Bezel had been to Italy more times than he cared to recount. He had wandered the cobblestone streets, watching with hollow and listless eyes as the world's most overrated art came to life. He had chatted with Leonardo as he smeared oils across his canvases, gotten drinks with Michelangelo. He had been in the city of statues as most the torturous scenes down the hall had been sketched out. 

Well, of course, he had only been there to seek the thread which occasionally thrummed up inside of him. No vast ocean's worth of paint had ever blossomed with even half as much color as the simple barmaid he'd found in Florence--so none of it had mattered. Not then, and not now. 

And yet--it was art, what he watched now. A living and breathing portrait of stained whites and onyx darks. It was the Bishop, coming undone and back together. It was a better performance than Bezel had ever been able to curate. An act that ran so deep, it fooled the actor. 

Ira Rule was becoming the perfect Bishop--and Bezel Pangeran was becoming nothing. He dragged out, with strained effort, one small wisp of strength from the hallows of his bones. He stretched it between his fingers, pulling until the smoke expanded into a blanket he could slip beneath. 

Ira straightened his spine beneath his black Bishop robe. He lifted his head, holding it high at the end of his pale throat. The sound of his racing heart pittered softly down into contentment. Every loose stitch of himself, he ripped out and replaced with steel hooks. There was nothing that could come between him and his goal, nothing that could shake his conviction. 

Bezel was trying not to expel the contents of his empty stomach across the pure hall. Which, in theory, seemed quite achievable. He hadn't eaten in years--yet his body protested. His stomach rolled, his eyes fluttered shut. His head, which was never quite full, seemed dizzily empty. As if all the thoughts inside of him had been leached out and woven into the material of his magic. 

The Bishop had been swallowed whole, consumed by the perfect image of a Heimrian knight. He gripped the brass ring tightly. His cold blue eyes shifted, seeking but never quite finding Bezel in the pearl hall. 

"Are you sure about this?" The Bishop asked.

Bezel tilted his head, absorbing the question and all it's possible meanings. "I know my magic is running thin, but I can hold onto this much."

"No, I-" Ira sighed, shaking his head. "I mean if we resort to your plan, it means mine didn't work. It means I didn't secure safety for the He-Goats. Will you still help me?"

Bezel tilted his head in consideration--and then stopped, remembering Ira couldn't see him. "Just let me worry about that. Besides, I have a much more pressing question."

"Which is?" Ira asked.

"How do I look?" The Prince teased.

"Very handsome," the Bishop agreed blankly. "You should definitely stay this way--maybe like all the time." 

"I can do an hour." 

"Make it two." 

"Not fair, dar-" 

Ira Rule shoved the heavy oak doors inward. The hinges squealed, sounding very similar to pigs in slaughter. In the open doorway, Ira Rule stood out as the single target. Against the empty white hall, his robe appeared the darkest of nights. 

Bezel leaned forward on his toes, arching up over Ira's left shoulder to drink in the design of the room. The cavern had been transformed into an amphitheater. Rows and rows of seating lined the walls, high and low, but all slanting down towards the bottom of the basin where a dias had been constructed. The stage to the grand theater. A hideous chunk of pale wood, risen up from the cold marble floors to form a half-moon shaped bench. Just as with the pews leading to it, the bench was also at full capacity. A sudden hush, as coating and thick as mist, filled the cavern. All eyes, popped and wide, turned towards the Bishop lingering in the doorway. 

Bezel had doubted Ira's claim that the Cardinals would gather for him. Maybe he half expected to open the doors to a very grand and very empty room--so maybe, if he could still be shocked by things, he might have been. 

Who was this young Bishop that the Cardinal's flocked to him? Was he made of birdseed? With nectar for blood and a worm for a tongue? 

A muscle in the thin white skin of the Bishop's jaw twitched. He rolled his shoulders, as if shrugging free from the weight of their surprise, and moved into the room. His polished black dress shoes made no noise as he descended the aisle maintained for him. They drifted across the marble. Bezel wished he had made even just a single scuffle. There was no noise in the room, not even the whisper of breath or the jump of a heart. Ira's grace was making it very hard to vanish. 

Bezel trailed behind him, turning his golden eyes towards the faces pointed at Ira Rule. They were painted masks, as posed as puppets. Hostility as bright as day, fear as clear as running water, curiosity as plain as paper. They gaped at the Bishop, treating him as an animal in a cage. As if they had no reason to hide how much he excited them. 

