The bishop's chambers were quiet. Too quiet. Not even the light creak of floorboards nor the muttering of priests in the hall could be heard.
Just the rustle of parchment in his trembling hands, and the hollow thrum of a heart pressed by fear.
It had been over three months.
Three months since he'd sealed the letter with trembling fingers and affixed it with his signet addressed to the Holy Father himself.
Bearing word of a growing apostasy in the North Atlantic isles. A warning. A plea for action.
And yet, nothing.
He paced in small, tight circles, robes dragging like dead leaves across the floor.
"They should have responded by now. Even a rebuke… even an admonishment… Unless—" He stopped himself. His fingers went to his collar, pulling at the edge of his vestment like it choked him.
He had not told anyone. Not truly. The letter had been sent by a trusted courier, a faithful young cleric sworn to silence.
