That night, the Vatican did not sleep. The apostolic palace, a beacon of faith, pulsed instead with fear and conspiracy. Guards vanished without explanation; cameras were turned off; the air thickened with incense and tension. Pope Leo 14th entered expecting dialogue but found judgment. The wooden door was locked—not for security, but to prevent escape. “No, Your Holiness,” came the chilling words. “You are alone.”

The cardinals’ red robes, once symbols of faith, now seemed stained with the blood of betrayal. Incense smoke masked darker scents. One cardinal held a document; another avoided the pontiff’s gaze. In gold letters, the word “Resignation” glowed ominously.

 

 

The pope realized the enemy was not outside the Church but seated at his table.

Cardinal Burke, tense and impatient, drummed his fingers. Sarah clutched an open breviary, fingers trembling. Teagle whispered prayers, eyes downcast. The silence broke with the Pope’s voice: “Why was I brought here with doors closed and head bowed?”

Burke spoke sharply: “Holy Father, we serve you, but tonight we must speak as guardians. Rumors spread across Rome; doubt grows among the faithful.”

“Doubt about what?” the Pope asked.

“In your leadership,” Sarah replied, voice trembling. “You are the pastor the Church needs.”

 

 

The Pope’s crucifix gleamed as he stood. “You speak as if the Chair of Peter is an object to be given or taken at will.”

Tegel’s pained voice: “Holy Father, it’s necessity. The Church trembles. The world watches. Many believe it cannot bear this weight.”

The Pope thundered: “What do you want me to do?”

Burke’s razor words: “You must resign. Resign with dignity or face trial.”

Murmurs filled the room. Sarah prayed frantically; Teagle wept silently. The Pope, pale but fierce, raised the crucifix: “May Christ decide if I remain. I was chosen by heaven, not you.”

 

 

The lamps flickered violently; incense twisted into an empty throne painted on the ceiling. Silence gripped the room.

Then—three heavy knocks echoed from the locked door. No one had called anyone. The Pope’s gaze pierced the darkness.

“Did any of you call?” he demanded.

“No one,” Burke snapped.

The knocks came again, slow and deliberate, matching heartbeats. The incense swirled; Sarah murmured, “Domin, deliver us from evil.”

The Pope stepped to the door, crucifix raised. “If you come from God, enter in peace. If not, withdraw in silence.”

 

 

No answer—only one final, forceful knock.

Burke broke the tension: “Holy Father, this is no time for riddles. Your papacy has fractured unity. If you don’t resign, what will we do?”

The Pope turned, crucifix raised. “I will not abandon the flock because of whispers.”

Letters circulated among the faithful, speaking of division and doubt. Teagle’s voice cracked: “Many believe he was not elected.”

The Pope’s sadness deepened: “And you, Ludvig, think so too?”

The lamps flickered; the door’s bolt clicked open. The cardinals rose in alarm.

 

 

The door revealed only darkness.

The Pope advanced, crucifix shining. “Let us see whose throne heaven intends.”

The lamps brightened. On the papal chair lay a sealed envelope, ancient and marked by an unknown seal.

No one claimed responsibility.

Burke whispered: “Did you see? No one touched it.”

Sarah gasped: “Then it was not placed by human hands.”

 

 

The Pope held the envelope, warm and pulsing. He broke the seal and read aloud:

“You’ve sat still long enough. The shepherd carries a weight he cannot bear. The flock scatters. Descend or be destroyed.”

Sarah clutched her breviary; Teagle wept; Burke’s jaw clenched.

“Holy Father, heaven confirms what we demand,” Burke said.

The Pope slammed the table, crucifix scraping wood. “Do not insult what is sacred! Do you dare chain heaven’s voice to your murmurs?”

Burke retorted: “Are you blind?”

 

 

“Holy Father,” Burke insisted, “the message is clear. Even the invisible demands your resignation.”

The Pope’s eyes shone: “I will defy shadows and lies. I was not made for you to command.”

The parchment trembled; new glowing letters appeared:

“By dawn, the chair will be empty.”

The cardinals recoiled.

The chamber shook; frescoes cracked; Sarah cried out for mercy.

A chair’s scrape echoed—though no chair moved.

The Pope commanded: “Come forward.”

 

 

The noise ceased; a dull thud fell.

Teagle whispered: “A seat has been placed.”

Burke grimaced: “Or a throne to replace mine.”

The Pope approached the door, crucifix glowing.

“If this is judgment, let it be clear. I will not bow to whispers.”

Sarah pleaded, but he crossed the threshold.

The corridor was dark, frescoed with martyrs and saints.

A humble wooden chair stood, worn by time.

 

 

The Pope placed the envelope before the cardinals.

His voice was deep: “Here is the voice that seeks to judge me. Let us hear.”

He broke the ribbon; the ink glowed faintly.

He read: “A shepherd who cannot be trusted ceases to be a shepherd. The flock scatters.”

The room murmured.

Burke: “Explicit.”

Sarah prayed; Teagle wept.

 

 

The Pope slammed the parchment: “This is not heaven’s work. It’s a hoax.”

The paper vibrated; more glowing words appeared:

“At dawn, no seat will remain occupied.”

The chamber shook; fresco cracked.

Sarah sobbed; Burke muttered: “This is condemnation. He must resign now!”

Teagle grasped the Pope’s robes: “If trial, leaving is denial.”

The Pope raised crucifix: “If midnight finds me empty, let Christ empty me, not you.”

 

 

The ground split; a scorching wind blew; lamps extinguished.

In darkness, the papal chair scraped marble, trembling on the edge of an abyss.

The Pope gripped the arms, voice firm: “If the chair falls, I fall with it.”

Sarah cried: “Don’t mistake stubbornness for faith.”

Burke warned: “Heaven drags you into the abyss. Resign or be removed.”

Teagle implored: “Stay, pray, do not resist heaven.”

The chair tilted; half his body suspended.

The Pope declared: “Peter fled once; I will not. If I find him, let him be here.”

 

 

The throne teetered; the mark on his robe glowed.

Burke: “If you stay, you condemn us all.”

The Pope’s voice boomed: “I will not obey your order. Only Christ can empty this chair.”

The chair shook violently, throwing the Pope against it.

Silence fell.

The throne hovered, trembling.

From within came a voice: “At midnight, the chair will choose.”

 

 

The cardinals fell to their knees, screaming.

Sarah sobbed; Burke stood torn; Teagle collapsed.

The Pope raised crucifix, voice choked: “Let the chair choose. Strike me if false; keep me if true.”

The ground crashed but did not swallow the chair.

The bells of St. Peter’s rang—the midnight bells—piercing the sleeping city.

The chair swayed on the abyss’s edge.

The cardinals prayed frantically.

The Pope’s lips murmured: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

 

 

As the last bell tolled, silence fell.

Light burst; the chair lurched but did not fall.

Dust showered; the throne landed solidly.

The Pope remained seated, alive and serene.

Tears flowed among the cardinals.

Sarah cried: “Stay!”

Teagle rested, relieved.

Burke’s face was cold; maybe the chair’s mercy was temporary.

The Pope rose, robes torn, voice clear: “If the prophecy speaks, I remain. I will not give up.”

 

 

The painted Christ above seemed to raise his hand higher.

The Pope warned: “Go and tell no one. The world is not ready.”

As he left, a faint black mark pulsed on his back—hidden even from him.

It glowed like a living heart.

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