Bezel nearly scoffed in cold fabricated amusement. He had the notion that no one would have spared him a glance as long as Ira served as their entertainment. He could remain the Prince, he could take on the shape of a eight-foot tall orange flamingo, but that Heimrian boy would always outperform. 

In that atmosphere of withering silence, Ira led the way and Bezel trailed obediently behind. They climbed gently down, and down, and down. Each row they passed was filled. Hundreds of seats, thousands of eyes fixed to Ira. Bezel gazed upon each one. There was a nagging echo in the back of his skull. Something his older bother--or brother Mammon had taunted him with last summer. According to him, Bezel's soul was here. The key to unlocking his curse, to feeling again, had been stolen by his youngest siblings and hidden within the Progeny somewhere. But Bezel didn't know where. His connection had been severed, he had never felt his soul's reincarnation. 

It almost felt painful to search so blindly. What did it matter anymore? He had already agreed to leave, to go back to Hell--likely never to return again--and yet his eyes did not stop flickering through faces until they reached the bottom of the basin.

Ira came to a rest at the foot of the seating dias. There was a podium there. One which Ira Rule seemed familiar with. He reached for it, resting his flattened palm against the surface of it, nearly quick enough that Bezel couldn't see the trembling in his thin fingers--nearly. 

Familiarity, however, certainly wasn't what Bezel categorized his blank non-feeling as. No, he might even stretch as far to call it detached curiosity. This place had been hidden from him for centuries. Not really that he'd ever wanted to find it--but telling a child they couldn't touch the stove always dared them to try, and Bezel was no different. 

As Ira positioned himself at the podium, Bezel continued forward to the very edge of the stage. He leaned forward, gazing with golden cat eyes at the carvings etched into the side panels of the Cardinal's throne. In muted dissatisfaction, he crossed his arms over the chest of his white dress shirt. It seemed the Sect of Saint Francis had a thing for torture. Even here, statues of creatures in distress remained. Crude and imaginative images of what Bezel assumed to be his siblings in varying stages of death and defeat adorned the Cardinal's stage. It was, as art always was to Bezel, vain and pointless. 

A humorless scoff threatened to dance across the stage of Bezel's scripted features. Was that half goat monster writhing beneath the thick end of a hammer meant to be his Fourth sibling? Abaddon would have fainted at the accusation that they were anything akin to a Faun. 

"Ira Rule." The man seated in the center of the jury greeted, his voice anything but genuine. He leaned forward so that his red robes dripped down the front of the awful artwork, painting the still bodies with fresh blood. 

"Your Eminence," the young Bishop returned, his voice as warm as snow. "Thank you for gathering this council for me." 

"I owed Jethro a favor, don't think much of it." The Cardinal dismissed easily. From his position, from his scowled expression--and from the summer they had spent together--Bezel recognized him as his supposed enemy. Absalom Edom. The Cardinal charged with New York. Which meant, since he was the holy Yin to Bezel's demonic Yang--then the carving under his seat was meant to be a mirror. Bezel could not contain his golden eyes from wandering. They flickered towards the figure bathed in the Cardinal's fabric. His fingers, as if pulled by invisible strings, reached for the creature cowering on the ground, skinny bat-like wings beaten and plucked.  

"How dare you enter this place." 

Bezel lifted his gaze to the man seated over Abbadon, the one taking up space to Absalom Edom's left. His face, where it wasn't flushed red with rage, was taunt and pale. Against the mosaic of anger painted in his skin, there was a scarlet band of leather tied over his emptied left eye socket. Looking at him now, he did seem familiar. Bezel could recall him, stumbling through battle with his palm pressed to the freshly gouged wound. What had they called him? Hamasus? Turkis? 

"Salamis," Right, that. "calm yourself." 

Bezel's scrutiny swung right, trickling down the line of battered siblings to the last seat on the bench. To the one who had spoken. The seventh Cardinal, posed prettily over the scene of his sibling Asmodeus with a sword skewered through. She was a woman with hair as dark brown as coffee, with a complexion to match. Her ruby red robes seemed most fitted to her equally cold and equally holier-than-thou expression. 

"How can I be expected to still myself as that demon walks in here?" Salamis snarled.

