Rich Petrelli's Blog - Posts Tagged "dan-brown-style"
Some Vows Are Never Meant to Be Broken
Seven hundred years ago, as the last Templar fortress burned, a knight lay dying amid the ruin. Flames danced against the night sky, the air thick with screams. An arrow pierced his shoulder, blood soaking the white of his surcoat.
His apprentice—barely more than a boy—knelt beside him, tears cutting through soot on his face.
The knight pressed a vellum scroll into the boy’s trembling hands, his voice raw with urgency.
“Tear it, cut it into nine fragments,” the knight rasped. “Hide them across Christendom—where no pope, no king, no person will ever unite them again.”
He coughed, blood flecking his lips. “It contains a secret unworthy of this generation—or any generation.”
“Master— ”
“Go!”
The knight’s grip tightened, blood dripping from his gauntlet.
“They come.”
The boy looked past him—and saw them. Dozens of figures advanced through the smoke, blades drawn, armor gleaming red in the firelight. Their formation never broke. Their eyes were fixed only on the parchment.
The Guardians.
The apprentice ran.
Behind him, his master’s last cry drowned beneath the clash of steel.
That boy was Brother Martin of Troyes. He fled to the sea caves, waves crashing loud enough to mask his footsteps. There, with shaking hands, he cut the scroll into nine pieces under his knife and swore an oath. Each fragment would sleep in a different corner of Christendom, hidden where even kings couldn’t reach. He scattered them. And for seven centuries, they slept until tonight.
Lisbon. Midnight.
Rain slashed across the cobbled streets, turning stones into black mirrors. A monk in a dark cassock ran hunched, clutching a leather satchel bound with iron clasps. His breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale echoing against the alley walls.
Inside the satchel, pressed between the pages of Psalms, hid something far older—a fragment of the Cipher.
Behind him, shadows moved with precision. The Guardians. Silent, relentless. Protectors of a secret that had slept for seven centuries.
He darted through the alley, cassock flaring, rope sandals slipping on rain-soaked stones. His whispered prayer was almost inaudible above the storm:
Novem nexus tenebrarum. Novem unum faciunt.
“Nine bonds of darkness. Nine makes one.”
A flash of steel cut across his chest. Crimson bloomed through dark fabric. He staggered, slammed into the wall, and slid down. The satchel fell from his grip, spilling across the cobblestones. Rain and blood mingled in the gutter.
A figure stepped from the shadows—smaller than the Guardians, moving with a different kind of grace. Hooded, silent. She knelt beside him without pity, her gloved hand resting on his shoulder. Not to comfort. To confirm.
His eyes dimmed as she reached for the satchel.
She worked quickly. From her cloak, she drew a fine needle and dark thread. Her fingers moved with ritualistic precision, opening a seam in the satchel’s lining, tucking something inside, stitching it closed with practiced care.
Not taking. Planting.
When finished, she set the satchel down beside the body and disappeared into the rain. From a doorway across the alley, another figure emerged. Older, broader, wearing the dark cloak of the Order. A Guardian. He’d been tracking the monk all night, trying to reach him before the Guild of Shadows could strike.
Two minutes too late.
The Guardian knelt and pressed two fingers to the monk’s neck. Nothing. He bowed his head—not in prayer, but in acknowledgment of failure. He scanned the alley. The killer had vanished. He knew the signature. Guild of Shadows. If they were moving this openly, their leader had sanctioned it.
Guiomar.
His eyes fell on the satchel lying in pooled rainwater. He lifted it, searched through soaked papers and prayer books, looking for what the monk had died protecting. Nothing. The fragment was gone. Stolen. He pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Prefect,” he said. “Lisbon cache compromised. Brother Paulo is dead. They have the fragment.”
Valerius, at the other end, spoke coldly. “Guiomar?”
“Yes. Her signature.” A pause. “If she has one fragment, she’ll want the others. She’ll need a scholar to decode the locations. Doctor Elena Voss arrives in Tomar tomorrow. She’s researching Templar ciphers.”
"Then watch her,” Valerius said. “No interference. If she locates what eluded us for seven centuries… we secure every fragment."
The Guardian ended the call, looking down at the monk’s body, then at the wet cobblestones. From his pocket, he drew a piece of white chalk and knelt. But he didn’t write words. Instead, he drew a single symbol—simple, geometric.
A broken wheel with nine spokes. Ancient. Unmistakable. Any Guardian who passed would recognize it instantly: Fragment compromised. Hunt active. Protocol engaged.
To civilians, it was nothing—a child’s scrawl in the rain. He stood, took one last look at Brother Paulo, and disappeared.
Dr. Elena Voss arrives tomorrow. She and the Guardians are unaware that the thing they seek is close, hidden in a satchel she will soon have.
