he was betraying her memory by turning away?

He closed his eyes for a moment, wrestling with himself. The years of isolation, the endless battles within his own mind—they had left him hardened. But here, now, in this moment, he felt something stir inside him—something he hadn’t felt in years.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he murmured, his voice strained, his inner conflict threatening to tear him apart.

Lena stepped closer, her presence unwavering. “But you can, Nathan. And you must.”

He met her gaze, her determination undeniable, and something inside him broke free. Finally, he let out a long, defeated sigh, the fight draining from him. “When do we leave?”

A flicker of triumph crossed Lena’s face, and her eyes sparkled with something more than just determination—something like hope. “Now.”

The Conspiracy

The professor adjusted his satchel, scanning the crowded terminal with a furrowed brow. “We’ve got twenty minutes before boarding. Let’s just hope he—”

“WAIT FOR ME!”

The shout sliced through the noise of the bustling airport. The professor groaned, turning to see a portly man barreling toward them, his backpack bouncing wildly on his back. His Hawaiian shirt, emblazoned with garish palm trees, flapped like a flag, attracting amused stares from travelers.

“Oh, no,” the professor muttered. “Tell me you didn’t invite him.”

“I did,” Lena replied, suppressing a grin.

“Of course you did,” he said, his voice resigned.

The man skidded to a halt, narrowly avoiding a collision with a luggage cart. “You guys left earlier than I expected,” he wheezed, hands braced on his knees. “But I made it. Elias Castor, genius-for-hire, at your service.”

The professor rubbed his temples, his patience fraying. “This has to be a joke.”

“No joke,” Lena said. “Eli is the best codebreaker alive. We’re going to need him.”

“He’s also banned from half the Western world for hacking into national banks,” the professor shot back. “Bank codes, Lena. That’s hardly subtle.”

Elias straightened, flashing a boyish grin. “I prefer the term ‘strategically misunderstood.’ What can I say? I’m too good at what I do.”

“You hacked the Federal Reserve, Eli.”

“And I learned a valuable lesson!” Elias said cheerfully. “Don’t hack the Federal Reserve.”

“Enough,” Lena interjected, stepping between them. “He’s here because he’s the only one who can break the Codex. Don’t underestimate him. Beneath all...this”—she gestured at Elias—“is a brilliant mind.”

“Fifteen-year-old maturity, though,” the professor muttered.

“Hey, I heard that,” Elias retorted, unfazed. “So, what’s this Codex thing? Is it, like, a treasure map situation?”

Lena sighed, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “We’ll explain on the plane.”

The hum of the engines filled the cabin as the plane glided over Europe. Most passengers were asleep, seats reclined, the dim cabin lights casting shadows across the rows. Elias, however, was wide awake, attempting to balance a pretzel on his nose.

“So,” he whispered, leaning toward Lena and the professor, “what’s the deal? You drag me out of hiding, and I still don’t know what we’re doing.”

Lena glanced at the professor, who shrugged. “You’re a circus monkey,” he said.

She leaned closer to Elias. “We’ve found the Luther Letters. A manuscript hidden for centuries that could prove the Catholic Church manipulated Constantine’s conversion to solidify power and establish the largest empire in history.”

Elias raised an eyebrow. “Wait, the Catholic Church? The one with the Popes and incense?”

“The same,” Lena confirmed. “But it’s more than just a religion. Constantine saw Christianity as a tool, not a faith. He used it to legitimize his reign, shaping an empire that controlled vast regions. Over time, the Church perfected the formula, growing into a global powerhouse funded by donations, tax loopholes, and investments in hospitals, charities, and nonprofits. It’s wielded more influence than entire nations.”

Elias leaned back, impressed. “So what does the Codex say?”

“The transformation wasn’t divine,” Lena explained. “It was calculated. Constantine knew exactly what he was doing, and he used the Church to fortify his control. The Letters could expose that history and reveal how the Church used systems of control, manipulating everything in its wake. Some of the passages even hint at a covert network—an underground order—that predates the Knights Templar.”

Elias blinked. “Whoa. Heavy stuff. So, what’s next?”

“Those Letters are just the beginning,” the professor chimed in. “They’ll reveal the buried truth, but they only point to it. Rumor has it there’s a cipher hidden in the Codex that leads to an even older manuscript. The Constantine Codex.”

Elias frowned. “The Constantine Codex? What’s that?”

Lena exchanged a look with the professor. “The Constantine Codex contains everything. The power, the corruption, and the satanic agenda woven into the very fabric of the Church. You see, the easiest way to convince someone to follow a lie is to make them think they’re following the truth. The Church has done this for centuries, and many people—good people—have died defending that false truth. It’s a carefully orchestrated system to lead the sheep to slaughter... with us as the resistance.”

Elias’s eyes widened. “So, you need my help deciphering the code?”

“Yes,” Lena said firmly. “I can handle the language, and the professor has the historical context. But we need your skills to break the codes and reveal what’s hidden.”

Elias raised an eyebrow, only half-joking. “And you trust me not to auction it off to the highest bidder?”

“No,” the professor said flatly.

“But you’re here anyway,” Lena added with a smirk.

Elias grinned. “Fair enough. I’m in. But if this turns out to be a dead end, I’m tripling my rate.”

The professor groaned. “You don’t even have a rate.”

“I do now,” Elias replied, reclining his seat.

Hours later, the cabin was bathed in darkness, the soft hum of the engines filling the air as the plane cut through the sky. Most passengers were asleep, lulled into slumber by the rhythm of the flight. Nathan, too, had drifted off, but the familiar weight of his nightmare pressed down on him once again.

It always came back—relentless, uninvited.

His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white as he stared out into the rain-drenched road. The windshield wipers scraped against the glass, their rhythmic motion doing little to clear the sheets of rain pounding down from above. The night was thick, the world outside reduced to a blur of dark shapes and flashing lights. He glanced at the dashboard—1:13, its numbers a cruel reminder, a ticking countdown he couldn’t escape.

His eyes shifted to the rearview mirror, where the faint outline of a jewelry box sat on the back seat, its contents hidden beneath the dim glow of the dashboard lights. He had promised her he’d never leave it behind. The weight of it—the weight of all of it—settled into his chest, heavy and suffocating. He looked away, trying to focus on the road, but the pounding rain and creeping fog made it impossible to see clearly.

Then, in an instant, it all shattered. Tires screeched against the wet asphalt, the car careening out of control. His body tensed as the world spun, the harsh sound of the wheels fighting for traction filling his ears. A flash of headlights, a distant rumble of thunder, then—crash. The sickening sound of metal crumpling, glass shattering. His breath caught as the car slammed into a tree, sending a jolt through his spine.

Time seemed to freeze. The world slowed. The crash was vivid—Natalie’s body, thrown through the front window as if in slow motion. Blood and glass sprayed across the seat, and her lifeless form came to a twisted halt against the hood of the car.

The professor jolted awake, gasping. A cold, steady chill ran down his spine, his body frozen in place. His shirt clung to him, soaked in sweat. The nightmare lingered, her lifeless body flashing in his mind once more. He gasped, breath ragged, eyes snapping open. The world was still—quiet. But the remnants of the dream clung to him like a suffocating fog.

His hand gripped the armrest beside him, fingers digging into the leather, trying to steady himself. He closed his eyes, pushing away the remnants of the dream, but it was always there. Always waiting.

“Another one?” Lena’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. She reached over, resting a hand on his arm.

He nodded, unable to trust his voice.

“We’ll be landing soon,” she said gently, her tone steady and comforting.

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Across the aisle, Elias snored loudly, a pretzel still precariously balanced on his nose.

The professor shook his head, lips quirking in reluctant amusement, trying to break the tension. “And to think we’re trusting him with history.”

Crossing the Threshold

The cab pulled up in front of the Monastery of Daphni, a historic Byzantine monastery located about 11 kilometers west of central Athens, dating back to the 11th century. It’s weathered stone walls bathed in the silvery glow of the moon. The driver muttered something under his breath, crossing himself as he glanced at the towering structure.

Nathan climbed out first, taking in the monastery’s solemn grandeur. The air felt thick, almost palpable, as though the ancient stones themselves held memories too heavy to speak. Lena followed, wrapping her coat tighter around her and scanning the shadowed outline of the arched entrance.

Elias clambered out next, letting out a dramatic groan. “Oh yeah, this is definitely the kind of place where secret societies hang out. Ten bucks says we’re about to meet the Illuminati—or at least their Greek cousins. What’s that, the Baklava Brotherhood?”

Nathan shot him a look, but Elias just grinned, ruffling his untamed curls. “Relax, I’m here to lighten the mood. Otherwise, this place is going to give me full-blown spooky monastery vibes.”

“Maybe just... keep it down,” Lena said, her tone sharper than she intended.

They approached the heavy wooden doors, their footsteps echoing softly on the cobblestones. Nathan pushed the door open, the deep groan of the hinges cutting through the quiet night.

Inside, the air was thick not only with incense but with an unspoken reverence that seemed to seep into their bones. Candles flickered in iron sconces, casting long shadows on mosaics that glimmered like fractured starlight. The iconostasis loomed ahead, its gilded panels separating the earthly from the divine.

The three stood in awe beneath the central dome, their eyes drawn upward as if magnetized. The air was cool and still inside the monastery, and for a moment, it felt as though time itself had slowed to accommodate the sacred space around them. The walls seemed to whisper, but their attention was fixed on the mosaic above them.

At the center of the dome, Christ Pantocrator stared down, his image both commanding and compassionate. His gaze was unyielding, yet there was a softness in the curve of his lips that suggested an understanding of the suffering below. The gold and deep blue of the tiles shimmered in the dim light, catching the flicker of the candles from the corners of the room. His eyes, wide and unblinking, pierced through them, yet in a way that didn’t feel intrusive—more like an invitation to search their souls.

Every detail was deliberate. The folds of Christ’s robes were captured in minute, intricate strokes of gold and red, each thread seeming to move in the play of light, as if his garments themselves breathed. The lines of his face were both stern and serene, with his beard and hair rendered in flowing, gentle strokes that contrasted with the sharp precision of his gaze. His hand, raised in blessing, was so meticulously crafted that it seemed as if it might reach down to touch them at any moment, to guide or correct them with a simple gesture.

Lena, Nathan, and Elias found themselves silent, almost breathless, their eyes tracing the golden tiles, the subtle transitions from light to shadow in the figure’s robes, the play of light that turned each tiny fragment of glass into a glowing star. Each tile, so small and precise, created a depth and texture that made the image of Christ seem alive, as if he might speak to them any moment. The beauty of it was overwhelming, yet as they stared, they couldn’t help but feel the weight of the history within those colors, the centuries of devotion and artistry etched into every inch.

None of them could break the silence. It was as though they were standing on the threshold of something too vast to comprehend, their minds and hearts lost in the eternal gaze of Christ Pantocrator.

“Okay,” Elias whispered, leaning toward Nathan, “I take it back. This isn’t spooky. It’s full-on Da Vinci Code. If we find a secret passage, I’m calling dibs.”

Before Nathan could respond, a figure emerged from the shadows near the altar. His movements were deliberate, the soft rustle of his robe the only sound. Tall and imposing, his black cassock flowed like liquid shadow, a thick beard framing his face and cascading almost to his chest. His dark hair fell just past his shoulders, and his eyes seemed to see more than the light revealed.

