"So this is Laterano?"
Just outside the gates of the Holy City, an elderly Feline stood breathless after a long journey, gazing up at the grand architecture with mixed emotions as he muttered softly to himself.
"Speaker Welsh, the paperwork has been finalized," a green-haired Sankta messenger greeted the aging Feline, holding up a stack of entry documents. "Shall we enter the city now?"
"There is no need to call me Speaker anymore," the old man sighed helplessly, casting a weary look over his shoulder before staring at the magnificent gates of Laterano. "I am nothing more than a pathetic, comical puppet propped up by those power-hungry nobles. Let us go in."
He was Welsh, the official envoy sent by Victoria to attend the summit, and the Speaker of the Victorian Parliament. Yet today, he felt like little more than a castaway.
Back home, the grand aristocrats were tearing the nation apart in a desperate struggle for the vacant throne. It was only a matter of time before full-blown bloodshed erupted in the streets. Had the situation not devolved so completely, they never would have sent a powerless figurehead like him to represent the realm.
Welsh harbored no illusions; he suspected the day he returned to Victoria would likely be the day of his execution. Still, taking in the serene majesty of Laterano before his time came felt like a mercy.
"The summit convenes tomorrow, correct?" he asked the messenger as they passed through the entryways into the bustling streets.
"Ah, yes," the Sankta messenger replied, noticing the deep exhaustion etched into the old man's face. "If you feel unwell from the long journey, I can request a one-day delay on your behalf."
"No need. I was merely asking," Welsh murmured, his gaze cloudy.
Looking at the peaceful, immaculate streets of Laterano, his mind drifted back a few years. Once upon a time, Londinium—the jewel of Victoria—had possessed that same tranquility, before swords were drawn and factions turned on one another.
"Leave me to wander for a bit," the old Feline requested in a raspy, solemn tone. "Before the summit begins, I would like to see what kind of home you have built here."
The messenger listened with a slight chill; the old man sounded as though he were delivering his final wishes. He isn't planning to end his life here, is he?
"I am sure you will come to love this city," the messenger offered warmly before bowing out. "Laterano welcomes every guest!"
Left to himself, Speaker Welsh strolled down the gleaming white avenues. He observed clusters of locals gathered on street corners, laughing and whispering animatedly as if organizing some elaborate plan.
Curiosity piqued, Welsh drifted toward one of the crowds, wondering what could bring such lively energy to the local Sankta.
Snore... snore... snore...
A soft, rhythmic snore caught his attention. An elderly Sankta wearing a bizarre eye mask was fast asleep on a bench nearby, entirely unbothered by the noisy crowd around him.
Before Welsh could take another step, a sharp explosion tore through the air!
The old Feline flinched violently, taking several hurried steps backward as his eyes darted around in terror, searching for advancing armies.
Years of political strife had left him with a deep sensitivity to loud detonations. For months in Londinium, he had lived in constant dread—worrying every morning whether he would awaken to artillery fire, or if the next incoming shell would collapse his estate.
To endure such terror for so long and merely stumble back rather than suffer a heart attack proved the old Speaker possessed remarkable resilience.
When he finally located the source of the noise, he saw a stone pillar crumbling near the square, freshly demolished by a charges-pack. Welsh blinked in utter confusion. Is this some local custom? Demolishing public structures for sport? Just how wild are the folk here?
"Pray, do not be alarmed," a gentle voice spoke as a hand caught Welsh's arm, steadying his trembling frame. "It is merely a common sight in Laterano. My kin take great delight in demolishing perfect structures, only to rebuild them with equal zeal. It is a spectacle you won't find anywhere else on Terra. Even an old fellow like me feels nostalgic seeing it!"
Welsh turned to see the sleeping Sankta from the bench supporting him. The absurd eye mask was still pushed up on his forehead, giving the old gentleman a strangely mischievous look.
"Thank you," Welsh gasped out, regaining his footing. Examining the man's features, a faint sense of familiarity struck him. "From the way you speak... you haven't returned to Laterano in quite some time?"
"Indeed, it has been decades," the elderly Sankta replied, looking toward the ruined pillar with fond remembrance. "I still recall blasting that exact same pillar with my friend when we were boys. It has always been one of the most beloved landmarks in the city. Returning after all these years only reminds me how old we have both grown!"
"I am sure you and your friend will meet again," Welsh offered politely. Though conversing with a complete stranger felt unusual, the old man's casual warmth helped ease the lingering tension in his chest.
"We will meet again—in fact, very soon," the Sankta replied, his expression turning bittersweet. "Though times have changed, and we can never return to the days of our youth."
"Time is a cruel thing," Welsh murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It heeds no man's wishes. At our age, all that remains is to look back fondly on what once was."
"I hold a different view," the Sankta countered gently, gazing out at the radiant city. "The sole privilege of living a long life is witnessing the miraculous changes that unfold. Life is ever-shifting. Had I not lived this long, how could I have survived to see a day where my old friend's dream might finally come to pass?"
His eyes sparkled with genuine warmth, clearly delighted by the subtle transformations taking place across the city.
"You are..." Welsh stared closely, the fog in his memory slowly clearing, though his advanced age made it difficult to pin down the exact name.
"Agenir, representative of Siracusa," the old man introduced himself, straightening his posture.
Memory clicked into place for Welsh. This was Agenir—a close companion of Madam Sicilia, one of the foundational figures who had helped establish order across Siracusa alongside her!
"To think it is truly you," Welsh murmured, recovering from his initial shock. After a moment's reflection, he added, "Though given the circumstances, I suppose no one is better suited for the task."
For Siracusa, sending Agenir was the most natural choice possible. A figure who understood both Laterano and Siracusa inside out would navigate these waters far more comfortably than any foreign diplomat.
"I am merely an old wanderer returning home for a visit," Agenir chuckled lightly. "In fact, I rather regret selling my old townhouse here years ago."
Agenir glanced at the Sankta crew already cleaning up the rubble from the blast, then turned back to Welsh. "It is getting a bit noisy here for old ears like ours. I know a fine old tea house nearby—would you care to join me for a quiet drink?"
"I would be honored," Welsh agreed warmly, stepping alongside the aged Sankta as they set off to find a quiet corner for their conversation.
Meanwhile, word of the Victorian Speaker's arrival spread quickly through official channels. The organizers inside the Holy City immediately swung into motion. They had spent years laying the groundwork in secret for this summit, and they were determined to ensure every detail proceeded without a hitch.
"Oren has brought Speaker Welsh to his lodgings," a secretary reported inside the papal office. "The Speaker confirmed he will attend the opening session tomorrow, assuring us he still has enough strength in him to sit through a summit."
Pope Yvangelista listened quietly, his expression turning solemn. The grand initiative he had nurtured for decades was finally coming to fruition. Whether tomorrow marked the opening chapter of a new era or devolved into a tragic farce depended entirely on what transpired within those hall doors.
"Then ensure all preparations are finalized," Pope Yvangelista commanded softly. "The hour has come to test the fruits of our long labor. And remind the Notarial Hall—no demolition permits are to be issued tomorrow under any circumstances!"
He caught himself just in time. If foreign dignitaries witnessed blasts tearing through the streets during the opening ceremonies, they would surely conclude Laterano was incapable of maintaining order among its own people.
"Understood, Your Holiness."