Seven centuries of sleep.
Tonight, the Cipher had awakened.
Rich Petrelli
The Hidden Cipher: A Knights Templar Conspiracy Thriller
His apprentice—barely more than a boy—knelt beside him, tears cutting through soot on his face.
The knight pressed a vellum scroll into the boy’s trembling hands, his voice raw with urgency.
“Tear it, cut it into nine fragments,” the knight rasped. “Hide them across Christendom—where no pope, no king, no person will ever unite them again.”
He coughed, blood flecking his lips. “It contains a secret unworthy of this generation—or any generation.”
“Master— ”
“Go!”
The knight’s grip tightened, blood dripping from his gauntlet.
“They come.”
The boy looked past him—and saw them. Dozens of figures advanced through the smoke, blades drawn, armor gleaming red in the firelight. Their formation never broke. Their eyes were fixed only on the parchment.
The Guardians.
The apprentice ran.
Behind him, his master’s last cry drowned beneath the clash of steel.
That boy was Brother Martin of Troyes. He fled to the sea caves, waves crashing loud enough to mask his footsteps. There, with shaking hands, he cut the scroll into nine pieces under his knife and swore an oath. Each fragment would sleep in a different corner of Christendom, hidden where even kings couldn’t reach. He scattered them. And for seven centuries, they slept until tonight.
Lisbon. Midnight.
Rain slashed across the cobbled streets, turning stones into black mirrors. A monk in a dark cassock ran hunched, clutching a leather satchel bound with iron clasps. His breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale echoing against the alley walls.
Inside the satchel, pressed between the pages of Psalms, hid something far older—a fragment of the Cipher.
Behind him, shadows moved with precision. The Guardians. Silent, relentless. Protectors of a secret that had slept for seven centuries.
He darted through the alley, cassock flaring, rope sandals slipping on rain-soaked stones. His whispered prayer was almost inaudible above the storm:
Novem nexus tenebrarum. Novem unum faciunt.
“Nine bonds of darkness. Nine makes one.”
A flash of steel cut across his chest. Crimson bloomed through dark fabric. He staggered, slammed into the wall, and slid down. The satchel fell from his grip, spilling across the cobblestones. Rain and blood mingled in the gutter.
A figure stepped from the shadows—smaller than the Guardians, moving with a different kind of grace. Hooded, silent. She knelt beside him without pity, her gloved hand resting on his shoulder. Not to comfort. To confirm.
His eyes dimmed as she reached for the satchel.
She worked quickly. From her cloak, she drew a fine needle and dark thread. Her fingers moved with ritualistic precision, opening a seam in the satchel’s lining, tucking something inside, stitching it closed with practiced care.
Not taking. Planting.
When finished, she set the satchel down beside the body and disappeared into the rain. From a doorway across the alley, another figure emerged. Older, broader, wearing the dark cloak of the Order. A Guardian. He’d been tracking the monk all night, trying to reach him before the Guild of Shadows could strike.
Two minutes too late.
The Guardian knelt and pressed two fingers to the monk’s neck. Nothing. He bowed his head—not in prayer, but in acknowledgment of failure. He scanned the alley. The killer had vanished. He knew the signature. Guild of Shadows. If they were moving this openly, their leader had sanctioned it.
Guiomar.
His eyes fell on the satchel lying in pooled rainwater. He lifted it, searched through soaked papers and prayer books, looking for what the monk had died protecting. Nothing. The fragment was gone. Stolen. He pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Prefect,” he said. “Lisbon cache compromised. Brother Paulo is dead. They have the fragment.”
Valerius, at the other end, spoke coldly. “Guiomar?”
“Yes. Her signature.” A pause. “If she has one fragment, she’ll want the others. She’ll need a scholar to decode the locations. Doctor Elena Voss arrives in Tomar tomorrow. She’s researching Templar ciphers.”
"Then watch her,” Valerius said. “No interference. If she locates what eluded us for seven centuries… we secure every fragment."
The Guardian ended the call, looking down at the monk’s body, then at the wet cobblestones. From his pocket, he drew a piece of white chalk and knelt. But he didn’t write words. Instead, he drew a single symbol—simple, geometric.
A broken wheel with nine spokes. Ancient. Unmistakable. Any Guardian who passed would recognize it instantly: Fragment compromised. Hunt active. Protocol engaged.
To civilians, it was nothing—a child’s scrawl in the rain. He stood, took one last look at Brother Paulo, and disappeared.
Dr. Elena Voss arrives tomorrow. She and the Guardians are unaware that the thing they seek is close, hidden in a satchel she will soon have.
Seven centuries of sleep.
Tonight, the Cipher had awakened.
Rich Petrelli
The Hidden Cipher: A Knights Templar Conspiracy Thriller