“Father Seraphim,” Lena said, her voice careful and deferential.

The priest stopped a few feet away, his hands clasped in front of him. He said nothing, his gaze resting on Lena with an intensity that made even Elias fall silent—though not without an exaggerated gulp.

“I’m Lena Apostolou,” she began, her words measured but firm. “My grandfather, Alexandros Apostolou, had a connection to this place. He mentioned you—or someone here—in his letters. I believe he entrusted you with something. We need your guidance.”

Father Seraphim’s expression remained unchanged. The silence stretched so long that Elias shifted uncomfortably, muttering under his breath, “He’s either about to give us divine wisdom or banish us to monk jail.”

Nathan nudged him, but even he seemed unsettled by the weight of the moment.

Finally, the priest spoke, his voice low and resonant, like the echo of a cathedral bell. “Return tomorrow morning.”

Before Lena could ask why, Seraphim’s gaze shifted past her, to the edges of the room where shadows deepened. Two men stepped forward, their movements smooth and deliberate. Their black suits were more suited to bouncers than clergy, and their silence was as imposing as the priest’s.

With a single nod from Father Seraphim, the men positioned themselves on either side of the trio.

“I think that’s our cue to leave,” Elias whispered, trying to keep his tone light but failing to mask the unease. “Unless they’re escorting us to the VIP section?”

The men flanked them, guiding them toward the door. No words were exchanged, only the quiet shuffle of footsteps against marble.

Outside, the cool night air hit them like a wave, sharp and bracing. The doors closed behind them with a resonant thud, sealing them out of whatever mysteries lay within.

“That was... intense,” Nathan said, breaking the silence.

“I told you,” Elias added, his grin reappearing. “Secret societies, man. They probably have a secret handshake and everything.”

Lena didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the dark silhouette of the monastery against the starry sky. “He knows something,” she said finally. “But he won’t tell us until he’s ready.”

“Well,” Elias said, adjusting his bag, “I hope he’s ready tomorrow because this place is giving me the creeps. Also, next time, can we visit somewhere less... ominous? Like a donut shop or a library?”

Lena’s lips twitched into a small smile despite herself. “Let’s just hope tomorrow brings answers.”

The Order

The taxi ride back across town was a bumpy mix of jostling roads, idle chatter, and the tantalizing scent of street food in the air. The hotel they arrived at was modest—three stories nestled on a narrow street just a stone’s throw from the monastery. The sign, faded from years in the sun, read Pension Kaliopi in hand-painted letters. It had that quiet charm, the kind that didn’t try too hard to impress but felt like it had stories to tell.

Elias was the first to step out, adjusting his backwards baseball cap. “So, is this where the magic happens?” he muttered. “I hope they serve breakfast with a side of ancient prophecy and killer spanakopita.”

Lena shot him a look, standing beside him as they approached the small wooden door that creaked open with their arrival. Nathan cleared his throat and led the way inside.

The reception area was tiny. A worn desk sat under a flickering light, surrounded by brochures that hadn’t been touched in years. The air smelled of old wood, incense, and something else... dampness. It was the smell of history, of time standing still. The floor was a patchwork of tiles—some cracked, some newer—while the walls were decorated with pictures of saints and Greek landscapes. A large bronze bell hung beside the door, its presence there as a reminder that no one seemed to be ringing it.

Behind the desk, an elderly woman with a face etched by years of smiles and frowns observed them with steady eyes. Her hair was wrapped in a faded scarf, and she nodded as Nathan approached.

“Checking in?” she asked with a thick but warm accent.

“Yes, please. A room for three. We made a reservation,” Nathan replied, offering a smile.

Without a word, the woman rummaged through a drawer beneath the counter and pulled out a key. She looked up, narrowing her eyes. “Room available. Just one. Two beds.”

“Well, that’s better than none,” Elias muttered under his breath. “Let’s just hope it’s got good Wi-Fi, or this whole trip might as well be a spiritual retreat from technology.”

Lena rolled her eyes, already wondering how she’d survive Elias’s endless sarcasm.

The woman led them down a narrow hallway, past a series of doors that seemed to have been untouched in decades. The ceiling sagged slightly above them, and the dim light gave the place a museum-like feel rather than a hotel. At the end of the hall, she unlocked a door, and the scent of old wood and dust immediately filled the air.

The room was small—so small that the beds barely fit without crowding each other. The walls were a faded beige, and the heavy curtains let in just enough light to reveal the room’s imperfections. A small wooden dresser stood precariously, while a vanity with a mirror showed the wear of time. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, yellowish glow. The floor was covered by a rug that looked like it belonged to another century.

Elias dropped his bag and flopped onto one of the beds with exaggerated ease, grinning like a child on Christmas morning. “This is it, guys. The dream. The palace,” he said, rolling over dramatically. “I’m calling dibs on the bed most likely to collapse under me. Feels like home.”

Lena chuckled despite herself, setting her bag on the other bed. Nathan walked to the small window, looking out at the distant outline of the monastery. It was the very place they had come to find answers, now bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun.

“Alright, enough with the antics,” Elias said, trying to refocus the conversation. “So, spill. I’m itching to know about the whole Hellenistic Santa Claus and his angry helpers, right?”

Nathan leaned against the window frame, looking out at the encroaching night over Athens. He sighed before speaking.

“You’re right to be curious,” Nathan said, glancing at Lena. “Constantine... he’s a complicated figure. His conversion to Christianity changed everything. But what’s less talked about is how it affected the Church, especially in terms of power dynamics and secrets.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “The letters you saw, Elias, they’re more than just ancient documents. They’re keys to something much bigger—something hidden in plain sight. The Luther Letters, as they’re called, are part of a web that ties together the allegedly demonic Order of Tanin, a sinister predecessor to the Knights Templar, the Vatican, and a society whose existence is a whisper in the dark.”

Elias blinked, clearly intrigued, but still a bit confused. “So, are we talking about a real secret society here, or is this some kind of Dan Brown-esque conspiracy theory?”

Lena leaned forward, crossing her arms. “You could say it’s somewhere in between. There’s a theory—pieced together from fragments of history and whispered secrets—that the Order is an ancient, deep-cover demonic faction. Satan’s army, if you will, older than the Church itself. Now they operate like the Vatican’s own version of Navy SEALs. Their mission? To protect the Church’s most dangerous secrets. Secrets that, if exposed, could unravel the very fabric of Christianity.”

Nathan’s face turned stern. “They protect the darkest, most powerful lie ever told.”

Elias raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “So, basically, a bunch of guys in black suits who can’t enjoy a cappuccino without fearing someone’s going to steal the Holy Grail? Got it.”

Lena playfully shoved him. “Not exactly. But you’re not wrong. It’s a secretive group, and their work is tied to the Constantine Deception. But, nobody really knows who they are.”

“The Constantine Deception?” Elias asked.

Lena continued, “The letters contain clues that, when pieced together, could reveal something far bigger than Christianity itself.”

Elias glanced between them, his expression shifting as he processed the weight of their words. “And you two are somehow in the middle of this?”

Lena nodded. “We didn’t ask for it, but we’re involved now. And our only choice is to follow the truth... wherever it leads.”

After a long pause, Elias finally spoke, his voice cutting through the stillness.

“So, if these documents are so incriminating,” he asked, his brow furrowing in curiosity, “why didn’t they just destroy them? Why keep them hidden away all this time?”

Nathan exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving the mosaic above. The question had lingered in his mind as well, but it wasn’t one with an easy answer.

“The church doesn’t destroy the truth,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “They need to possess it. To control it.”

Lena looked at Nathan, a knowing glint in her eyes. She had heard this before—the power of controlling the narrative. But Elias didn’t fully understand yet, and Nathan felt it was time to explain.

“Think of it like this,” Nathan continued, his voice steady, “The church has always relied on its power to shape what people believe. To control what is truth and what is false. If they destroyed these documents, they would lose control of that narrative. It’s not about hiding the truth—it’s about shaping it. By keeping the documents hidden, they control who gets to know the truth and when.”

Elias’s eyes narrowed in thought. “So, it’s like keeping a secret in plain sight?”

"Exactly," Nathan replied, leaning forward as the weight of the revelation settled over the group. "Think back to the 95 Theses. The narrative we've all been told is that Martin Luther uncovered the corruption of indulgences and purgatory, leading to the Reformation. But that's only part of the story—one carefully orchestrated by the Church itself. The truth is far more damning.

"Luther wasn’t just exposing financial abuses or theological errors. He stumbled upon something far more dangerous: evidence that Constantine's famed conversion to Christianity was a fabrication, a political maneuver designed to consolidate power and manipulate the growing influence of the faith. It wasn’t the divine moment of transformation we’ve been taught to revere—it was a calculated lie, a cornerstone upon which the authority of the Church had been built for centuries.

"When Luther uncovered this proof, the Church faced an existential threat. If Constantine's conversion was exposed as false, it would unravel the foundation of their claim to divine authority, shaking the very core of Christendom. They couldn’t afford to let that happen. So, they made a calculated move. They allowed Luther to publish the 95 Theses, carefully choreographing the release of grievances that were legitimate enough to ignite rebellion, but limited in scope—focused on indulgences and purgatory, rather than the deeper lie he had unearthed.

"By letting those Theses go public, the Church created a strawman—an issue that would generate outrage and division, but one they could control. They spun the narrative, presenting themselves as reformers willing to address abuses while diverting attention from the explosive truth about Constantine. It was a masterstroke of misdirection. The resulting schism fractured the Church but preserved its broader authority. Meanwhile, the documents that Luther found—proof of Constantine's false conversion—vanished into the Vatican's archives, locked away where they could never threaten the Church’s survival again."

Nathan’s voice dropped, heavy with the gravity of the revelation. "It wasn’t just about saving face. It was about preserving power at all costs. The Reformation, as monumental as it was, was a controlled burn—a distraction to keep the world from noticing the real fire."

Lena stepped forward, her voice adding weight to Nathan’s words. “It’s a carefully crafted game, Elias. They leak partial truths, just enough to divert attention. They let people believe they're being told the whole truth while they continue to maintain the bigger lie.”

Elias’s expression shifted as he processed what they were saying. “So, these documents... they’re not just proof of corruption. They could rattle the who world.

Elias raised an eyebrow, but Nathan pressed on. “The letters, Elias, aren’t just relics. They’re breadcrumbs leading to a truth so profound, it could shatter not only Christianity but the world as we know it. The ‘Constantine Deception’ was more than just a consolidation of power—it was a calculated rewriting of history. The letters are the key to uncovering what was erased.”

Lena stepped forward, her voice low but firm. “The Order of Tanin—the group behind this—doesn’t just protect secrets. They guard a lie. A monumental one that, if revealed, wouldn’t just challenge faith—it would rewrite it.”

Elias let out a slow whistle, the weight of her words sinking in. “So... a bunch of secret agents in cassocks making sure the world never finds out what Constantine really did?”

Lena shook her head. “It’s more than that. The Order’s roots go deeper than the Church itself. Their mission is to preserve the deception at all costs. And those letters? They hold the clues that could unravel it all. Hidden in plain sight, waiting for someone brave—or foolish—enough to connect the dots.”

