The Radiant Blade's Choice

The Soul Sun pulsed against Bishop’s hip, a familiar weight that now felt like a lead anchor. It hummed, a low thrumming that usually resonated with righteous fury when in proximity to the truly foul. But today, the hum was… confused. It vibrated with a disquieting uncertainty, a reflection, perhaps, of the chaos churning within Bishop himself. The Church’s directive, once a beacon in his otherwise murky existence, had begun to flicker, its edges blurring like cheap ink on damp parchment. “Smite the coven. Bring them to the Light,” Abbot Kale’s voice echoed in his memory, a stern pronouncement now laced with the bitter tang of doubt. Bring them to the Light. His Light. The Church’s Light. But what if their Light was merely a gilded cage, and the shadows held a truth they dared not acknowledge?

He ran a thumb over the hilt of the Soul Sun, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat that sometimes licked at its edges when it tasted blood. It was a holy weapon, forged in the heart of the Radiant Light, meant to cleanse the world of its festering evils. But the witches of Tygorra’s coven, the ones supposedly corrupting innocent children, felt… different. Tygorra herself, with her unsettlingly calm gaze and the air of ancient power about her, hadn't radiated pure malice. She’d spoken of protection, of nurturing, of keeping the children from a different kind of darkness. A darkness the Church, in its zealous pursuit of purity, seemed remarkably eager to embrace.

“You’re being unusually quiet, