RAPHANIÈ MARIN PICKED UP his phone after passing through the gates of the Vatican and felt an anxious tightening in his chest — it was the first time he would meet the other members of that secret confraternity since he had been invited by his friend and confessor, Cardinal Josefo DellaMonica.
He walked across the courtyard with measured steps, as if delaying the moment of crossing an invisible line. The air carried the dry scent of marble and candle wax; the shadows of cypress trees traced filigree patterns across the stone. He knew every corridor of the Holy See, had memorized those paths through years of service; even so, the prospect of the meeting felt like entering dangerous territory — familiar, yet treacherous.
When he learned of the chosen location, he could not hide his surprise. The Sistine Chapel was not a place for clandestine meetings: it was the symbolic heart of the Church, the space where — according to tradition — the fate of popes had been decided.
Less than ten minutes separated him from the meeting point; ten minutes that passed with the feeling that something imminent awaited him behind those doors. He took a deep breath, adjusted the whiteness of his collar, pressed the stole against his chest, and entered.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the doors behind him closed with a dry, final click.
In the silence that followed, only the echo of his footsteps and the muted hum of the air conditioning remained. Ahead, before the monumental scene of the Last Judgment, a table had been set — unusual, too small for the vast space, almost an intruder among the frescoes. Five chairs surrounded it: two on each side and one at the end, occupied by a man who radiated authority with cutting calm.
Tall, slightly overweight, his fair complexion contrasted with the deep red of his zucchetto. His prominent nose stood out on his rounded face; his small, lively eyes shone behind silver-framed glasses. Over his gray hair, dotted with strands of black, the zucchetto marked him unmistakably as a Prince of the Church.
The cardinal rose in greeting as Raphaniè entered. His voice was measured, drawn out, as if choosing words carefully so as not to wound tradition nor reveal too much:
— Peace be with you, Raphaniè — he said, glancing around the improvised, diminutive auditorium. — In this place, the Holy Spirit chooses the successor of Peter to lead His Church, and for centuries, it is also here that the Confraternity of the Four Angels gathers to prevent the Enemy from rewriting the End of Times.
There was solemnity in his words, but also a subterranean weight: a veiled urgency. Raphaniè felt his pulse quicken. The colossal image of the Last Judgment cast shadows that seemed to reach toward those present.
— When you invited me to this confraternity — the priest began, feeling his throat tighten — I trusted your word, I accepted out of obedience and devotion. But I must say: I am an exorcist. I do not feel prepared for… strategic missions. My weapon is prayer, holy water, the rites.
The cardinal regarded him with a look that blended patience and reproach.
— An exorcist of rather unconventional methods — he replied, without moving. — I have heard reports that your assistant kidnapped a prostitute and that she died during the Great Ritual.
The memory of that incident struck Raphaniè like a blade. He shifted in his chair, trying to organize a response, but his words came out rough:
— It was an accident — he murmured.
Josefo DellaMonica did not spare his syllables.
— I also heard that Tito — he paused, as if confirming the name — was murdered, along with a former convict named Fabrízzio.
Raphaniè felt the world shrink; his palms grew damp with sweat. His heart beat sharply; his breath shortened, his mouth went dry:
— How? — was all he managed to say.
— The car with the three bodies was found in the outskirts of Rome. The servants of the devil reacted, and in retaliation, you placed us under crossfire before His Holiness.
The cardinal released a long breath, as if relief had been torn from his chest with effort.
— He wanted to know why I had chosen you for our confraternity — Josefo continued. — He demanded explanations, and I told him that, to fight Evil, we are sometimes forced to employ less orthodox methods. But we cannot deceive ourselves: the enemy strikes back.
Raphaniè remembered Tito's face, the last confused look he had given him, and guilt, like molten lead, ran through his chest:
— And now? — someone at the table asked, tension in his voice.
The cardinal lifted a small dark cloth bag, and the gesture caused silence to fall like a curtain.
— Let us get to the point — he said. — Inside this bag there are red and black balls. Close your eyes, and whoever draws the red one begins.
Raphaniè watched the scene with a trembling hand. The ritual seemed simple, almost childish, yet the symbols echoed with dangerous meanings, and as the drawing proceeded, a phrase repeated in his mind like a lament:
I killed Tito…
Guilt tightened around him, nourished by indistinct memories, by actions that now seemed to carry consequences beyond comprehension.