Bezel perked one eyebrow and glanced over both sides of his shoulders. Had he really grown that weak? He couldn't even hold onto a simple cloaking spell anymore? Maybe he'd been pushing his luck too much. He took half a step back from the dias, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from idle wandering.

"A demon?" His voice, soft as silk, cut their words down into ribbons. Salamis and the woman he had seemed ready to throttle both froze, turning with renewed curiosity towards Ira Rule. He lifted his head, facing down the bench without so much as a wince. He straightened his spine, and set his shoulders square. "I don't see any demon here."

Bezel smirked. What a trickster this choir boy was turning out to be.

Salamis' jaw dropped, landing with a thud against the hideous cedar bench. "You! You're the demon! You led us all into damnation." His red sleeve flung forward, as striking as a snake. At the end, a talon which he leveled at Bezel's chest. The Prince might have flinched, except that he  could follow the path of Salamis' finger. At the end, standing behind Bezel, was the Bishop.

Ira didn't falter. "My actions weren't perfect, but they bought us time."

"Time?" Salamis hissed. "That is never what we demanded of you! You were supposed to save us!"

Bezel tipped his head, rubbing his chin in thought. That boy? The one with the fragile pale complexion, who seemed to run on mere seconds of sleep at a time, who didn't even have the guts to charge into Eden knives blazing--he was their savior? No wonder the Progeny had never made much progress in their efforts against the fallen Ely. If their battle strategy often hinged on children, well, what could they expect?

"I will not sit silently by as this court falls victim to blasphemy!" Salamis said. As his voice rang out, the full twang of his Southern accent slipped in between his teeth. It was the sort of cowboyish anger that transported Bezel right into a little white chapel, as the Priest raged on and as the people cried out in anguish to his every lash. 

"No one has ever, as much as we all pray for it, expected you to be silent." The woman sighed, pressing her nails into her eyelids. "I am already exhausted." 

"Ahaziah Rust, you-" 

"Salamis, please." Another Cardinal spoke. She sat in the seat above his Fifth sibling, the Prince Astaroth. She seemed hardly five years older than the Bishop standing corpse stiff at the podium. Maybe they truly did place all their hopes on children. "Ira Rule, please disregard the cruel and unkind words from His Eminence. We value your sacrifice, we always have. Without you and Melchior Brisbane--we would surely all have died that night."

The mask the Bishop had perfectly armed flickered. His heart whimpered out a skipped beat, his breath hitched. The corners of his lips dragged down--and then it was gone. Contained to a single second and swallowed. 

"Esther," Ahaziah Rust sighed. "You're too soft on him. You can show compassion without divulging into weakness." 

"I would rather be too kind than never kind enough." The fifth Cardinal, Esther, said. 

"Well, shall we put a pin in all this riveting bickering and put focus on the actual matter?" Yet another Cardinal asked. He sat beside Esther, lazed above Bezel's Sixth sibling Belphegor, depicted in a manner that matched hideous name to even more hideous appearance. In stark contrast to the beast beneath him, the man was as polished as marble. His brown hair had been shaved to his head in a soldier's style, the body beneath his cascading red robes was made of pure muscle. "Ira Rule, what a pleasure to finally meet you face to face. Since no one else seems keen on introductions, allow me to be the first. Barak Briar."

Bezel turned to Ira, who seemed just as clued in as the Prince. He nodded his head, bowing in polite--confused--greeting.

"Oh, do you require more? Alright. I am Barak Briar, the Cardinal to the Sect of Saint Dominic, who stands opposed the Sixth Prince of Hell Belphegor." As he spoke, he waved his hands around in mock spell-casting theatrics. "You don't recognize me because I was appointed only a year ago--due to my mentor, the previous Cardinal, being cut in half." 

"Barak!" Esther snapped. 

Barak laughed, shooing off her glare with a fluid shrug. "Those are the events. She was killed in battle against Legion." Esther's teeth sunk into her bottom lip. The other Cardinals averted their gazes to the hushed audience. 

The Bishop stood behind Bezel turned pale and dropped his gaze to his shoes. "I know the losses we endured were painful, but that is why we can't give up." 

"Give up?" Another chirped. Bezel's head swung back to the seat closest to the Absalom. She was just as ruby red as the rest of them. A hardened woman by the looks of her battlescar kissed face, not an opponent that Bezel would have liked to face--luckily he had Ira for that. "There is nothing to give up. We guard the gate, what more can be done?"

