Santiago was walking through a street in a squalid suburb. Most of the neighborhood’s inhabitants were poor immigrants from Africa and the Middle East. The buildings were grimy and neglected, the walls covered in graffiti. The smell of fried food and grilled lamb mingled with garbage, urine, and sewage—a nauseating cocktail that the Camerlengo’s sharp senses registered in every detail, forcing him to discreetly cover his nose. Middle Eastern melodies floated in the air, mixed with the roar of motorcycles and trucks passing through.

  He finally reached a building as decrepit as the rest. The ground floor had no windows—only those above, with peeling paint and faded posters clinging to the walls. In the center, a large gate held a small intercom. Along the sidewalk, a line of vagrants, immigrant families, and strange hooded creatures with faintly glowing eyes—yellow, blue, or gray—waited patiently for assistance. Santiago looked at the small sign above the intercom:

  Mission of Blessed Serafina of Müguelein

  Hours: 7:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m.

  Emergency? Ring the bell

  Santiago knew the mission—how could he not? Every matter of the Church eventually passed through his hands. Its director was Mother Angelina, the same nun he’d overheard on the metro. What he hadn’t known, until that accidental encounter, was that behind her serene smile and calm voice hid a great mystery: the true origin of the blessed woman to whom the mission was dedicated. Her remains rested in a crypt beneath the chapel’s altar, yet part of the mystery was alive—hidden beneath Angelina’s veil, where the faint outline of long, pointed ears betrayed her elven lineage.

  What remained even more secret was her past: she had once been a skilled mercenary, with a résumé that included every dirty trade—terrorism, extortion, smuggling, even assassination. But that was long ago. One day, weary of the business of genocide, she had crossed the portal, never to return to Aternum, devoting herself instead to more noble causes. She founded the mission to aid abandoned elves, creatures in exile, and even the desperate inhabitants of Utgard—whom she had once despised but had come to pity.

  The priest stopped at the gate and pressed the intercom. After a pause, a voice crackled through.

  “Pronto? What’s the emergency?”

  The Camerlengo drew a breath. “Father Santiago of Manacapuru. I wish to speak with Mother Angelina.”

  “Mother Angelina is busy,” the voice replied.

  “It’s urgent.”

  “What is it about?”

  “Matters concerning her mission,” said Santiago. “I am the Camerlengo to Cardinal Karol Wozny, Head of the Apostolic State.”

  There was silence. Then a buzz. The gate clicked open.

  He entered a small vestibule leading to a central courtyard, where a nun awaited him—a young woman with delicate oriental features and a bluish mark on her forehead. Santiago recognized it: she was of the coastal tribes of Uzm.

  “Father Santiago, Mother Angelina awaits you in her office,” she said.

  They crossed the courtyard, where a group of Syrian refugees were being tended beneath makeshift canopies.

  “We’re overwhelmed,” the nun murmured. “We help as many as we can, but they arrive in waves—men, women, and children, broken by this senseless war… What can we do? The neighbors complain, the government complains—even the Church complains. But they need help. They’ve lost everything.”

  Santiago watched the weary faces of the displaced, who looked back at him with suspicion. No one ever knew what kind of visitor might step through that gate—one who could make things worse.

  Inside, they climbed a staircase to a corridor with peeling walls. They passed infirmaries where nuns tended to the sick—both humans and creatures Santiago recognized from Aternum: elves and other races. They passed sisters carrying bandages, pots of soup, or bundles of diapers. Finally, they reached a door. The nun knocked.

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  “Come in,” said a rough voice.

  The nun opened the door.

  “Enter, Father,” said Mother Angelina in Elvish, cigarette in hand. “I hope this isn’t bad news. We haven’t seen anyone from the Vatican in over twenty years. I hope you’re not here to interfere with our work. I know we’ve broken some regulations, but we can’t turn them away. They are humans—and forsaken beings of Midgard.”

  “Oh no,” said Santiago, sitting on a worn chair. “My visit is… somewhat different.”

  “Different?” the Mother asked, intrigued.

  “I’ll go straight to the point,” Santiago said. “This afternoon, by chance, I was in the same metro car as you—and I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with one of your sisters. About Tibonia.”

  Mother Angelina’s gray eyes fixed on him. Her lips trembled before she spoke.

  “Eavesdropping goes against our protocol, Camerlengo,” she said coldly.

  “I know. My apologies. But I need to know something.”

  Her expression hardened. “What do you want to know?”