Elias smirked, but his voice was devoid of humor. “So, let me get this straight. We’re standing on the edge of a truth so explosive it could change the world, and you two think we’re the ones who should dig it up?”

Nathan’s gaze didn’t waver. “The truth doesn’t choose who finds it. It’s there for anyone willing to see. But once you do, there’s no turning back.”

Elias flopped onto the bed, his sarcasm fading. “Great. No pressure. Just... dismantling centuries of lies over breakfast.”

Lena gave him a faint smile. “The truth was always here, Elias. Hidden in plain sight, waiting for the right moment. This could change everything—not just for us, not just for the Church, but for the world.”

But in her mind, Lena knew the hardest part was yet to come. The monastery was only the beginning. The Order, the letters, and whatever Constantine had left behind—they were all pieces of a puzzle that could change everything.

She turned to Elias. “We need you to stay sharp. We don’t know who’s watching us or who’s pulling the strings. This isn’t just about history—it’s about power, secrets, and the truth.”

“The truth shall set you free!” Elias said sarcastically. “Alright, I’m in. But no robes, okay?”

Lena smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No robes.”

What is Truth?

"I could really use a bite," Lena said, glancing out the window at the all-night diner they'd noticed earlier. The neon sign buzzed overhead, offering a comforting glow in the stillness of the night.

"Yeah," Nathan agreed, rubbing his stomach.

As they stood to leave the hotel room, Elias lazily waved them off from the bed, still sprawled in his pajamas, his feet dangling off the edge.

"Don’t worry about me," he grinned, flopping back onto the bed. "I’ll hold down the fort here. You two go enjoy the local delicacies. I’m fine."

He grabbed the remote, his eyes scanning the TV with a mischievous glint. "I’ll just watch some quality entertainment," he added, flipping through channels.

The TV buzzed to life, flickering to a soap opera in Greek, with no subtitles. Elias raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "Eh, looks like a crime drama... or maybe a cooking show? Who knows? Same difference."

He settled back into the bed with a satisfied sigh. "Nothing like a good mystery... at least it’ll keep me entertained while you guys are off doing your thing."

Nathan shook his head, his eyes narrowing as they entered the small restaurant. "Something tells me the food here won’t be changing the world, but it sure beats cardboard."

Lena chuckled, nudging him. "You think anything’s gonna top that lasagna we had in Rome? That was next level."

"True," Nathan grinned. "But right now, I think we’re in survival mode."

They crossed the street to the diner, which was just a few steps away. Inside, the air was warm with the smell of greasy fries and sizzling meat. The clink of silverware and the quiet hum of scattered patrons filled the space.

"Let’s grab a booth," Lena suggested, nodding toward an empty corner by the window.

They slid into the vinyl seats, which creaked under their weight. A waitress in her mid-fifties, wearing a faded apron, gave them a half-hearted smile as she handed them laminated menus.

"We’ll just take a minute," Nathan said, scanning the menu.

Lena looked around, raising an eyebrow. "Not quite the ambiance we’re used to, huh?"

Nathan shrugged with a smile. "It’s about the food, not the décor. Besides, it’s kind of... comforting. Feels like we’re back in the trenches."

"Back when we were chasing codes in the middle of nowhere?" Lena asked, her tone light, though something deeper lingered beneath.

"Exactly," Nathan said with a grin. "Just you, me, and... the world’s worst pizza."

"Hey, we never finished that case in Venice, did we?" Lena’s voice lowered, almost wistful.

Nathan nodded, though his mind momentarily drifted. "No. We were so close, but everything went sideways." He paused, staring at the table. "It always seems to go sideways, doesn’t it?"

Lena didn’t answer immediately. She just watched him, her gaze steady, as if seeing the weight of the past on his shoulders. The flickering neon lights outside cast shadows across her face, and for a moment, she saw something Nathan always tried to avoid—a crack in his defenses.

The waitress returned with two mugs of coffee, steam rising in the dim light. "You ready to order?"

"I’ll take the omelet," Nathan said, handing her his menu, "and just keep the coffee coming."

Lena glanced over the menu one last time. "Pancakes for me. And... I’ll take a side of that mystery meat."

The waitress raised an eyebrow but scribbled it down and left. They sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Nathan couldn’t shake the feeling that Lena was waiting for him to say something—waiting for him to finally address things that had always been left unsaid.

"So," he said finally, his voice low, "how did we get here? After everything we’ve been through… why does it always feel like we’re chasing ghosts?"

Lena traced the rim of her coffee cup with her finger, the sound of the spoon against the porcelain oddly loud in the stillness. "We’re not chasing ghosts, Nathan. We’re chasing the truth."

"What is truth?" Nathan asked, his tone stoic.

"Pontius Pilate asked Jesus the same thing," Lena replied, referencing John 18:38.

Nathan picked up his cup and stared into it as if it held some profound insight. "Jesus never answered him," he said quietly, before downing the last of his drink.

Lena met his eyes, sensing something deeper in his words. "You know it’s not your fault."

Nathan stiffened. "You’re wrong."

She frowned. "What?"

"If I never got involved, if we never started this whole thing, Natalie would still be alive." His words were cold, distant.

Lena's heart stopped. The air seemed to evaporate from the room. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words felt too small, too inadequate. The memory of that night, buried for years, rushed back with a brutal clarity.

"I didn’t want that to happen, Nathan," Lena said quietly.

"It didn’t have to happen," he snapped, his voice sharper than she expected. "We went too far—"

Nathan fell silent, the bitterness hanging between them. He pushed his coffee cup away, his eyes distant.

Lena wasn’t sure what to say next, unsure of what he needed. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

"I care about you, Nathan," she said softly. "And I never wanted to hurt you."

The waitress returned with their food, but the conversation had already gone cold.

The tension between them lingered, unspoken, as they finished their meal in silence. The weight of their past hung in the air like an anchor, keeping them rooted to the booth long after the plates were empty.

Lena reached for her coffee, the warmth doing little to dispel the chill between them. "I never wanted that to happen," she repeated, her voice soft, almost pleading.

Nathan shook his head, his expression hardening. "It didn’t have to happen, Lena." His words were harsh, bitter, and they stung more than she anticipated.

Lena nodded, feeling the sting of his words. She pushed herself out of the booth, the weight of their history pressing heavily on her shoulders as they walked toward the door. Neither of them spoke.

They stepped out into the night, the cold air biting at their skin. The neon sign behind them flickered, casting a faint glow that seemed to fade with each step.

Neither of them said anything as they walked back to the hotel. There was nothing more to say. Not tonight.

The city felt colder now, the weight of the past pressing down on them as they crossed the street, heading back to the hotel in silence.

Strip

As the first light of dawn stretched across the sky, Nathan, Lena, and Elias approached the monastery. The world around them was still wrapped in the quiet hush of early morning, the air cool and thick with the scent of dew. The looming stone walls of the monastery rose ahead, casting long shadows that slowly receded as the sun began its climb. The gravel path crunched beneath their boots, the only sound breaking the stillness of the new day.

Father Seraphim was already waiting at the monastery’s entrance, his silhouette sharp against the soft glow of a candle. The faint light flickered, casting an eerie glow on his robes, and his unreadable eyes seemed to pierce the calm. Without a word, he made a slow, deliberate motion for them to follow.

The two hulking henchmen flanked him, silently moving behind them as they set off. Their heavy boots clomped in time with the soft rhythm of the group’s steps—unsettling yet oddly reassuring in their silent presence. They moved through the monastery’s grand foyer, then Father Seraphim led them down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The air seemed to thicken as they ventured deeper, the stone walls closing in.

The scent of aged wood, dust, and incense lingered, mixing with the faint chill of the morning. Their footsteps echoed against the stone, stretching into the vast, quiet labyrinth of the building. The stone beneath their feet grew colder, the shadows lengthened, and the space seemed to grow more enclosed. Lena’s breath remained even, measured, while Nathan could feel the quickening of his pulse, heightened by the unfamiliar surroundings. Strange symbols—ancient glyphs and runes—lined the walls, their shapes whispering in the dim light, as though the very stone was speaking.

Father Seraphim’s cloak brushed against the uneven floor, the soft rustle swallowed by the stillness around them. The air was cool and damp, carrying the faint tang of moss and the bitter residue of ancient incense clinging to the walls like a memory. Each of his deliberate steps felt guided by an unseen force, his pace steady and relentless.

The hidden doors they passed were nearly imperceptible, their outlines blending seamlessly with the stone. As Father Seraphim opened them, the hinges groaned, releasing stale, trapped air that smelled faintly of earth and iron. Beyond each threshold lay a passage narrower and darker than the last. The flickering torchlight cast jagged, dancing shadows that seemed to twist and writhe along the walls.

As they descended further, the silence deepened, pressing against their ears until even the faintest shuffle of their steps sounded like thunder. The stone walls bore strange, worn carvings, eroded yet eerily alive, whispering stories in an ancient script that seemed to tremble just out of comprehension.

A chill crept through the air, biting in its insistence, a reminder that they were leaving the world above and entering a place untouched by light. The distant sound of water dripping added a rhythmic, almost mocking cadence to their passage, while the occasional creak of the wood beneath their feet hinted at fragility—an eerie tension between past and present.

With each step, reality seemed to peel away, the familiar sensations of time and space fading until only the weight of ancient history remained. The stones themselves seemed to breathe, exhaling dread and wonder in equal measure. It wasn’t merely a descent; it was a crossing—a transition into a place where time had long ceased to matter, and only echoes of forgotten truths remained.

They reached a steel door, its surface battered and worn from centuries of use. The oversized locks, relics from another age, seemed almost comical in their incongruity. Father Seraphim reached into his robe, pulling out a heavy iron key hanging on a thick chain. The key gleamed faintly as he turned it in the lock with deliberate slowness.

The door groaned as it opened, releasing an air that felt even more suffocating, as though it had been sealed for centuries. A solitary candle flickered inside, casting long shadows on the still forms of henchmen standing motionless, their eyes following every movement. In the center of the room was a small table, cluttered with old, yellowed documents—scrolls cracked and fading, their contents unreadable from a distance.

The room hummed with a strange energy, a palpable weight pressing in on them from all sides.

As they stepped closer to the table, Father Seraphim raised a hand, halting Nathan just short of the documents. His expression was unreadable, but something in his demeanor seemed almost mournful—as though standing on the edge of something dangerous, something ancient.

Before Nathan could speak, one of the henchmen, a large man with a weathered face, spoke in a low, commanding voice. "Strip."

Nathan froze, confusion clouding his thoughts. "What?"

"You heard me," the henchman repeated, his voice hard as stone. "No cameras. Strip."

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. They exchanged looks, their discomfort rising.

Elias, ever quick with humor, opened his mouth. "Well, didn’t see that one coming. Guess I missed the dress code memo..." His attempt at levity fell flat, leaving the room in uneasy silence.

Lena’s gaze flickered, a mixture of disbelief and frustration on her face. But Father Seraphim stood unmoving, his attention fixed on the documents, seemingly unaffected by the sudden shift in atmosphere.