"Adira, please." Barak interrupted. "Introduce yourself." 

Adira tossed him a withering look, one which scalded even Bezel. She drew her lips back across the pink webbing of her slashed cheek and scoffed. "Adira Yarrow, Cardinal to the Sect of Saint Peter, who stood opposed the First Prince." 

"Thank you, Adira." Barak nodded. He swiveled in his seat, turning back to Ira. "Adira was appointed to her position at the same time as myself. For incredibly similar reasons." 

"I. . . I see." Ira swallowed. He turned to Adira then. "The gate is the least of our worries--if we don't stop the problem where it festers, the infection can never be cured." 

"The problem?" Adira pressed. 

"Mammon." Ira said, lifting his chin. 

A buzz of rushed whispers broke out across the gallery, riots rising to Ira's words. 

"Mammon?" The final Cardinal snorted. He sat up from his slouched position and ran his palm down his chin in thought. "Impossible. We all saw the Third Prince at the battle."

Barak Briar sighed and leaned forward in his seat. "The ego of men, I swear. Again, my apologies. They truly do expect you to have heard of them. Ira, this is Zephaniah Black-" 

"Cardinal to the Sect of Saint Simon who stood opposed the Second Prince Mammon and I say this is preposterous!" Zephaniah roared. 

"Zephaniah, the Third Prince was present at the battle. He fought alongside Absalom and myself." Esther said.

Bezel tilted his head. Did he? He had been too busy getting his face rearranged to take notice of anything else. 

"Or he was commanding the army! How can you say which Prince was the real one?" Zephaniah scoffed. 

They couldn't really be simple enough to fall for Mammon's petty decoy--could they? Bezel winced. Wasn't he using that same magic to trick them where he stood.

"That's enough of that nonsense. We all witnessed the second Third Prince come from the lake, this is all just useless chatter to distract from your Sect's failure." Absalom interrupted. Bezel was momentarily reminded of his small presence in the cavernous room. Ira Rule had painted him as their final obstacle--but that wasn't the impression Bezel got from the man. He seemed lost in thought, more interested in glancing at the grand double oak doors than partaking in the discussion. 

Zephaniah turned sheet white and sunk back into his seat. Barak nodded along to Absalom's words, thrumming his fingers along the surface of the bench as he did so. "I couldn't agree more. Our world is rapidly changing. Beasts rise by the second. Let us not waste a single one more." 

"Agreed." Ahaziah scowled. "Ira Rule, why did you gather the council?" 

"To remind them of the agreement." Ira answered. "The angels promised us a way to kill a Prince. Since we haven't, the job isn't over."

"It was a trick!" Zephaniah snarled. "We all saw Ira Rule raise the Vestige against the Third Prince-"

"Second Third Prince." Barak muttered.

"It doesn't matter what monster--it did nothing." Salamis said, glaring from his one remaining eye. 

"The Vestige isn't mine to use. It never was. It belongs to Melchior." The Bishop had a funny way of pronouncing that name. Softly, painfully, and never above the volume of a prayer. 

If the whispers in the seats before had been echoes, these ones were gunshots. The shouting began first in small outbursts, and then rolled and swelled up into a tidal wave. The gallery erupted into chaos. The Cardinal's seated at the dias shifted, tossing nervous glances back and forth. All except the center Cardinal, Absalom Edom. His eyes never drifted away from the court doors, as if wishing he could leave.

"That's outrageous!" Salamis barked. "That demon boy?"

"It's impossible!" Zephaniah agreed. "A Vestige is nothing but holy."

"It would explain some things." Ahaziah shrugged. 

"We all saw what happened to those pigs. The Vestige had power." Esther said. 

"Does it matter?" Adira asked. "The boy perished in battle, did he not?" 

Bezel turned his ears away from the rapid sting of Ira's whimpering heart. 

"Settle down, everyone!" Esther urged. "Let's hear him out."

"Hear him out?" Adira asked, her tone aghast as if she'd just witnessed a nun on a bender. "Why should we waste our precious little time sitting here, listening to some fanatic rave on about the past?"

"We gathered to hear Ira Rule's appeal." Barak said, twisting in his seat to face Adira. "Should we leave without it? I'm too curious to give up now. Ira, please. Tell us more."

Bezel spun on his heels, turning to drink in the full sight of Ira in his battle position. He rested his flat palms across the top of the podium, squared his shoulders, and spoke in a voice as smooth and enticing as silk. 

"I believe Melchior's soul is still out there, funneling power into the Vestige. If I could take the Vestige with me to find him, we could lead an offensive attack against Mammon. Cut this problem out at the roots--that's the only way to save the world." The court frosted, leaving Ira naked and exposed in the sudden pit of stillness. His fingers curled, digging into the edges of the podium. "I need the Progeny's support. We could lead an army-"

"I've had enough of this nonsense." Zephaniah interrupted, shooing his hands in front of his face. "Finding a dead demon boy's soul? Going to Hell? It's insanity." 

"I have reason to believe that Melchior is alive." Ira winced. "I-I mean that I could find his soul." 

"We all lost people that summer, Ira." Esther said, her voice lowered so that it hardly extended past the edge of the dias. "We all want to believe that we can be reunited with the ones we loved, but going to Hell? You can't really believe you'll find what you seek down there." 

"No, I-" Ira choked. The vultures, parading in their red feathers, began to circle.

"Stop entertaining a sick child, Esther McCloud." Adira scolded. "Say what you mean: it's impossible."

"And offensive to even suggest." Salamis added, nodding along so vigorously Bezel worried the tie on his eyepatch might loosen. 

"It's possible!" Ira pressed. "We can ask the Third Prince to open a gate-" 

"Angels! Of course he would want us to return to the Prince!" Zephaniah shouted. 

"It's in his blood." Salamis agreed. "Traitor blood, traitor bones, traitor heart." 

Ira's composure, which had begun to slip, crumbled. His armor fell apart in chunks, revealing a pale-faced and shaking child. Bezel conjured in his mind the idea of what he would feel in his chest if he could. He pretended that he pitied the boy. After all, it was sort of Bezel's fault. It seemed the choice to involve him last summer had been Ira's alone, and it had made him unpopular. 

"I'm only thinking of saving us!" Ira pleaded. 

"You had your chance. The angels demanded that you spill the cursed blood as payment for the Vestige, you ran to the Third Prince instead. Perhaps that sin is what corrupted the Vestige!" Salamis roared, slamming his fist against the bench as he did. "Absalom, you thought this boy was redeemable. You thought you could save him from his fate--but he will always choose to go against us." 

Ira's eyes fell to his feet and stuck there. Absalom shifted in his seat, turning finally back to the moment. He tore himself from his staring competition with the grand oak doors and sighed. 

"I'll admit that I made many mistakes during my reign." He said. Salamis scoffed in victory, Esther opened her mouth to protest--but quickly fell silent with one quick glance from Absalom. "However, I believe that Ira Rule is coming here with only the best of intentions." 

Ira flinched. His blue eyes flickered towards Absalom before quickly retreating once more to the floor. 

"It's madness, Absalom!" Zephaniah sputtered. 

"Passion is often mistaken for obsession." Absalom shrugged. "Then, that is your proposal, Ira Rule? You seek the Progeny's support to cross into Hell and hunt Mammon?" 

"Yes, Your Eminence." Ira whispered. 

"This is just-" 

"Silence, Zephaniah." Ahaziah snarled. 

"A vote then." Absalom said, his voice as light as lint. He had the attitude one might adopt before playing rock, paper, scissors over the dinner bill. "All who wish to amass an army and send them to Hell speak now." 

"Are you. . . are you being serious, Absalom?" Esther squeaked. 

"Why would I be joking?" He asked. "We have agreed to hear Ira Rule's proposal, and now it's come time to vote on the matter. So, vote." 

The court was silent. As still as, well, as a church. 

Absalom scoffed, shaking his head. "I heard nothing but chatter for what felt like hours but now that your words actually matter you have none? What, is it too difficult to decide? Alright, then allow me to be the first. I vote for." 

"W-what?" Salamis balked. 

"Absalom!" Ahaziah said. 

"You disagree?" He challenged. "Then vote! Speak up so that everyone here can hear you. Give them something to remember as we all sit idly by and watch our world burn in Hellfire." 

"A-against!" Zephaniah stammered. "We can't trust him, or the Prince." 

"Against." Salamis agreed.

"For." Esther said, speaking between the fingers pressed to her lips. 

"Angels, save us." Adira sighed. "For. I would rather fail once more than say we never tried." 

