Brother Thomas ran down the intricately decorated halls of the Vatican’s basement complex. His robe fluttered behind him as his footsteps echoed against marble floors worn smooth by centuries of devout feet. The sealed letter in his hand bore the crimson wax seal of Cardinal Antonius, head of the prophetic division. He clutched it so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

  This wing of the Vatican remained hidden from the public and most of the clergy, its Renaissance era hallways illuminated by modern lighting that somehow made the ancient religious artwork lining the walls seem more ominous than reverent. Saints with hollow eyes seemed to follow his progress, martyrs’ faces frozen in ecstatic agony.

  Brother Thomas slowed as he approached an imposing set of double doors adorned with intricate carvings depicting the eternal struggle between angels and demons. A plaque beside the entrance read simply: Office of Discernment.

  Taking a steady breath, he knocked firmly.

  “Come in, Thomas.” The voice from inside carried the weight of authority even through the thick oak.

  Cardinal John Roberts sat behind an antique desk that had once belonged to an inquisitor, its surface cluttered with modern tablets alongside ancient manuscripts. At fifty-eight, Roberts bore the weathered face of a scholar who’d seen too much, his silver-rimmed glasses perched on a nose that had been broken at least once. The diplomatic face of the Vatican’s intelligence operations, he balanced tradition with pragmatism in ways that sometimes put him at odds with the current administration.

  “Monsignor,” Thomas said with a respectful nod, his heart still racing from his sprint through the underground complex.

  Roberts studied him for a moment, noting the sweat on his brow and the way his hand trembled slightly. “What has the prophetic division completely up in arms? I’ve been getting calls all day to set up a meeting.”

  “The Black Scroll, monsignor.” Thomas’s voice trembled slightly as he spoke the words.

  Roberts stiffened, immediately sitting straighter. “Enough with the honorifics, Thomas!” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “What about the infernal thing?”

  “Mons... Cardinal,” Thomas corrected himself, “the thing made every seer we have go into convulsions last night. Sister Agnes first, then Father Matthias, then the rest like dominoes.” He swallowed hard. “It seems another Upheaval is before us.”

  “My God,” whispered Roberts, making the sign of the cross with practiced precision. His lips moved in silent prayer for a moment before he continued. “Could they glean anything from the visions before they lost consciousness?”

  “About that, sir.” Thomas fumbled with the letter; his fingers clumsy with urgency. He presented the sealed envelope bearing the Prophecy head’s ornate seal. The crimson wax gleamed under the office lights like a drop of fresh blood.

  Roberts took the envelope with reverence, his movements careful as he slid a letter opener beneath the seal. From within he extracted a sheet of vellum covered in spidery handwriting. The letters seemed to shimmer and fade as he read them, an effect Cardinal Antonius had perfected to ensure sensitive information could only be read once.

  His eyes widened as he scanned the contents. “Are you absolutely certain of this transcription? No chance of misinterpretation or symbolic reading?”

  “Sister Agnes confirmed it upon waking. Father Matthias separately corroborated before we even told him what she’d seen. Then the others, all seven gave the same testimony.” Thomas clasped his hands to stop their trembling. “Cardinal Antonius verified it personally.”

  Roberts crumpled the letter in his fist, a rare display of emotion from the usually composed Cardinal. He muttered something that might have been a curse before catching himself.

  “What did it say, sir?” Thomas asked, his voice barely audible.

  Roberts tossed the crumpled paper into the ornate fireplace, where it caught flame immediately, the vellum curling as the words literally evaporated in small wisps of purple smoke—another of Antonius’s security measures.

  “The worst possible words,” he said, his voice hollow. “Chaos Seed.”

  Thomas inhaled sharply. In the three centuries of cataloged prophecies, the term had appeared only twice before; once before the Black Death and again before the Great War.

  Cardinal Roberts walked to his desk and reached into a bottom drawer, producing a pack of cigarettes with practiced discretion. “Tell me, have you seen the reports from our financial intelligence group?”

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  “The anomalies in the American Southeast? Yes, though I didn’t realize they might be connected.”

  “Everything is connected, Thomas. The Holy Father has been having dreams again.”

  This news sent a chill down Thomas’s spine. Pope Samuel’s dreams had proven unnervingly accurate in matters of spiritual significance. The current Pope had risen through Church ranks with remarkable speed, his natural charisma and ability to connect with troubled souls making him particularly effective in confession and spiritual counseling. His election had been heralded as the beginning of a more traditional papacy, a return to core values amid a changing world.

  “His Holiness believes we are approaching a critical juncture,” Roberts continued, guiding Thomas toward the door. “Come, let’s continue this somewhere more appropriate.”

  They walked to the courtyard garden, a small oasis of peace nestled within Vatican walls. Cardinals often came here to discuss matters away from electronic surveillance, though few had Roberts’s legitimate reasons for paranoia. Once outside, the Cardinal lit his cigarette with trembling hands.

