The air in the square grew heavy, laden with the scent of smoke from the torches that Darío's followers held high. The priest, his black robe billowing in the icy wind, rose like a shadowy figure before the crowd. His eyes—filled with fanaticism and a strange blend of lust and hatred—swept over those gathered before he began his diatribe."Look at these women!" Darío shouted, pointing a trembling finger at Marcela and Lucia. "They are the very embodiment of evil, servants of the ancient gods who have brought calamity upon us! With their pagan rituals and their spells, they have invoked the wrath of heaven and the storm that lashes us!"
The crowd murmured; some nodded in fearful agreement while others looked on in disbelief. Marcela, still on the ground, tried to cover herself with what remained of her dress, but Darío strode over, seized her arm, and forced her to stand."This woman," Darío continued as he dragged Marcela toward the burgeoning bonfire, "has corrupted our souls with her lies! But today, the purifying fire of divine justice will cleanse her sin!"
The people watched in silence as Marcela was dragged toward the flames. Some lowered their eyes, unable to bear the sight, while others—hypnotized by Darío's fervor—chanted approving slogans. Lucia, who had been struggling against the guards holding her, cried out:"Enough, Darío! You are the one who has brought misfortune upon this town, not her!"
Darío turned to Lucia, his face distorted by a mix of anger and perverse pleasure."Ah, young Lucia!" he said, approaching her with a sinister smile. "You, who bear the symbol of Ceres on your chest, do you think you can defy the will of God? You are mistaken!"
With a sudden motion, Darío grabbed Lucia's dress and tore it apart, exposing her midriff and chest to the crowd. Lucia screamed—not only from the humiliation but also from the piercing cold that struck her. The people held their breath; some stared in horror, others with a morbid curiosity."Look!" Darío shouted, gesturing toward Lucia's bare body. "This is the flesh that has been corrupted by witchcraft! This is the temptation that leads us to sin!"
Lucia, trembling yet holding her head high, glared at Darío with eyes full of hatred."You are a monster," she whispered, her voice thick with contempt.
For a moment, Darío seemed to hesitate, but then, with an expression of feigned mercy, he said:"Perhaps there is still hope for you, young Lucia. You will not be burned… for now. Instead, you will be imprisoned in the papal residence, where you may reflect upon your sins and seek redemption."
With a wave of his hand, the guards dragged Lucia toward the papal residence—a gloomy building rising at the edge of the square. The crowd watched in silence, some with tears in their eyes, others with looks of fear and reverence toward Darío.
As Lucia was led away, a man from the town—a blacksmith named Tito—could bear it no longer. With a cry of rage, he lunged at the guards, attempting to free Lucia."Enough already!" Tito shouted, striking one of the guards. "I will not allow this to continue!"
But the guards, well-trained and armed, quickly surrounded him. In a swift movement, one plunged his sword into Tito's side, and he fell to the ground, profusely bleeding. The crowd erupted in shouts—some in horror, others in anger—but no one else dared intervene."Let this be a lesson to all!" Darío bellowed, pointing at Tito's dying body. "Anyone who opposes the will of God will face the same fate!"
The people, now filled with astonishment and fear, began to disperse, murmuring among themselves. Some wept, others muttered curses under their breath, but no one dared openly defy Darío. The priest, satisfied with his display of power, turned toward the bonfire where Marcela lay bound."May the fire purify her soul!" he shouted, and with a gesture of his hand, the flames began to grow, enveloping Marcela in a deadly embrace.
The weather in the square began to change ominously. The snowflakes that had gently fallen during the morning transformed into a cold, biting rain mixed with hard hail that struck the ground and the skin of those present like tiny bullets. The sky, once shrouded in a gray mist, darkened even further—as if the very heavens were dismayed by the acts unfolding below. The wind howled between the buildings, carrying a chill that seeped to the bone.