"I'm sorry, Absalom." Ahaziah breathed. "I just don't think this is the best way. It's too. . . unstable. Against." 

The six spoken Cardinals turned in their seats, eyes falling to the last. Barak Briar had placed his elbows on the bench. He leaned forward, his chin resting in his cupped palms. "Well, and then there was one." He chuckled. 

"This isn't a joke, Barak. Your vote will be the final word." Esther said. 

"Yes, yes. I'm aware of how voting works." He dismissed. "Then, before I make the ruling. I just have one question for the young Bishop." 

Ira lifted his head, bringing his gaze to meet Barak's without hesitation. 

"Why, after all we have suffered, should we place our faith in you?" The Cardinal asked. 

The Bishop's eyes fell back to the podium, crushed down under the weight of a thousand other glares. Bezel turned his golden stare to the surface of his shoes. He couldn't bare to add to the insurmountable burden. He didn't want to be the same as the rest of them, gawking at his open wounds. He didn't know why it mattered--no one could see his stare. In the silence of the theater, Bezel turned his attention to what he could still hear: the steady thump of Ira's heart. 

The Bishop inhaled. His pulse skipped. And he spoke, filling the amphitheater with his presence. "I don't want your faith." 

Barak scoffed. "That's an interesting approach, Ira. Do you mean to insult the Progeny? You'd like us to follow a man we can't trust into Hell?" 

Ira tilted up his chin, looking up into the panel of Cardinal's with only determination in his ocean-cold eyes. "I'm not an angel. I require no faith, no admiration, no gratitude. I only need one thing from the Progeny--for them to remember."

"What is it you think we've forgotten?" Barak asked. 

"Your oath." Ira answered. "You swore to bathe the world in blood if that is what it took. And I'm telling you that there is no other way." 

Barak nodded, leaning back into his seat with a slight smile etched across his face. He laughed, the echo of it filled the cavern. "Well, Ira, that was certainly one Hell of a scolding. I'll be honest, I'm feeling quite moved. Which is why I don't want you to take this personally." 

There was always a moment. The second before impact, when nothing could be done to avoid the inevitable. When all that could be done was to sit and watch. Bezel knew that was how Ira felt then, he could see it in his eyes. As they drifted slowly shut, Bezel knew that he knew it was too late. 

"Against." Barak ruled. 

It was over. 

"Three for, four against." Zephaniah barked. "Now, can we all be done with this circus?" 

Well, Bezel couldn't fault Ira for trying. His attempt had been brave. There had been a moment when Bezel almost believed he could do it. 

"Then what now, Zephaniah? We all go back to tucking our heads in the sand?" Esther snapped.

Bezel rolled his shoulders and tucked up his sleeves. Fine, then. Onto plan B--the reason why the Prince had bothered with concealing himself at all. If they wouldn't hand over the Vestige, then Bezel would remove their choice. The back-up plan was easy enough: pick a Cardinal and trail behind them until they led him to the Vestige. That Salamis Cedar seemed a good choice. He kept flinching, glancing around the room with his one good eye--as if he already suspected he was being fooled.  

"Yell at me all you want. We voted, you lost." Zephaniah gloated. "Well, if you'll excuse me-" 

BOOM! 

The echo of the grand double doors flying inward startled the Cardinals into silence. Ira spun around, shaken from his shock. Bezel followed suit, blinking his golden eyes in disinterest. They twisted in time to face the intruder rushing into the theater. It was a man in classic black Bishop robes. The neat style of his ceremonial clothing was the only composed part of him. His black and gray hair was disheveled on his head,  the glasses on his face askew. 

His arms were filled with the largest book Bezel had ever seen--and Bezel had seen many, many things over his eons. He jogged down the center aisle, shouting meek apologies every few paces. Absalom laughed. One single chuckle that passed his lips so softly, Bezel was sure he had been the only one to hear it. 

"Father?" Ira whispered, tipping his head in stunned confusion. 

Bezel blinked. Father? Perfect, just what the places needed--more priests.

"Sorry I'm late! I got caught in traffic. I had to just get out and run." The man huffed. He reached the podium and dumped the colossal book onto the surface there, turning then to face the stunned Bishop. "Hey, kid." 

"Father, what are you doing here?" Ira hissed, his eyes wide and rimmed with unshed tears.

"I, too, would like an explanation!" Salamis demanded. "Why are you here, Jethro Pine?" 

"We have already concluded our vote, Jethro!" Zephaniah snorted. "We will send no army to Ira Rule's aide, nor will he be granted the Vestige." 

"Fine," Jethro shrugged. 

"F-fine?" Zephaniah stammered. 

Fine? Bezel thought. He hovered at the base of the dias, his mind spinning between moving onto plan B or hearing out Jethro Pine. His golden eyes moved to Ira, who stared up at Jethro with as much admiration as a lost kitten. Bezel relaxed back down onto the base of his feet and crossed his arms. If Ira trusted him, maybe Bezel could wait. 

"Fine." Jethro agreed again. "What can I do? The council has already made their decision, I'm only a humble Bishop myself. I have no right to protest. But since I have the council gathered here already, I hope they will take a moment to hear my proposal." 

"Your proposal?" Salamis scoffed. "This is ridiculous. He never petitioned us for our time."

"So, what?" Barak sighed. "I'd rather hear this now than fly back home, get the petition, and return a second time. And you, Salamis?" 

Salamis sighed heavily and sank back down into his seat. 

"Great!" Jethro quipped. "Then, if you'll just give me a moment." He opened the twenty pound book he'd dropped onto the podium and flipped hurriedly through the pages. Great clouds of dust billowed up from the wrinkled and stained pages. Ira Rule winced and took a step back from the book, shaking his head to clear it from the dust. Jethro's face lit up, his finger tapping on a page within the encyclopedia. He turned to Ira and smiled. 

"What?" Ira asked, taking a nervous step back towards the stand. 

Jethro Pine turned back to the Cardinals and shouted. "I suggest an Ascension!" 

The Cardinals perched on their bench scoffed and sighed. 

"Really, Jethro?" Esther said. "You think right now is the time to be making career moves? As if we don't all have much bigger problems. You've been a Bishop for twenty years now. Despite all of us pestering you, why do you want to raise your position now? This makes no sense." 

"Oh, whatever." Zephaniah dismissed. "Let us grant it already and be done. All that's required from us is a vote, Absalom will have to assign his task as his Cardinal--which can be done after I am on the soonest flight home."

"Well, I would hate to take up any more of your time." Jethro said, bowing. "Then, should we just get on with it?" 

"Very well," Adira Yarrow began. "For."

"For." Zephaniah Black said. "Now, I'll be off." 

"For." Absalom Edom agreed, a slight light of a smirk etched into his features. 

"For." Salamis Cedar muttered.

"For, I suppose." Esther McCloud said. 

"For." Barak Briar said. 

"For." Ahaziah Rust finished. 

Jethro Pine smiled, turning to face Ira with that blinding bright look. Ira creased his eyebrows together, pinching them down into obvious confusion. Absalom Edom rose from his seated position. He spread his arms out, palms faced upward, and raised his voice so that there could be no question of his declaration. "Very well, as voted by the council, I approve this Ascension. Ira Rule, please step forward." 

Salamis Cedar turned pale, his jaw dropping with an audible pop. "Wait-" 

"It's Jethro's Ascension." Zephaniah stammered.

"Said who?" Absalom snarled, fixing them each with a glare. They fell back into silence, discontent in their red robes. Ira stepped hesitantly out of his place behind the podium. He tiptoed to the edge of the dias and bowed his head. The sound of his heart was as thunderous as a sea storm. 

"Ira Rule, I approve of your Ascension." Absalom said, his chin tilted in defiance. "However, I find it unnecessary. For leading the battle against Legion last summer, you deserve more than the rank of Archbishop. Therefore, I accept this Ascension for two positions ahead." 

Ira's eyes widened. His heart leapt, slamming against the jar of his ribs. The thump was so loud, Bezel nearly felt it in his own unbeating organ. 

"Absalom!" Esther hissed. 

He pressed forward, ignoring her and all the others gasping and writhing in the audience. 

"Ira Rule, I challenge you. Become the next Cardinal of this Sect." Absalom said, his eyes were unflinching as they met Ira's. "For an Ascension of this degree, you may find your pilgrimage to be an impossible task. Do you still wish to proceed?"

Ira nodded.

"Very well." Absalom smiled. "I order you to kill our enemy in Hell with the Vestige granted to us by the angels. Do you accept?" 

Ira lifted his head. "I accept." 

The court erupted into chaos.