Secrets of Light and Shadow: Chapter 6

Niccolò shut the door to his home and bolted it. The air inside was thick with the scent of melted wax and parchment. His small study was cluttered—scrolls, books, and loose sheets of paper lay strewn across the desk. A candle flickered beside him, casting long, nervous shadows along the stone walls.

He exhaled sharply, unrolling the slip of parchment again. The diagram stared back at him, the lines crisp and precise. He had spent hours poring over it, tracing the arcs of light, the intersections of glass prisms bending rays in ways that defied conventional doctrine.

He reached for another sheet of parchment where he had scribbled notes hastily in the last few hours:

If light refracts in predictable ways…

If vision is not a direct connection to divine sight but a process of the mind…

If the sun is not revolving around us, but we around it…

Niccolò swallowed hard.

The implications of Benedetto's work were staggering. It wasn't just about light—it was about perception, about truth itself. The Church claimed knowledge was divine, given by God through scripture and faith. But here, before him, was knowledge obtained not by prayer, but by reason and observation.

And yet…

He dragged a hand over his face.

This wasn't heresy.

If anything, it was proof of something greater—science was not refuting God, it was revealing Him in a way no one had dared to see before.

Niccolò glanced toward the small wooden cross hanging above his desk, the candlelight dancing across it.

Perhaps faith and reason were not enemies.

Perhaps they were meant to walk hand in hand.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. His mind reeled with the possibilities. If he could refine this theory, he could show them. He could—

A sharp knock echoed through the room.

Niccolò froze.

The knock came again—slow, deliberate.

His breath hitched.

Slowly, he rose from his chair and made his way to the door. His fingers trembled as he unlatched it.

He cracked the door open just enough to see.

And there he was.

A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim lamplight of the street. His long, dark coat billowed slightly in the night breeze, and his face was marked with the weariness of someone who had spent too many years in his line of work.

Inquisitor Raize.

Niccolò's blood ran cold.

Raize was not like the other inquisitors. He wasn't cruel or zealous. He wasn't a man who burned with passion for his cause. Instead, he carried himself with an unsettling nonchalance, as if his role in rooting out heresy was merely an obligation—tedious, routine, almost dull.

Raize tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp but heavy-lidded. He studied Niccolò for a long moment before speaking.

"Suuuup," he said, voice low and almost casual. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Niccolò's heart pounded against his ribs. He forced his face to remain neutral.

"Everything alright?" Raize asked, shifting his weight slightly.

Niccolò swallowed. "Yes. Just… startled. It's late."

Raize gave a slow, knowing nod. "That it is."

Silence stretched between them.

Niccolò gripped the doorframe, his palms damp with sweat.

Then, Raize sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Listen, professor. You're new here, so I'll make this quick. The last man in your position… well, you know what happened."

Niccolò nodded stiffly.

"If," Raize continued, drawing out the word lazily, "you happen to come across anything in that old workshop—notes, drawings, anything that doesn't look like standard lesson materials—bring it to us."

Niccolò held his breath.

Raize's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "We wouldn't want history repeating itself."

Niccolò forced himself to nod. "Of course."

Raize studied him for another moment, then exhaled slowly. "Good, that old fuck was a kook anyways."

He turned as if to leave, then hesitated, glancing back.

"Try to get some rest," he said. "You look like a man with too much on his mind... a little too fucking much."

And then he was gone.

Niccolò stood frozen in the doorway, watching as the inquisitor's figure melted into the shadows of the street.

Only when he was sure Raize was gone did he shut the door and lock it.

He staggered back, gripping the edge of his desk. His breath came in short, uneven bursts.

Raize knew.

Or at least, he suspected.

Niccolò's eyes fell to the parchment still resting on the table.

The secret he held was dangerous. Benedetto had died for it. Ignatus had burned for it.

And now…

Niccolò clenched his fists.

He was in far too deep to turn back.