Reluctantly, Lena began to unbutton her jacket, the tension hanging heavy in the air. Nathan hesitated, processing the absurdity of the situation. Part of him wanted to protest, but something deeper within him—something that had learned to trust the mysteries of this world—understood that this was another piece of the puzzle they had to navigate.

The room seemed to hum as Lena removed her pants, revealing a sleek black thong. The sight was unexpected—she defied the typical image of a historian, all sharp intelligence and quiet power. Nathan’s breath caught, but he quickly forced himself to look away, trying to ignore the stir of emotions rising inside him.

Elias, standing beside Nathan, did a double take. His eyes widened, then quickly averted, uncomfortable in the sudden tension. He muttered something under his breath but didn’t speak further.

Suddenly, the absurdity of the situation struck Nathan. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Elias—overweight and glistening with sweat—standing by the door in his child size Batman underpants. The sight was so ridiculous, so out of place, that Nathan couldn’t help but chuckle.

"Well, I guess I’m not the only one caught off guard," Elias muttered, adjusting his ill-fitting undergarments, clearly embarrassed. The absurdity helped to break the tension in the room, and even one of the henchmen rolled his eyes, unimpressed by the sight.

Father Seraphim remained as still as a statue, his gaze unwavering from the scattered documents before him. His hand flicked out in a slow, deliberate motion, inviting them forward with the kind of calm that could only come from someone with deep, unshakable purpose.

Nathan, Lena, and Elias exchanged one final glance—something unspoken passing between them—before they took a step closer, drawn into the atmosphere of the room. The air was thick with the musty scent of old paper and the faint, lingering traces of incense, a smell that seemed to carry centuries of history within it. Their eyes swept across the table, where ancient scrolls and curious artifacts were arranged with meticulous care. Symbols that Nathan had seen only in texts long forgotten, languages he’d poured over in countless study sessions, and objects that seemed to pulse with a faint but undeniable energy—each one more enigmatic than the last.

But it was the center of the table that commanded their attention, pulling their focus with magnetic force. There, resting on velvet cushions, lay the Luther Letters—all of them. Not copies, not facsimiles, but the originals. Each letter was carefully authenticated, the wax seals still intact and bearing the unmistakable insignia of the Seal of the Dragon, a mark known to only a handful of scholars and historians. This was more than just history—it was the key to unraveling mysteries long buried.

Nathan felt his heart race as he leaned in, his fingers almost twitching with the urge to touch, to study, to decipher. This was the moment he had dreamed of, but the weight of it—the enormity of it—settled deep in his chest, a reminder of the responsibility they now carried.

Lena’s breath caught beside him. Her hand instinctively brushed against his, a silent recognition of the gravity of their situation. This wasn’t just a discovery—it was a test. And they had no idea what they were truly walking into.

But the moment held, the air thick with tension, until Elias broke the silence.

“Well, if we’re done marveling at the world’s oldest collection of paper cuts, mind if I ask what the hell we’re supposed to do with all this?” Elias’s voice was laced with sarcasm, his typical deflection to mask his nerves. He shot a glance at Nathan and Lena, the slightest smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe we should just read it out loud, see if it summons a dragon or something.”

Father Seraphim’s voice broke the awkward silence. "Your father was a good man. Perhaps you can finish what he started."

Lena’s eyes flicked to the priest, brow furrowing. “What exactly are we trying to finish?”

Father Seraphim leaned heavily on his staff, his expression darkening. “Your father… was helping a movement within the Greek Orthodox Church. A movement dedicated to uncovering the lies perpetuated by the Catholic church that have shrouded our faith since the days of Constantine. You must understand, Lena, the schism between the Orthodox Church and Rome was born not merely of theological differences but of a betrayal—a corruption that twisted the early Church.”

The air in the room seemed to grow colder as he continued. “The Orthodox Church is the original Church, its traditions unbroken from the Apostles themselves. But when Constantine rose to power, everything changed. Rome—hungry for control and desperate to stabilize its crumbling empire—used the faith as a tool. Constantine, it seems, was their puppet.”

Elias tilted his head, smirking. “Constantine? You all mean the guy who had his big ‘divine moment’ at the Milvian Bridge? ‘In this sign, conquer,’ right? My middle school history teacher loved that story.”

Father Seraphim let out a dry chuckle, bitter with experience. “Yes, the Milvian Bridge—where Constantine ‘saw the light’ just in time to rally his troops and crush Maxentius. A story so perfectly crafted it could make a Roman playwright jealous. But the truth, my boy, is far less divine and far more… calculated. Constantine was a pawn for something much bigger. His so-called conversion was nothing more than a political maneuver, orchestrated by forces bigger than Rome itself, to manipulate the Church into a tool for world power.”

Nathan ran a hand through his hair, his academic instincts ignited. “But no one has ever been able to prove that.”

Father Seraphim leaned forward, his piercing yellow eyes glinting in the dim light, and gestured toward the table laden with ancient artifacts. “That’s where your father came in,” he said, his deep voice resonating with a mix of reverence and urgency. “He was among the precious few brave enough to piece together the fragments of history Rome has desperately tried to bury.”

He picked up a weathered parchment, its edges brittle and ink faded from centuries of concealment. “These letters,” he began, tapping the fragile documents with a steady hand, “describe letters between Constantine and his court. In them, Constantine reveals his growing doubts about the very faith he was forced to adopt. Christianity wasn’t his salvation; it was a political tool—a weapon designed to unify an empire that once burned Christians like candles for sport under Nero’s reign. And yet, the narrative we’ve been fed would have us believe that the same Roman Empire that reveled in Christian persecution suddenly turned devout.” His voice dripped with disbelief, as though even uttering the idea was an affront to reason.

Father Seraphim’s fingers moved over the artifacts. “Your father saw through the façade. He followed the trail of evidence they hoped no one would ever uncover. And now…” Seraphim’s voice lowered to a near whisper, his expression grave, “the world needs us to continue his work.”

Solomons Key

Lena’s mind spiraled back to her father’s life—a scholar deeply immersed in the tangled history of the Eastern Orthodox Church and its fractured relationship with the Roman Catholic Church. She had grown up hearing stories of the endless disputes over which was the true first church and the schism that divided them. But it wasn’t just about doctrine or belief. It was about power, control, and deceit, each layer more intricate than the last, like the frescoes hidden beneath the surface of an ancient temple. The weight of it all pressed down on her now.

She snapped back to the present, shaking off the weight of the past. The room was thick with the scent of old incense, and the ancient relics before them seemed like pieces of a puzzle waiting to be solved. She and Nathan sifted through scrolls and parchments, the tension in the air growing heavier.

Elias shifted uneasily off to the side, glancing at the relics as if they might spring to life. “I gotta admit,” he muttered, his voice laced with disbelief, “this feels like some Indiana Jones stuff right here!”

Lena didn’t respond. Her focus had already shifted. She reached for a worn manuscript, her breath catching as the Greek script on the pages struck her like a punch to the gut. She knew this handwriting. She had seen it in her father’s journals.

“This is it,” Lena whispered, barely able to speak. “The evidence. My father told me about this.”

She spread the papers in front of them, aligning the manuscript with other documents, the pieces falling into place. “The letters and this manuscript... they paint a picture. Constantine wasn’t just a puppet for the church. He was controlled by a shadow group, one that’s been manipulating history from the very beginning.”

Elias, who had been watching them in silence, looked at them with growing confusion. “Wait, so you’re saying Constantine wasn’t a true Christian? He was just... in it for the power?”

“Exactly.” Father Seraphim’s voice broke the silence. “But, it’s much more than that. The church we know today was built on lies. Constantine legalized Christianity not for faith, but to secure Rome’s dominance. But someone—something powerful—was pulling the strings behind him.”

Nathan’s gaze shifted between the documents and Lena, his mind working furiously. “And who were they? This secret order... the ones who’ve been controlling everything for centuries?”

Father Seraphim’s jaw clenched as he leaned forward. “The Order of Tannin. They were the architects of Constantine’s reign, shaping history to their will, manipulating the Church from the shadows.”

“Tannin is Aramaic for ‘Dragon,’” Nathan added, his tone cold and authoritative.

“The Order…” Elias repeated, his voice trembling slightly. “You’re telling me they’re real?”

“Yes,” Father Seraphim said, his voice low and dangerous. “And they are more dangerous than you can imagine.”

Lena’s eyes widened as she absorbed the weight of his words. Father Seraphim continued, his gaze darkening. “The Orthodox Church has always known the truth about Constantine. But the truth? It’s buried. Buried deep beneath centuries of Roman Catholic control. Those in power have suppressed it, hidden it. And those who sought to expose it…” His voice trailed off, eyes narrowing. “They’ve paid the price.”

“Like my father,” Lena whispered, a shadow of sorrow crossing her face.

Father Seraphim nodded solemnly. “Yes, Lena. Like your father.” He hesitated, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. “The Church’s true origins, the role of Constantine—everything—has been erased, hidden by those who would do anything to keep their secrets safe.”

Lena’s heart hammered in her chest. “But how did my father find all this? How did he uncover the truth?”

“You’re right to ask,” Father Seraphim said softly, his voice grave. “But be careful. The truth always comes with a price.”

Lena leaned in, urgency in her eyes. “What do you mean? What did he uncover?”

Father Seraphim’s face softened, a flicker of sadness crossing his features. “He uncovered something far more dangerous than he realized. An artifact.” He paused, letting the weight of the word hang in the air. “A key.”

“A key…” Lena whispered, her breath catching. “He never told me about it.”

The priest’s eyes were filled with a sorrow that seemed to reach deep into his soul. “He didn’t have the chance. The key… it’s the ‘key’ to everything. The key to unlocking the conspiracy. The key to reversing this corrupt world or bringing it to it’s knees.”

Lena’s mind raced, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together. “What do you mean? What does this key do?”

Father Seraphim’s voice lowered to a near whisper. “For centuries, the world has been captivated by the idea of secret knowledge—artifacts with power beyond comprehension. One of the most legendary of these is Solomon’s Key.”

“Solomon’s Key?” Lena echoed, her brow furrowing.

Father Seraphim nodded, his eyes burning with intensity. “It is believed to be a bridge between the Kingdom of God and the Kingdom of Man. A gateway that grants its bearer power over both angels and demons, the very elements of creation itself. Solomon, in his quest for divine knowledge, is said to have uncovered this key—inscribed with symbols of unimaginable power, capable of controlling the natural and supernatural worlds.”

Lena’s pulse quickened as she grasped the enormity of it. “But what does this have to do with my father?”

“Your father discovered something crucial,” Father Seraphim said. “The Catholic Church has been in possession of Solomon’s Key for centuries. They’ve allegedly used it to manipulate the world, to perpetuate Satan’s rule, all while standing behind Christ’s gospel.”

Lena’s voice trembled with disbelief. “The Church? They’ve had it all this time?”

“We believe so,” Father Seraphim replied, his gaze hardening. “The Church’s wealth, power, influence—it’s not divine blessing. It’s the result of harnessing forbidden knowledge. Solomon’s Key, hidden within the walls of the church, guarded by the highest echelons of Rome.”

Lena felt a chill crawl up her spine. “So, this key… if we can destroy it, we can break Satan’s hold?”

“Yes,” Father Seraphim affirmed. “The destruction of Solomon’s Key would sever Satan’s grip over humanity. And there’s more. According to the Constantine Codex—letters discovered by Martin Luther but never made public—the destruction of the key would fulfill a prophecy from Revelation 20:10, when ‘the devil who had deceived them was thrown into the lake of fire.’”

Lena’s breath caught in her throat. “And this… this is why my father died.”

Father Seraphim nodded gravely. “The moment he discovered the truth about Solomon’s Key, he became a target. The Order of Tannin would stop at nothing to protect their secret.”

Lena clenched her fists. “So, where do we start? How do we expose them?”

Father Seraphin’s face darkened, his expression like stone. “Not so fast,” he cautioned, his voice low and commanding. “Your father uncovered something critical—something the Church has kept hidden for centuries. It’s about Metrophanes, the Orthodox Bishop of Constantinople. He despised Constantine with every fiber of his being. He saw Constantine not as a savior of the faith but as a usurper—a man who twisted the Church for his own gain. And the greatest of his crimes? Moving the heart of the Church—the tomb of St. Peter—to build St. Peter’s Basilica over it.

"Jesus planted the seeds of His Church with St. Peter, the rock upon which it was built. You know the verse—Matthew 16:18. ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock, I will build my Church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.’ Peter was meant to guard the gate between heaven and hell, a role that required an unbroken line of guardianship, passed down through apostolic succession.”

Elias, wide-eyed, leaned in. “But Peter was just a man. How could he protect the gate forever?”

Father Seraphin’s voice grew fervent, almost reverent. “Through apostolic succession. Peter ordained his successor, and so on. The chain was never meant to break. But when Rome rewrote the narrative—claiming itself as the one true Church—that chain was severed. Apostolic succession was lost to Rome. Only the Orthodox Church maintains the true line, though the world has been seduced by Rome’s lie. The Roman Catholic Church, despite its immense political power, is spiritually hollow, divinely powerless.”

He turned sharply to Lena, his piercing gaze locking onto hers. “Metrophanes knew this. And he loathed Constantine not just for his political maneuvers, but for his ultimate act of desecration—defiling St. Peter’s tomb to serve his empire. To Metrophanes, this was more than heresy. It was war on the true faith.”

Lena’s mind spun, struggling to connect the pieces. “So… how does Solomon’s Key fit into this?”

Father Seraphin’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Solomon’s Key—an artifact of unimaginable power—has remained hidden, even from Rome. The Order of Tannin, the Red Dragon, none of them have ever known its true location. But now, we believe it has surfaced. The very object that holds the balance between divine and demonic forces… may have fallen into the hands of the Catholic Church.”

Elias blinked, his usual humor slipping away. “And my father knew this?”

Seraphin nodded solemnly. “Your father uncovered the truth. He found the trail, pieced together what few have dared to. And yes, we believe he discovered that Solomon’s Key is back in Rome’s possession. If that Key is wielded by Rome’s hand… there is no telling the darkness they could unleash.”

Lena felt a shiver crawl up her spine. Her father’s work, his obsession, his death—it was all tied to this. Every unanswered question, every sleepless night, now pointed to this ancient secret.

Her heart pounded in her chest as the weight of Seraphin’s words settled. The hunt had begun, and the stakes were higher than she had ever imagined. Before she could speak, Elias leaned forward, his confusion replaced with a spark of excitement. “So, we’re off to slay a dragon, huh? What’s next, A-Team?” His grin widened as he clapped his hands together. “Where to?”

Nathan’s gaze was steady, his voice grim but filled with a quiet awe. “The one place we don’t want to go. Vatican City.”

The Leonardo Express

The train rumbled beneath them, the rhythmic sound of wheels on tracks offering a strange sense of peace after the whirlwind of revelations. The Leonardo Express sped toward Rome, the cool air from open windows blending with the scent of fresh espresso and the soft murmur of fellow travelers. Lena, Nathan, and Elias sat together, each savoring the brief reprieve.

Elias kicked his feet up on the seat opposite him, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he tossed an empty wine bottle into the recycling bin near the door. "I still can't believe we're doing this," he said with a low chuckle. "Breaking into the Vatican? It's like we're Laura Croft."

Lena didn't look up from the paper Father Seraphim had given her, but the tension in her posture was unmistakable. She traced a finger along its edges, brow furrowed. "It is crazy," she muttered, almost to herself. "One minute, I’m deciphering my dad’s cryptic notes, barely scratching the surface, and now... here we are. Heading for a piece of history that could unravel everything."

Nathan raised his bottle in a mock-toast, his lips curling into a smirk. "To uncovering the truth," he said, his tone thick with disbelief. He paused and added, "And to staying out of the hands of whatever creepy, shadowy figures are stalking us."

Lena’s eyes flickered to him, the weight of their mission crashing back over her. She was quiet for a moment before speaking, her voice low but firm. "Getting into the Vatican isn’t going to be easy, Elias. But that’s what we’ve been doing all along—outsmarting the odds, using every scrap of information we have, and praying we don’t get caught."

Nathan raised an eyebrow, a devil-may-care grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You mean, more difficult than breaking into the FBI database?" he asked, leaning back with an exaggerated stretch and child like smile.

Lena nodded, her expression hardening. "We’re not just sneaking into some obscure building. This is one of the holiest sites on the planet. They’ll never let us just walk in."

Elias puffed out his chest, the mischievous glint still in place. "Well, that’s where I come in. Leave the security to me. I’m a master at getting past guards without them even knowing I’m there."

Nathan let out a low whistle, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "What’s worse? Getting caught sneaking around the holiest church on Earth... or dealing with the Order, whoever they are, who’ll undoubtedly be watching us like hawks?"

Elias’s grin faltered slightly. "Yeah..." His voice dropped. "They’ll be on us. They know we’re close. If they find us, we’re toast."

Lena’s jaw clenched, her eyes narrowing with resolve. "The Order doesn’t just kill people. They erase them. Bury them in history, like they never existed. My father almost lost everything trying to expose them. Now it’s our turn. We can’t let them stop us."

Nathan leaned back in his seat, the steely determination in his eyes matching Lena’s. "So, we break into one of the most sacred places in the world, bypass every security measure they’ve got, destroy a mysterious key and expose the truth. Simple, right?"

Lena exhaled slowly, her gaze shifting to the window as the lights of Rome appeared on the horizon. The city glowed softly in the distance, but the storm within her hadn’t passed. "We don’t have much time," she murmured, almost to herself. "Once we’re there, they’ll be onto us before we can blink."

Elias raised his bottle again, his grin returning but now laced with stubborn determination. "But hey, you know us. The three amigos always make it work, right?"

The three of them raised their bottles, a silent promise passing between them—one of defiance, determination, and the hope that, against all odds, they would succeed. The train continued its steady rumble, the city of Rome looming ahead. Next stop: Termini Station.

The Anti-Christ

The Hotel Savoy, a quiet yet charming boutique just a short walk from Vatican City, provided the perfect setting for the trio to finalize their plan. The room was small but functional—nothing fancy, but the thick stone walls ensured their conversation stayed private. A map of the Vatican lay spread out across the table, bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon. The soft murmur of Rome’s bustling streets filtered through the cracked window, adding a sense of normalcy to the tension building in the room.

Lena hunched over the map, brow furrowed as her fingers traced the streets around the Vatican. Her mind ran through every possible angle, strategy, and risk.

Nathan leaned in closer, his scent mixing with hers, a presence that caused a flutter in her chest. She quickly pushed the sensation aside—there was no room for distractions now. Not after everything they’d been through. Still, his breath on her skin, the warmth of his hand near hers, seemed to shrink the world to just the two of them. Her pulse quickened, but she kept her focus on the map.

“We need to get past the main security checkpoints,” Nathan said, his voice low but steady. “I’m thinking the service entrance near the Vatican Museum. It’s secure, but it won’t raise alarms if we act like we belong there.”

Elias, tapping away at his laptop, barely looked up. “Service entrance works. I’ll get us badges that’ll pass inspection. Cameras won’t be a problem either.” He paused and glanced at the two of them, noting the closeness. A knowing grin spread across his face. “You two getting cozy over there?”

Lena shot him a quick look but returned her attention to the map, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. Nathan simply shrugged, though his fingers brushed hers as they moved along the path, an almost imperceptible tension lingering between them.

“Yeah, cozy,” Nathan muttered, his tone tight, as though holding something back. “We’re just figuring out how to get in.”

Lena’s fingers stilled. There it was again—the pull, undeniable. She pushed the thought aside. They’d been through too much for distractions now.

She spoke with quiet intensity, focusing on the task at hand. “If we get caught, everything falls apart. The Vatican isn’t just a treasure trove of history. It’s a place full of people who protect their secrets. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

Nathan nodded, his voice low, almost too intimate in the small room. “I know. We get in, get out, before anyone realizes we don’t belong.”

Elias leaned back in his chair, clearly bored with the conversation. He glanced from Nathan to Lena, a grin playing at the edges of his lips as he twirled his glass. “Christmas came early, folks,” he quipped, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Lena raised an eyebrow, but Nathan didn’t seem to notice. He was lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the open laptop in front of him. The old pages of cryptic notes and religious texts weren’t as captivating to Elias, who preferred the more cyber-oriented aspects of their quest.

“Alright, alright,” Lena said, finally breaking the silence. “You’re dying to say something, so just spit it out.”

Elias sat up straighter, a smirk forming on his lips. “You heard about the Pope’s big speech coming up, right? Easter Sunday. He's addressing the world, all eyes on him. Apparently, it’s supposed to be some grand gesture of peace and love or whatever.”

Lena’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I’ve heard the rumors. He’s platform is centered on uniting all faiths—Catholicism, Islam, Judaism... the whole shebang.”

Elias shrugged, his grin widening. “Well, if he pulls it off, maybe the world can finally get along. I just hope he keeps it interesting.”

Lena shook her head. “Interesting? More like terrifying. I just read this article in Global Faith Chronicle about it. The headline was, ‘Pope Calls for Peaceful Coexistence: A New Era of Interfaith Unity.’ It’s full of flowery rhetoric about bridging divides and embracing everyone, no matter their faith. But what got to me was the tone—it’s almost as if he’s ignoring the major doctrinal divides between religions.”

Nathan, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. “It’s all part of his plan. He's trying to make ecumenicalism look like the answer to the world’s problems, but it’s a dangerous game.” His voice was low, but it carried the weight of certainty.

Lena nodded. “Exactly. The article mentioned how some church leaders are questioning this initiative. They’re wondering how the Pope can reconcile Christianity with faiths that are fundamentally incompatible, like Islam or Judaism, when their doctrines contradict what Christ taught. How can you unite under a banner of peace when the very foundation of what you believe is so different?”

“Because that’s the point,” Nathan said, his tone firm. “He’s not trying to unite under the truth of Christ’s message—he’s trying to unite under the banner of false peace. It’s exactly what we’re warned about in scripture.” He flipped open a Bible from the desk beside him, his finger tracing the familiar lines. “Take 2 Thessalonians 2:3-4, for instance. Paul talks about the ‘man of lawlessness,’ the ‘son of perdition,’ who will rise up, deceiving many. He will exalt himself over everything that is called God, and in the end, he will sit in the temple of God, proclaiming himself to be God. That’s who the Antichrist is—he’s not going to be some outsider; he’s going to come from within the Church itself.”

Lena leaned forward, her gaze fixed on Nathan. “You’re saying the Pope might be the one?”

Nathan nodded slowly, his eyes heavy with conviction. “It’s possible. Revelation 13 talks about the beast, and how he will deceive the masses. It says the beast will appear as a lamb, but speak like a dragon. He’ll promise peace, unity, and security, but it’s all a lie, a trap. The world will fall for it, believing they’ve found their savior, but the true message will be lost, replaced by something far more dangerous.”

Lena bit her lip, absorbing the weight of his words. She didn’t know if she could buy into the idea that the Pope, a man who preached love and peace, could be the Antichrist. But there was something unsettling in the way the Pope’s call for unity had been spreading like wildfire, especially considering how divisive the world had become. Maybe Nathan was onto something.

“But this is all good for us” Elias interjected, his usual casual demeanor now replaced by a sense of urgency. “If we’re right about the Pope’s agenda, and the world’s about to get swept up in his message of unity, wouldn’t that be the perfect time for us to get in and find the truth? The tomb of St. Peter, the Constantine Codex, Solomon’s Key—it’s all buried right under the Vatican’s nose. And once the speech happens, everyone’s going to be looking outside at the crowds, not inside the walls. Security will be focused on the masses.”

Nathan’s eyes sharpened. “Exactly. The Pope’s speech is going to draw the largest crowd the Vatican’s seen in years. The world’s attention will be riveted on the promise of peace and unity, with people flooding St. Peter’s Square to hear the message. With all eyes outside, the Vatican’s inner sanctum will be vulnerable. The perfect distraction.”

Elias smirked. “So, while the Pope tells the world about how great it is to all hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya,’ we’ll be sneaking into the heart of the Vatican, where centuries of secrets are buried. Sounds like a plan.”

Lena leaned in, her voice a whisper. “But, even if we get in, how will we find and destroy this key?”

Nathan nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “The world will be focused on a lie, but it’s our chance to expose the truth. I guess it’s now or never.”

Lena nodded sharply, the weight of their years of preparation settling heavily on her shoulders. Her mind flickered back to her father’s journals—cryptic notes that had led them to this moment. But there was no time for nostalgia. They had a mission to complete.

Elias glanced up from his laptop, eyes flicking between Nathan and Lena. “Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll get us in with badges that’ll pass as staff, and I’ll loop security footage to keep us off the radar. But the real work begins once we’re inside. That’s on you, Lena. Your father knew the layout—”

“His notes are incomplete,” Lena interrupted, cutting him off. “He mapped out most of it and uncovered prints of the underground catacombs, but there are sections of the Necropolis I’ve never seen. Once we get past the first layers, we’ll have to improvise.”

Nathan’s gaze intensified, the unspoken tension between them too palpable to ignore. The urge to say something—anything—was almost overwhelming, but he held back. Instead, he gave a low, purposeful nod. “Then we’re good. We get to the tomb. We get the proof we need. And we get out before anyone knows we were there.”

Elias chuckled, his fingers flying over the keys again. “I like it. But once the alarm goes off—and it will—you’ve got about twelve minutes before the whole place goes into lockdown. I’ll have the escape route ready. You just focus on the mission.”

Lena closed her eyes briefly, leaning back in her chair as the enormity of it all settled in. The closer they got to the end, the more the pressure built. Was this just another mission to her, or was something else at play? She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

Noticing her discomfort, Nathan broke the silence, his voice lighter than before, trying to ease the tension. “If Natalie could see us now,” he said with a grin, his eyes meeting hers.

Lena stiffened, startled by his words. Her heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t expected that, and the unexpected comment hit harder than she cared to admit. She tried to cover it with a quick laugh, but it was too forced.

“Yeah, I bet she’d love it,” Lena said, her voice quieter than she intended.

Nathan’s grin faltered slightly as he noticed her unease. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, you’re fine,” she cut him off, her cheeks flushing slightly. She quickly cleared her throat. “We just need to focus. We get in. We get out. After that, everything changes.”

You Can’t Go There

The sun rose, casting golden and amber strokes across the Roman skyline. Today was the day of reconnaissance. Nathan and Lena stepped out of the Hotel Savoy, blending effortlessly into the flow of tourists filling the cobblestone streets. The hum of vespas mixed with laughter and chatter, creating a symphony of life in the Eternal City.

Nathan adjusted the strap of his camera—a vintage model concealing a modern gadget—and glanced at Lena. She wore a simple sundress that swayed with each step and a straw hat that shaded her face just enough to keep her inconspicuous. She turned to him, a slight smile curving her lips as their eyes met.

"Ready for the show?" she asked, her voice tinged with excitement and apprehension.

Nathan smirked. "Always."

The Vatican Museums were a short walk from their hotel—ten minutes, give or take—through a maze of streets lined with ancient facades and flower-draped balconies. The closer they got, the more palpable the energy became, an electric hum emanating from the throngs of people eager to enter one of the world’s greatest treasure troves.

As they approached the entrance, the grandeur of the Vatican walls loomed above them—massive, weathered, exuding power, with stones that seemed to whisper stories of centuries past. At the heart of it all stood the museum’s entrance, a masterpiece of stonework flanked by towering sculptures of saints and angels frozen in eternal vigil.

Lena paused to take it in, her breath catching. The sun bathed the facade in a soft, golden glow, highlighting every intricate carving. The air carried the earthy scent of stone warmed by the day’s heat, mingling with the faint aroma of street food from nearby vendors.

"Magnificent," Lena murmured.

"Wait until we’re inside," Nathan replied casually, though a glimmer in his eye hinted at something more—something Lena couldn’t quite place.

They moved through the entrance, blending into the sea of tourists. The atmosphere shifted immediately—cool, almost reverent. Inside, the polished marble floors gleamed like liquid light under intricate chandeliers. High vaulted ceilings soared above them, frescoes exploding with color and life. The faint scent of aged paper and stone filled the air, a reminder of the history surrounding them.

The museum was an overwhelming feast for the senses. Room after room unfolded like a dream, each more spectacular than the last. Sculptures stood in perfect stillness, their marble surfaces so finely chiseled that every muscle, every fold of fabric, seemed alive. Paintings adorned the walls, vibrant hues leaping from the canvas, while the distant murmurs of tour guides and the shuffle of footsteps created a steady undercurrent of sound.

Lena paused before the Laocoön Group, its twisting figures locked in eternal struggle with serpents. The raw emotion carved into the marble was almost too much to bear. She reached out, her fingers grazing the cool stone pedestal to ground herself.

"Imagine the stories these walls could tell," she whispered.

Nathan, scanning the room, his eyes darted from the art to the strategically placed cameras hidden in corners and above doorways. "The real story isn’t on these walls," he said, his voice low. "It’s what’s behind them."

They moved deeper into the museum, their path taking them to the Gallery of Maps. The corridor stretched endlessly, its walls adorned with massive, meticulously detailed maps of Italy and the known world. Vivid greens, blues, and golds swirled together like an ancient kaleidoscope. The vaulted ceiling above was a masterpiece in itself, frescoed with cherubs and heavenly scenes.

Lena’s eyes widened as she took it in. "It’s almost too much," she murmured.

Nathan stopped beside her, leaning in close. The warmth of his presence sent a shiver up her spine. "It is too much," he replied, his tone tinged with something darker. "It’s the most splendid hoax in all of history."

Lena frowned, the weight of his words settling heavily over her. She’d always known there were layers to the Vatican’s story, secrets buried deep. But hearing it so plainly struck a chord. They were on a mission to tear it all down.

They continued through the museum, moving with purpose. When they reached the Sistine Chapel, it felt as if the world itself paused. The room was dimly lit, the air hushed with reverence. Above them, Michelangelo’s frescoes unfurled like a divine vision. The Creation of Adam, with the almost-touch of two hands, was so charged with emotion it seemed to pulse with life.

Nathan and Lena stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes tracing the ceiling. For a moment, neither spoke.

"You feel it too, don’t you?" Nathan finally said, his voice barely audible.

Lena nodded, her throat tight. She could feel the pulse of history pressing down on her, the weight of centuries in the air—and the significance of what they were attempting. But she also felt something else—a connection, an unspoken understanding between her and Nathan.

Their eyes met, and the air between them seemed to crackle. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Nathan broke the moment with a grin.

"If Natalie could see us now," he said lightly.

The mention of her name again was like a splash of cold water. Lena blinked, pressing her lips into a tight line as she turned back to the ceiling, pretending to study the frescoes. Inside, her emotions churned—a mix of guilt, confusion, and something she wasn’t ready to name.

Nathan didn’t press her. Instead, he gestured toward a narrow corridor at the far end of the chapel. "That’s where we need to go next. Let’s see how many guards they’ve got stationed there."

Lena nodded, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Lead the way."

As they moved toward the corridor, the tension between them lingered—unspoken, unresolved. But for now, they had a mission, and the clock was ticking.

Nathan and Lena ventured deeper into the labyrinthine halls of the Vatican Museum, the world outside seemed to fade away. The hum of air conditioning blended with the faint shuffle of footsteps and the soft murmur of awe-struck tourists. The walls closed in around them, lined with treasures that glittered under golden lighting—ancient tapestries, ornate reliquaries, and gilded frames enclosing masterpieces that seemed to capture the soul of the Renaissance.

Nathan’s gaze swept the room like a hawk’s, cataloging every camera and shadow where a guard might be stationed. He adjusted his camera strap nervously, the tourist act not quite sitting with his deliberate movements. Lena, however, moved with effortless grace, pausing to admire a mosaic here, a Caravaggio painting there, her sharp eyes soaking in details Nathan barely processed.

“I count six cameras in this corridor alone,” Nathan whispered, pretending to adjust his lens. “Four fixed, two panning.”

Lena nodded, her lips barely moving. “And the guards? I’ve seen three on rotation since we entered the north wing.”

They pressed on, entering the Hall of the Candelabra—a stunning display of marble columns and gilded sculptures beneath high ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes of saints and celestial visions. The scent of polished wood and stone lingered in the air, blending with the distant echoes of footsteps.

“This place is breathtaking,” Lena murmured, her voice tinged with awe. “I’ve seen pictures, but they don’t do it justice.”

Nathan glanced at her, his expression softening. “The Vatican knows how to dazzle. But don’t let the beauty fool you—it’s a fortress.”

Lena’s gaze sharpened, snapping back to their mission. “Let’s hope it’s not impenetrable.”

They turned into a less crowded hallway, where the lighting dimmed and the flow of tourists thinned. Ahead, a simple barrier roped off the corridor, a sign reading “Staff Only” in both Italian and English. Nathan’s pulse quickened as he leaned closer to Lena.

“This is it,” he whispered. “The entrance to the restricted archive corridor should be just beyond.”

Lena nodded, her heart pounding in anticipation. But just as they ducked under the rope, a sharp voice rang out.

“Hey! You can’t go down there!”

They froze, adrenaline spiking. The sound of heavy boots grew louder with each step. Nathan’s mind raced—they couldn’t afford to get caught, not before they’d even begun.

“Play it cool,” he muttered, but Lena was already moving.

“Oh my God, honey!” she shrieked, spinning around to face him with a force that startled even him. “I told you! I told you there wouldn’t be any bathrooms here!”

Nathan blinked, his brain struggling to catch up as Lena stormed toward the approaching guard, hands on her hips, her face flushed with theatrical outrage.

“Sir!” she exclaimed, pointing dramatically at Nathan. “This man, my husband—” her voice dripped with exaggerated disdain, “—refuses to listen to me! I said we needed to find a bathroom ages ago!”

The guard, a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a receding hairline, stopped in his tracks, clearly taken aback. Nathan noticed the gleam of a wedding band on his left hand and seized the opportunity.

“She’s right,” Nathan said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ve learned I’m never right. Ever.”

The guard’s brow furrowed, his stern expression cracking slightly as Lena continued her tirade.

“Do you know how embarrassing this is for me?” she ranted, her voice rising. “I’m practically dying here, and this idiot drags me into some random corridor! What does he think this is, a public restroom?”

Other tourists began to glance over, curious about the commotion. Nathan fought the urge to bury his face in his hands, cheeks burning as Lena gestured wildly.

“I’m so sorry,” he said to the guard, his tone weary. “I’ll take her to find a bathroom immediately.”

The guard hesitated, unsure whether to be suspicious or sympathetic. Finally, he sighed and stepped back. “The restrooms are in the main corridor. You’ll need to go back the way you came.”

Lena clutched her stomach dramatically. “Thank you, sir! You’re a lifesaver!”

Nathan nodded sheepishly. “Thanks, man. Really.”

As they hurried away, Lena kept up her act, muttering about bladder control and poor planning until they were safely out of earshot. Once they rounded the corner and merged back with the crowd, she let out a soft laugh, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Nathan glared at her, though his lips twitched with reluctant amusement. “You really went for it, huh?”

She smirked, her voice low and teasing. “Admit it—you’re impressed.”

Nathan shook his head, but couldn’t help the grin tugging at his mouth. “I’ll admit I’m embarrassed.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Lena quipped, though the gleam in her eye suggested she was far from embarrassed.

They fell into step together, the charged air between them thick with tension and relief. As they walked, Lena leaned in close enough for only Nathan to hear.

“At least now we know where the guard posts are.”

Nathan nodded, still feeling the rush. “And next time, let’s not almost blow our cover before we even start.”

“Noted,” Lena replied with a smirk. “But if we do, just remember—I’m always right.”

Close Call

As they stepped outside, the streets of Rome buzzed with the energy of the afternoon. Tourists wandered in groups, snapping photos and chatting in a medley of languages. Vespas zipped through narrow alleys, and the air was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread from nearby cafés. Nathan and Lena made their way back to the Hotel Atlante Star, the warmth of the sun kissing the cobblestones beneath their feet.

Lena, still exhilarated from their adventure in the Vatican Museum, skipped ahead. Her hair caught the golden light as she twirled around to face Nathan, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“Nathan, you should’ve seen your face!” she teased, throwing her head back in laughter. “You looked like you wanted the earth to swallow you whole!”

Nathan groaned, adjusting the straps of his messenger bag. “You made me the center of a very public meltdown. I’d say that’s a reasonable reaction.”

“Oh, come on,” Lena laughed, her voice spilling into the warm afternoon air. “You have to admit, my performance was Oscar-worthy. I saved our mission and gave you some free entertainment. Win-win!”

Nathan shook his head, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a smirk. “Yeah, if public humiliation counts as entertainment.”

Lena darted back to his side and bumped his shoulder playfully. “Admit it. You’d be in Vatican jail without me.”

“Fine,” Nathan said, his smirk turning into a reluctant grin. “You’re disturbingly good at causing a scene. Happy?”

“Very,” she replied, spinning in a small circle before skipping ahead again. Her laughter was infectious, her energy a welcome contrast to the tension that had gripped them earlier.

As they turned onto a quieter lane near the hotel, the streets grew less crowded. The distant hum of a car engine replaced the chatter of tourists, and the warmth of the day wrapped around them like a comforting embrace—until the screech of tires shattered the calm.

Nathan’s head whipped around as a black sedan sped toward them, its engine roaring through the narrow street.

“Lena!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

She froze mid-step, her smile vanishing as alarm flickered in her eyes.

Without thinking, Nathan lunged toward her, throwing himself into a desperate dive. His body collided with hers, sending them both sprawling onto the cobblestones as the sedan sped past, missing them by mere inches. The car’s tires screeched again as it rounded another corner, disappearing as quickly as it had come.

Nathan lay on top of Lena, his heart pounding in his ears. The sunlight glinted off the cobblestones around them, but all he could see were her wide, startled eyes staring back at him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice rough, his breath warm against her cheek.

Lena nodded, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she caught her breath. “Yeah,” she whispered. “You?”

“Fine,” Nathan said, though his voice wavered slightly.

For a moment, time seemed to slow. The world around them faded, leaving only the intensity of their shared gaze. His hands were braced on either side of her, his face so close that she could feel the warmth of his skin.

Lena’s eyes flicked to his lips, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though the universe was pulling them closer together.

Then, she smirked, breaking the tension. “If you wanted to tackle me, you could’ve just said so.”

Nathan groaned, pushing himself off her and offering a hand. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, though his cheeks flushed as he helped her to her feet.

“Unbelievably alive, thanks to you,” Lena said, brushing off her clothes with a grin. But her eyes had softened now, a flicker of unspoken gratitude in them.

Nathan glanced down the street, his expression darkening. “That wasn’t random,” he said, his voice low.

Lena followed his gaze, her smile fading. “You think someone’s onto us?”

Nathan nodded, his jaw tight. “I don’t think. I know.”

They continued toward the hotel, the vibrant energy of the day suddenly feeling heavier. Lena stole glances at Nathan, her heart still racing—not from the car, but from the way he’d looked at her, the intensity in his eyes.

The streets of Rome seemed both alive and oppressively quiet. Lena’s chatter had quieted, replaced by thoughtful glances toward Nathan. He could feel her gaze, but he kept his eyes forward, his mind spinning with thoughts he didn’t want to acknowledge.

She was radiant in the afternoon light, her hair catching golden streaks as they moved through the narrow streets. The way she smiled at him, the way she teased and challenged him—it was magnetic. But it wasn’t right.

Lena wasn’t just anyone. She was his former pupil, the eager archaeology student he’d mentored years ago, full of curiosity and questions. He’d been there when her father died, watching as grief hardened her resolve and sharpened her determination. She was like a daughter in many ways, their shared history a bond deeper than blood.

And yet…

Nathan clenched his jaw, fists tightening at his sides as they walked. He could still feel the weight of her beneath him from moments ago, the way her breath had hitched, the almost-kiss that had hung between them.

“It’s just adrenaline,” he muttered to himself, too low for Lena to hear.

But it wasn’t. He knew that.

His thoughts betrayed him, drifting to her fiery determination, the way her voice quickened when she pieced together a new clue, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke of their mission. She wasn’t the young student anymore. She was a woman now—strong, passionate, and utterly devoted to their shared cause.

Perhaps that was all this was—the thrill of the chase. The danger and excitement of working so closely on something bigger than themselves.

Nathan inhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to dislodge the thought. What about Natalie?

Her name was a sharp sting, a wound that hadn’t healed. His chest ached with the memory of her—their life together, the promises they’d made, the dreams that had crumbled under the weight of a strained relationship and tragedy. He’d failed her, and the guilt clung to him like a shroud.

He still longed for her, even in his anger and regret. The image of her smile, the sound of her laugh—they haunted him, tethering him to a past he couldn’t escape.

How could he entertain these feelings for Lena when Natalie’s shadow still loomed so large?

He stole a glance at Lena, who was now a few steps ahead, her movements light and untroubled despite the near miss with the sedan.

Not with her. Not after everything.

Nathan clenched his fists again, his steps heavier as they reached the hotel. He forced a smile when Lena turned to him, her face bright with something between relief and triumph.

“You coming?” she asked, holding the door open for him.

Nathan nodded, his voice steady though his mind was anything but. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

As they entered the lobby, he buried the turmoil deep, pushing it down beneath layers of focus and logic. Their mission came first. It had to.

The Red Dragon

The door to the hotel room swung open, the muffled roar of hard rock spilling into the dim hallway. Inside, Elias sat hunched at the desk, headphones clamped tight over his ears, oblivious to the world. His fingers moved in a frenzy over the keyboard, an empty pizza box teetering on the edge of the desk, one greasy slice forgotten under the glow of his laptop screen. He was lost in his world, head bobbing to the relentless beat.

Lena exchanged a glance with Nathan, her lips curving into a mischievous smirk. Silently, she tiptoed up behind Elias, snatched the headphones off his head, and planted a playful kiss on his messy hair.

Elias flinched, nearly sending his chair crashing to the floor. “What the hell!” he exclaimed, clutching his chest. “You can’t just sneak up on someone like that! I could’ve had a heart attack, and then where would you be?!”

Lena shrugged with mock innocence. “Probably still here, eating pizza. You’re in a hotel room with a playlist from 2010 and a box of carbs. Not exactly life-or-death stakes.”

Nathan shut the door with a heavy thud that seemed to suck all the warmth out of the room. His bag slid from his shoulder, landing on the couch with a dull thump. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting to Lena, who had moved toward the window, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

Elias’s cocky grin faltered as he noticed the tension in their posture. “Alright,” he said cautiously, sitting up straighter. “What’s with the grim faces? Did you finally get hit by one of those Vespas zipping through the streets?”

Nathan’s eyes were sharp as a knife when they locked onto Elias. “They know we’re here.”

The atmosphere thickened instantly, a palpable weight pressing down on the room.

Elias blinked, his grin freezing in place. “What do you mean, they know?”

Lena’s voice was low, trembling with restrained urgency. “It’s like they were expecting us. Every move we made today—it felt like someone was one step ahead.”

Nathan’s fists clenched at his sides. “It’s more than that. Someone tipped them off. We’ve been compromised.”

Elias leaned back, pale and visibly shaken. His fingers ran through his already-disheveled hair, his usual bravado peeling away to reveal raw unease. “A mole?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lena turned, her glare cold and cutting. “I’m saying we’re exposed. And unless you’ve found something worth dying for, we need to disappear now.”

Elias sat forward, his expression shifting into something harder, almost defiant. “I’ve found something,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw. “Something big.”

Lena crossed her arms tighter. “It better be worth it.”

Elias hesitated, his eyes flicking between Nathan and Lena before lowering his voice. “The Order isn’t just some secret society meddling in Church politics. It’s older—far older than anyone realizes. I’ve been digging through encrypted forums, old manuscripts, whispers buried so deep most historians wouldn’t touch them. And they all lead back to the same thing.”

Nathan’s brow furrowed. “What thing?”

“The Grand Grimoire,” Elias said. “Some call it The Book of the Red Dragon.”

Lena stiffened. “The black magic book mostly bought by Marilyn Manon fans and angsty teenagers?.”

Elias shook his head, his tone dark and insistent. “That’s what they want you to think. But it’s real. And it’s not just any book—it’s a spell book designed for one purpose: to summon dark forces of unimaginable power. And it’s power can only be wielded when paired with Solomon’s Key.”