  “You mentioned someone from the North who might support Tibonia’s cause,” he said. “There’s rumor that its prince is dead—and that, under the last peace treaty, the principality would pass to the Empire.”

  “That’s no rumor,” she said, pulling a bottle of whiskey and pouring herself a glass. She offered him one; he declined. She took a slow sip, then set the glass down. “It’s true. And why do you want to know?”

  “Just curiosity.”

  “There’s no such thing as curiosity that brings Cardinal Wozny’s secretary to a poor mission like this,” she said flatly.

  Santiago swallowed. “Mother, these are delicate matters… confidential ones,” he said. Seeing her crossed arms and shadowed gaze, he added carefully, “I understand information has its price.”

  “I need a new vehicle,” Angelina said. “A van—yes, a Fiat Panda would do. It’s used, costs four thousand five hundred euros.”

  Santiago blinked. “I’ll… see what I can do.”

  She didn’t move. He sighed in surrender. “Very well. I’ll provide the vehicle. I handle His Excellency’s accounts—I can justify it. Give me your account number, and I’ll transfer the funds tonight.”

  Angelina shrugged, inspecting her long, thin fingers—hands that once squeezed triggers and still trembled faintly with age. She scribbled a number on a slip of paper. Santiago entered it into his device. A minute later, a chime sounded on her phone. She glanced down—confirmation of a deposit: 4,500 euros.

  “I’ve kept my word,” Santiago said quietly. “Paid from my savings.”

  “Merkel,” the nun said. “The Grand Prince of Moscova, Vladimir Ivanovich Otto Merkel. That’s who. What else do you wish to know?”

  Santiago smiled faintly. “Will that cost me another car? I have a few more questions.”

  “We’re not that greedy,” Angelina said dryly.

  “Why would Merkel be interested in Tibonia?”

  “For the Red Ore, of course. He wants the monopoly.”

  Santiago frowned. “The Red Ore? What does he want it for?”

  “You don’t know?” she asked. “Red Ore is used to produce a new drug spreading through the major cities.”

  “Merkel’s behind that?” Santiago asked, astonished.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. But he’s after something far more… lucrative.”

  “I don’t understand,” Santiago said.

  The Mother rose, leaning on her cane. “Listen, my son. As someone close to his circle explained, it’s a long-term investment. You see—our world, all our industries—pharmaceutical, chemical, military—depend on petroleum. Reserves will last only fifty more years. When they’re gone, there’ll be chaos. The nation or entity that monopolizes a new energy source will own the world—or both worlds. And the Red Ore is the likeliest candidate.”

  “But the Red Ore?” Santiago repeated.

  “That strange mineral mined from the Aral Sea, Excellency—it’s the core of Midgard’s energy and magic. It powers their world. And Merkel wants to harness it here. If he succeeds, he’ll control the only true energy resource in both realms.”

  “That’s… disturbing,” Santiago murmured.

  “Indeed. But there’s a problem,” said Angelina. “That precious resource is kept in a fortress—impregnable. Even modern weapons couldn’t take it. I wouldn’t be shocked if he turned to magic as a last resort.”

  Santiago chuckled. “How ironic. A man devoted to military technology forced to use magic.”

  “Exactly. Which is why his only real option is to install a puppet ruler to do his bidding. After all, he’s of the accursed lineage—he can’t return to Midgard. But he can govern through another.”

  Santiago thought for a moment. “Does he already have someone in mind?”

  “Fortunately not,” she said, tossing back the rest of her whiskey. “But if the rumors from the other side are true… he’s no doubt considering it.”

  The priest nodded, deep in thought. Mother Angelina walked him to the door.

  “Well, Father,” she said, “thank you for your visit. I don’t know what your intentions are or how you’ll use this information, but meddling in Aternum’s affairs brings only misfortune to this world.”

  Santiago bowed his head and turned to leave. At the gate, a nun was arguing with someone outside—a fair-haired boy with bright blue eyes. The priest recognized him instantly as a creature from the other side.

  “What’s the matter?” Mother Angelina asked.

  “The boy wishes to come in,” the nun replied.

  “I’m hungry,” the boy pleaded.

  “See that line?” the nun said. “They’re hungry too. You’re not the only one.”

  The Mother looked at Santiago; he met her gaze. “Let him in,” she ordered.

  The nun sighed and stepped aside. The boy entered. Santiago took his leave, walking past the line of refugees and vagrants waiting for aid.

  An hour later, the priest sat once more in the metro car—when a sudden idea struck him.