Amid this climatic chaos, Segismundo de Lariano advanced steadily yet silently toward Darío de Frascati, who still stood at the center of the square, overseeing—with a mix of satisfaction and fanaticism—the smoldering remains of the bonfire where Marcela had perished. The guards, busy containing the crowd and protecting Darío, did not notice the young noble's presence until he stood beside him.
With an innate elegance and a serenity that contrasted with the fury of the weather and the tension in the air, Segismundo leaned in slightly toward Darío's ear. His voice, soft yet imbued with unusual firmness, whispered:"Your Excellency, this is too much."
Darío jumped, spinning around to face his apprentice. His eyes, filled with anger and surprise, met Segismundo's, who for the first time since their acquaintance did not lower his gaze. The priest, accustomed to his pupil's submission, felt a spark of irritation mixed with disbelief."Do you dare challenge me?" Darío roared, his voice rising above the clamor of the hail. "I could have you whipped for this!"
Segismundo did not back down. Instead, he offered a calm, almost melancholic smile, as if he knew something Darío did not. With a disconcerting composure, he replied:"These soldiers are here to protect me, Your Excellency. Do not forget that."
Darío blinked, perplexed by his apprentice's audacity. For a moment, he appeared to waver, as if Segismundo's words had struck a sensitive chord in his mind. But then, his face hardened, and his voice resounded with a mix of disdain and warning:"What are you insinuating, boy? Do you think your lineage makes you immune to my authority?"
Segismundo maintained his smile, though his green eyes shone with a cold light, like the hail falling around them."No, Your Excellency," he said, his voice now firmer. "I only remind you that witchcraft trials require protocols, rules, and timing. I was surprised by the case of the lady you just burned. But I will ensure that the same does not happen with the girl."
The hail now pounded with greater force, and the wind lashed at them as if nature itself were enraged. Darío looked at Segismundo with a mixture of anger and curiosity, as if he could not decide whether the young noble was a brave fool or a latent threat. Finally, with a grunt, he turned away."Don't get me wrong, Segismundo," he warned, his voice laden with caution. "You are nothing more than a monk with an illustrious name. Don't pretend to be more than you are."
Segismundo did not reply. He simply inclined his head in a formal gesture of respect, yet his eyes remained fixed on Darío, silently defying the priest's authority. As Darío departed, escorted by his guards, Segismundo lingered in the square, under the icy rain and hail, watching the crowd slowly disperse—some murmuring to themselves, others casting fearful, resentful glances toward the papal residence where Lucia was imprisoned.
The young noble drew a deep breath, feeling the cold on his skin yet ignoring it. He knew he had crossed a line by confronting Darío, but he also knew he could not stand by while injustice gripped the people. With determination, he headed for the papal residence, resolved to ensure that Lucia would not suffer the same fate as Marcela.
The men had ascended to where the air grew razor-sharp, a cold that bit the skin and froze the bones. The narrow path snaked between the rocks, each step more arduous than the last. Their boots slipped on loose stones, and the wind whistled fiercely, carrying the visible breaths of the travelers. The sky, once clear, was now overcast with heavy gray clouds, threatening to unleash its fury at any moment.
Marco Hernico Caese led the way, his imposing and serene figure like a beacon of calm amid the approaching storm. Beside him, Septimio Alcarino Felicior walked determinedly, his green eyes scanning the rocky walls in search of mineral veins that only he could see. Every so often, he paused, placing a hand on the cold surface of the stone, as if he could feel the very heartbeat of the earth.
"Here," Septimio murmured almost to himself, pointing to a vein nearly imperceptible to the others. "This is the mineral I have been seeking."
Marco approached, examining the rock that Septimio indicated. Though he could not see what the young man saw, he trusted in his gift."Are you sure?" Marco asked, his deep, calm voice tinged with a spark of hope.
"Yes," Septimio replied, his tone a blend of enthusiasm and caution. "With this, we could revitalize not only this village, but also bring prosperity to the entire region."
Marco nodded, his face serious yet breaking into a slight smile of satisfaction."I hope you are right, young Septimio," he said. "This people have suffered too much. We need something to restore our hope."