“The Grand Grimoire is written as a companion text to the Key. Think of it like an instruction manual for summoning. It’s ancient, meticulously detailed, and horrifying. However, when used together, the two aren’t just about conjuring demons—they’re about bending the fabric of reality itself. The rituals, the incantations—it’s all there. And the Order has been using it for centuries.”

Lena’s face darkened, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re saying they’re not just a cult pulling political strings. They’re…”

“Summoners,” Elias finished grimly. “They’ve been harnessing this power for generations. Think about it. How else do they stay invisible, untouchable? They don’t just manipulate influence—they control the idea of influence itself. Every king, emperor, billionaire—if they’re not a pawn, they’re a casualty.”

Nathan shook his head, his disbelief cracking under the weight of Elias’s certainty. “And Luther? How does he fit into this?”

Elias spun his laptop around, the screen displaying a scanned page from an ancient manuscript. “Some say Martin Luther stumbled across a not only an early copy of The Red Dragon during his investigation into Church corruption, but also the location of Solomons Key. What if part of the Reformation wasn’t just about theology? What if he saw something in the Church—something tied to this book? Something so dark Rome had to excommunicate Luther to stop him?”

Lena’s voice trembled as she stepped closer. “And you think the Order is still using this book?”

“They’re not just using it,” Elias said, his voice heavy with dread. “They’re guarding it like their lives depend on it. But, what if they have the Key now too?”

For a moment, the silence in the room was deafening. Then Lena spoke, her voice cold steel. “If we’re going to do this, we need a plan. And we need it now. Because if they have that kind of power, we’re not just out of time—we’re out of second chances.”

Elias locked eyes with Nathan, his voice a razor-sharp whisper. “Exactly. If this key exists—and if it’s where we think it is—we might be the only thing between this world and Armageddon”

Elias’s boots scraped against the stone floor as he paced back and forth, restless energy radiating off him like heat. He picked up and discarded items from the table—flashlights, coils of rope, climbing harnesses—before finally resting his hand on a small, newly acquired pistol. The cool steel glinted under the dim light, and Elias’s fingers brushed over it absentmindedly, as if testing its weight.

Lena’s eyes snapped to him, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Where did you get that?”

Elias glanced up, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “The internet. Al Gore’s greatest gift to humanity.” His attempt at humor fell flat, the sarcasm hanging in the air like a bad joke.

Lena didn’t smile. “That’s not what I asked.” Her gaze pinned him in place, steady and unrelenting. “You sure you know how to use it?”

Elias froze, his fingers tightening around the gun. His grin faded, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. “I’ve handled a gun before,” he said, his voice quieter now, less sure.

“Handled and fired are two different things,” Lena shot back, her tone unyielding.

Elias sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know what I’m doing. At least, I think I do.”

Nathan finally looked up from the map. “Let’s hope you don’t have to use it,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But if it comes to that, Elias, don’t hesitate. We can’t afford mistakes—not this time.”

Elias’s eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he looked as though he might say something. Instead, he nodded, the weight of Nathan’s words settling heavily on his shoulders.

“How do we even know we’re not walking into a trap?” Elias asked, his voice tinged with raw fear.

Nathan’s jaw tightened. “We don’t. But we don’t have a choice, either.” He turned back to the map, but his mind wasn’t on the inked lines. It was on the Order—their reach, their ruthlessness. The closer they got to the tomb, the more dangerous this became.

Elias wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his voice breaking through the tension. “So… what are we waiting for?”

Nathan exhaled slowly, finally stepping back from the table. His fingers hovered over the edges of the map, reluctant to leave it. “We need to rest,” he said, his tone softer now, almost fatherly. “Tomorrow, we’ll finalize the plan. Tonight, we need clear heads. No one makes good decisions on an empty tank.”

Time for bed," Nathans voice settling into a familiar, fatherly tone, though it carries the exhaustion of the day. The words hang in the air, and the group nods in agreement, fatigue urging them toward rest.

Lena moved first, stretching her arms above her head with a quiet sigh. Without a word, she disappears into the bathroom, the soft click of the door closing behind her barely audible.

Elias, reluctant to move, lets out a deep breath, then stands with a grunt, his round, hairy frame filling the space as he strips off his shirt. There’s no shame in the way he moves—his bulging stomach and thick chest glistening in the dim light as he shuffles toward his suitcase. In nothing but his undersized, faded Superman underpants, Elias starts fumbling for something, muttering to himself in a half-hearted search for sleepwear. His thick legs, covered in coarse hair, stand out as he moves, the sound of his boots thumping against the floor.

Nathan, already in a T-shirt and pants, settles onto the small couch with a sigh, tossing his shirt aside and attempting to find comfort in the cramped space. His exhaustion takes over, his posture slumping as his mind drifts between the remnants of the day’s tension.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open. Lena steps out, dressed in nothing but an oversized men’s shirt, the fabric falling lazily over her curved frame, the sleeves rolled back past her elbows. The shirt, clearly too big for her, flutters around her like an afterthought. There’s something effortless about the way she looks, her hair still damp from the shower, her skin fresh and glowing in the soft light. The absence of makeup only seems to make her look more natural, more genuine, and Nathan can’t help but notice how she carries herself—like the girl next door, unassuming, but somehow magnetic all the same.

She moves toward the bed, her long, bare legs slipping silently across the floor. Her presence seems to fill the space in a quiet, understated way. Nathan watches her for a moment before he shakes himself out of the trance, reminding himself that this is just Lena—the same Lena from the past few days, only now, a little more disarmed, a little more vulnerable.

Lena climbed into bed, the mattress creaking beneath her as she pulled the blanket up. She reached for the bedside lamp, her fingers grazing the switch. With a soft click, the room was plunged into darkness.

"Goodnight," she said, her voice quiet yet firm.

Nathan lay still for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the sudden blackness. He exhaled slowly, his mind lingering on Lena’s presence, the way she seemed to fill the space without effort.

"Goodnight," he replied, his voice carrying something more than routine.

Elias, having finished his own preparations, climbed into bed with a heavy, almost comedic thud. He let out a contented sigh as he settled into the mattress, adjusting the sheets around him.

"Goodnight," Elias grumbled from beneath the covers, his voice muffled but undeniably cheerful.

The room fell silent, the only sound the quiet hum of the night. Gradually, the tension of the day dissolved as sleep began to claim them, their bodies surrendering to rest.

For Nathan, sleep came in waves—relentless and drowning.

One moment, he was standing in a quiet jewelry store, the diamonds catching the low light. The next, he was driving through dark, rain-slicked streets, his fingers trembling as he glanced at the jewelry box in the back seat. He had worked for months to afford it, to make up for all he’d taken for granted.

But then Natalie’s gaze shifted, not toward the necklace, but something else. Something that didn’t make sense.

The soft rustle of paper. Her eyes flicked to the small note Nathan had written for Lena, thanking her for being the best friend she could ask for.

"What’s this?" Natalie’s voice, soft but sharp, cut through the stillness.

Nathan’s heart skipped a beat. "It’s for Lena. Just a little something for being there for us."

Natalie’s eyes darkened, anger twisting her features. "For Lena?" She snatched the note from his hands, her voice rising, frantic. "Do you really think I’m that stupid? You think I wouldn’t see what this is?"

The world blurred around Nathan as the argument escalated. Words became weapons—sharp and hurtful—until nothing made sense. She was screaming now, her voice cracking with pain as she slapped and punched at him.

"No, Nat—please—" he wanted to say, but it was too late.

In an instant, the world tilted. With a horrific scream, Natalie reached for the door, her hands gripping the necklace, and before Nathan could react, she was gone—flung violently from the car.

Time stopped. It was 1:13 on the dashboard.

Nathan’s chest hollowed, a cold emptiness spreading through him. He stumbled out of the car, the world a blur of flashing lights and screeching tires. His heart shattered as he rushed to her side, but it was too late. She lay motionless, the world slipping away as his own life fractured with hers.

Nathan woke with a jolt, drenched in sweat. His breath came in ragged gasps as he bolted upright in the dim room. His hand shot out, fumbling for his phone. The clock read 1:13.

The same time.

The nightmare clung to him like a cold sweat. His hands trembled as he wiped his face, the image of Natalie’s lifeless body haunting him—her unblinking eyes accusing him in a way nothing else could. He sat up slowly, the weight of his racing thoughts sinking in. His pulse thudded in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the hotel room around him.

The room was dark, almost suffocating in its stillness. Only the faint glow of distant streetlights filtered through the curtains, casting eerie shadows across the walls. Elias, sprawled across the bed opposite him, snored deeply, each breath a low growl reverberating through the room. The sound gnawed at Nathan’s fragile nerves.

Lena lay curled up beneath the covers. Her breathing was soft and rhythmic, almost childlike in its innocence. It was strange to witness, given the stress they’d all been under, the constant tension of their mission and the looming threat of the Order. Yet there she was, untouched by the nightmares that haunted the rest of them. Nathan envied her peace, the way she seemed to sleep without the weight of regret pressing down on her.

He swallowed hard, running his hands through his hair. The phantom images of Natalie flashed before his eyes again. The dream had never come this vividly before. It had always been a dull echo, a whisper of pain. But tonight... tonight it was different. The guilt was heavier, suffocating. He had been there, unable to save her. He had failed her, and no matter how many years had passed, no matter how many miles he had run, the truth never stopped cutting deeper.

Nathan rubbed his face, tears blurring his vision. The weight of it all was crushing. Her death. The fights. The years spent chasing the truth, hiding behind false duties. And Lena... Lena. She had always been innocent. A reminder of what he had lost. But that, he couldn’t think about now. Not tonight.

"I’m almost there, Natalie," he whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking like fragile glass. His words were swallowed by the darkness. The cool, damp air pressed in around him, thick with the weight of memories he couldn’t escape. The walls of the hotel room felt closer, suffocating, as if closing in on him, just as the guilt always did. He pulled his knees up to his chest, his head in his hands, trying to steady the storm inside him.

The silence pressed down on him like a physical weight. The muffled sound of Elias’s snoring. Lena’s soft breathing. The room felt like a tomb, a reminder of everything he had lost, everything he had failed to protect. Nathan stared at her for a long moment, wondering how his life had come to this.

I can’t let this break me anymore. The thought flickered, but it carried weight. He had to push it all away—his failures, his guilt. He couldn’t let it consume him. Not now. Not when they were so close. The Order was just around the corner, and the truth... the elusive truth... was waiting for them.

Nathan wiped his eyes again, the cool edge of his palm pressing against his skin, but the tears wouldn’t stop. The weight of them was nothing new. He had learned long ago to bury the pain, to hide it so deep that he could pretend it didn’t exist. But tonight, nothing stayed hidden. It all surged back, rising from the corners of his mind where it had festered for so long.

Tonight felt different.

He could feel the weight of everything bearing down on him—each decision, each mistake, each loss—pressing in from all sides. It was suffocating, the magnitude of what he had done, what he had failed to do, and the things he had buried deep, unresolved. His chest constricted, the air around him thick and heavy, as if the room itself was closing in.

Part of him screamed to walk away, to leave it all behind and let the darkness swallow him whole. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not when the end was so close.

Soon, everything could change.

"Soon he thought, his mind a blur of fear and anticipation, "the world might finally learn the truth. Or we might all be dead."

 To be continued...