  “Mind if I bum one, sir?” Thomas asked, surprising himself with the request.

  Roberts passed him the pack with a knowing look. “This was supposed to be my last pack.” He took a long drag, watching the smoke curl toward the evening sky. “Quitting seemed important yesterday.”

  Thomas accepted a cigarette gratefully. He hadn’t smoked in years, but some news demanded chemical fortification.

  “Get the investigation division up and running,” Roberts instructed, his voice steadier now. “I want everything from everywhere under our seers’ eyes. Notify me the moment something odd shows up. The movements of a Chaos Seed must be monitored and neutralized.”

  Thomas nodded, understanding the gravity of his assignment. The Office of Discernment had been established specifically for such threats; those that existed in the shadows between science and faith, between the material and spiritual worlds.

  A group of tourists passed by on the other side of the garden wall, their excited chatter a stark reminder of the normal world that continued in blissful ignorance of what transpired within these ancient walls.

  “What about the Holy Father?” Thomas asked. “Will you inform him directly?”

  Cardinal Roberts exhaled a plume of smoke that seemed to hang in the air longer than it should have. “I’ll take care of it. Pope Samuel has been... particularly receptive to divine guidance lately. We must approach this carefully.”

  Thomas recognized the diplomatic phrasing for what it was. The Pope’s increasingly frequent claims of direct divine communication had caused quiet concern among the College of Cardinals. His certainty had grown more absolute, his tolerance for dissenting theological opinions narrowing.

  “One more thing,” Roberts added, his voice dropping further. “The financial patterns in America, they center around a man named Alexander Evans.”

  “The tailor turned investor?” Thomas asked, surprised he recognized the name. “I saw something about him in the briefing packets from the clocktower informant.”

  “The very same. His sudden financial acumen is... unprecedented.” Roberts stubbed out his cigarette against the ancient stone wall. “But more concerning is what our energy monitoring systems have detected around him.”

  “Energy signatures?”

  “Similar to those recorded at verified miracle sites, but... different. More controlled. More purposeful.” Roberts handed Thomas a small flash drive. “Review these files personally. Use the secure terminal in Archive Room B.”

  Roberts stared up at the darkening sky, his expression unreadable. “We’ve seen individuals with unusual abilities before, Thomas. Throughout our long history, the Church has encountered those who appear to defy natural law. Most were saints. Some were quite the opposite.”

  “And Evans?”

  “That’s what we need to determine.” Roberts turned his gaze back to Thomas, his eyes reflecting the last light of day. “Father Ignacio should be informed. He has access to records that might provide historical context.”

  Thomas nodded, understanding the significance of involving the reclusive Vatican archivist. Father Ignacio guarded the most sensitive historical documents in the Church’s possession; the accounts too troubling or inexplicable to be accessible even to most Vatican scholars.

  “Brother Jack should be contacted as well,” Roberts added. “If field operations become necessary, he’ll lead them.”

  The mention of Brother Jack sent another chill down Thomas’s spine. The priest’s military background and unquestioning devotion to papal authority made him the perfect operative for situations requiring direct action. His involvement suggested Roberts was preparing for worst-case scenarios.

  “We’ll need to coordinate with our parishes near Evans’s operations,” Thomas suggested. “Perhaps an undercover assessment first?”

  “Agreed. Subtlety is essential until we know what we’re dealing with.” Roberts straightened his robe, visibly composing himself. “I must report to His Holiness now.”

  As Roberts departed toward the Papal apartments, Thomas remained in the garden, staring at the flash drive in his palm. Throughout Church history, threats had emerged from unexpected quarters, challenging the boundaries between divine providence and demonic interference. How would Alexander be classified when all of this was said and done?

  He thought of the Black Scroll’s warning: A Chaos Seed. The very term suggested something fundamental being planted, something that would grow beyond control if left unchecked.

  Thomas made the sign of the cross and whispered a prayer for guidance before heading toward the archives. The Church had faced existential threats before and prevailed. It would do so again, no matter what this Alexander Evans represented.

  In the distance, lights came on in the Pope’s private chapel. Through the stained glass, Thomas could see the silhouette of Pope Samuel kneeling in prayer, his head bowed and hands clasped. The Holy Father often spent hours in communion with God, emerging with clarity of purpose that brooked no opposition.

  As Thomas watched, the Pope suddenly raised his head and spread his arms wide, as if embracing a vision only he could see. Even from this distance, there was something unsettling in the gesture; an intimacy with the divine that went beyond traditional piety.

  Thomas turned away, unable to shake the feeling that forces were aligning beyond human comprehension, with Alexander and Pope Samuel as opposing pieces on a cosmic board.

  And somewhere in the shadows between them, the Black Scroll’s prophecy waited to unfold.