The group continued upward, but the weather worsened dramatically. The rain began to fall, first as a gentle drizzle, but it quickly transformed into a furious storm. The wind howled among the rocks, and the hail pounded with such force that the men were forced to seek shelter in one of the ancient Roman mines.
Inside the mine, the atmosphere was damp and dark, yet the sound of the rain and hail was muffled, creating a relative calm. The men huddled together, shaking the water from their cloaks and garments. Marco approached Septimio, who was examining the walls of the mine with his mystical eyes.
"Do you believe there is still hope for the followers of the ancient gods?" Marco asked, his voice echoing softly in the confined space.
Septimio turned toward him, his green eyes shining in the gloom."The gods are not particularly concerned with the affairs of mortals," he replied, his voice calm yet firm. "Unless some power of chaos threatens creation, they scarcely stir once or twice a century. They only bestow gifts and blessings, but it is up to men to decide their destiny."
Marco nodded slowly, pondering Septimio's words. Meanwhile, the young man continued to inspect the mine walls until something caught his eye. On one of the walls, barely visible in the dim light, was a four-fingered handprint marked with black blood. Septimio approached and touched the mark with trembling fingers."What is this?" he murmured, his face visibly paling.
Marco came closer, examining the mark with a mixture of curiosity and concern."What do you see, Septimio?" he asked, his deep voice filled with unease.
Septimio did not answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the mark, as if he could see something the others could not. Finally, he turned to Marco, his face pale and grave."Something is wrong here," he said in a low voice. "This mark… it is not human."
The air in the mine seemed to grow even colder, and the men, who had been speaking softly, fell silent, sensing the tension emanating from Septimio and Marco. Outside, the storm raged as if the mountain itself were warning them not to be there.
Septimio knelt before the mine wall, his green eyes fixed on the four-fingered print stained with black blood. He extended a hand and touched the viscous substance, which glimmered faintly even in the dim light of the mine. The blood was cold to the touch, like a smoldering ember long extinguished yet still threatening. Cautiously, he brought his fingers to his nose and inhaled the scent. A metallic, rotten odor filled his nostrils, confirming his suspicions."There is no doubt," he murmured to himself, a cold, calculating smile creeping across his lips. "This is their work."
Rising with determination, he turned toward his hunters, who watched him intently, awaiting orders. Their faces, weathered by years of travel and battle, hardened at the sight of Septimio's expression."Gentlemen," Septimio said, his clear and firm voice resonating within the mine, "we have a nest of Orci."
The hunters needed no further explanation. In an instant, their hands moved with military precision—checking weapons and adjusting straps. Swords, bows, and daggers gleamed in the faint light as they murmured among themselves, recalling old tales and past battles against these creatures.
Marco Hernico Caese, who had been observing the scene with a mix of curiosity and concern, approached Septimio."What is an Orci?" the mayor asked, his deep voice laden with apprehension.
Septimio looked at him, his green eyes shining with an almost otherworldly light."Have you had stolen sheep, missing persons later found… cannibalized? Stories of short, grotesque men running in the darkness, attacking travelers on the roads?" he inquired in a serious tone.
Marco frowned, memories stirring at Septimio's words."Yes," he replied slowly. "That was why some townsfolk sent letters to Rome, asking for armed priests. We thought they were bandits or wild beasts, but…" he paused, looking at the handprint on the wall, "are you saying these creatures are responsible?"
Septimio nodded, his expression grim."The Orci are not mere bandits or beasts," he explained. "They are corrupted creatures, created to serve a dark power. They are cunning, brutal, and know no mercy. If they have established a nest nearby, it is only a matter of time before they directly attack the town."
Marco looked at Septimio with a mixture of disbelief and fear, yet also with a spark of determination."So, what should we do?" he asked, his hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his gladius hispaniensis.
Septimio smiled, but this time there was no trace of joy in his expression. It was a cold, calculating smile—the smile of a man who had faced these creatures before and knew what lay ahead.