— I got the red one — announced the Spanish monk, Manuel Hernandez, his voice hoarse from years of speaking too much. — In my last exorcism, the demon answered: "With a blue cloak and a wide-brimmed hat, I will rise from my stronghold in the lake and be victorious."
Josefo translated. When the enemy, under coercion, speaks in codes, he said, the Confraternity deciphers them. The first riddle always indicates the location of an attack — a symbol pointing to geography and ritual.
Raphaniè was tasked with writing everything down, his hands still trembling over the notepad.
— My turn — announced the English abbot Bertrand Stillton, who drew a ball from the bag with unsettling calm. — In repeated sessions with the same possessed man, I heard: "The truth lies beneath the seal. The crowned lion claims his throne. He comes from the Root of Jesse."
Josefo explained the reference, his voice now enriched with erudition: biblical symbols, allusions to kings and seals — the enemy enjoys dressing his plans with a sacred veneer, imitating the divine to confuse men. They discussed cold strategies: once the chosen one was identified, a number should be activated and a password transmitted — small channels of war, discreet, ready to act.
When it was Raphaniè's turn, the responsibility felt crushing. He closed his eyes for a moment, vaguely recalling the exorcism of the prostitute: voices, smoke, a final word whispered by that presence that was not human.
— During the exorcism — he said, slowly — I asked, in the name of Our Lady, where the demon came from. It said: "Ave… The omnipresent eyes of the queen reveal the key of Armon."
The word Armon fell onto the table like a stone. Josefo immediately recognized it; the others frowned. Raphaniè tried to untangle the thread: Ave, but not Mary; omnipresent eyes of the queen — perhaps a reference to surveillance or to an inverted Marian symbol. Armon, Josefo explained, was a place — in the Book of Enoch, a mythical point where fallen angels conspired against creation. There, things took on the shape of something much larger, much older.
The cardinal then turned to the only one who had not yet revealed a riddle.
— Benito — he said, his gaze penetrating. — Who is the demon's greatest enemy among us?
Silence weighed heavily, and the air seemed to thicken, as if the frescoed walls were compressing the presence of those gathered.
— Father Raphaniè Marin — Benito answered, his voice low.
It was as if a blade cut through the congregation. Raphaniè felt exposed, unveiled, his skin prickling. That revelation was not merely a warning; it was a veiled sentence. He had never feared provoking demons in his sessions — it was part of his work — but hearing himself named as the very object of the Enemy's fear shattered any ritual comfort. There was no manual to protect him here.
— As of today — decreed the cardinal, with authority that allowed no challenge — you are relieved of your duties at Santa Maria in Aracoeli. In two days, you will depart alone. You are to report to no one but me and, remember: we all depend on you. May God inspire your thoughts, your words, and your actions. Meeting adjourned.
Raphaniè remained motionless as murmurs echoed and chairs creaked while the members rose. He stayed a moment longer, his eyes fixed on the colossal painting before him. The scene of the Last Judgment pulsed in violent colors: Charon wielded his oar, striking souls that tried to escape; demons tied screams to laughter. The priest heard the voices clearly — a corrosive laugh, a cry blending with the wind.
You are in the same boat, Father… — whispered an imagined voice, corrosive, almost woven into the image's ripples; he envisioned a pointed-eared demon, a serpent coiled around its member — grotesque and mocking. Another infernal figure pulled at the corners of its mouth with bony fingers, jeering.
Raphaniè closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the painting was intact, unchanged, as Michelangelo had delivered it to the pope in 1541. He took a deep breath, feeling the liturgy of his faith pulse beneath his clerical garments.
— No one will intimidate me — he murmured to himself, his voice firm, though the shadow of fear followed him. — If I am a soldier of God, it is time to act like one.
He left the chapel with quicker steps than when he had entered, the weight of the orders and riddles clinging to him.
As he crossed the corridors, the sensation that every stone, every candle, every icon was watching him only grew. He now had an uncertain destination and a mission imposed by a confraternity that saw signs where others saw faith — and to face what was coming, he would have to confront not only the demon outside, but the darkness within himself.