The mute prodigy’s throat glows blue, echoing Cesare’s cold command. He cuts the old Master of Shadows from the marrow of the French Academy and turns the marsh into a chessboard. “The Sforza sail for the Index,” he whispers, “and you, Niccolò, are now the key.” A sealed Florentine warrant, a cipher from my father… The shadows are dead; the light is a contract. 👁️🗨️




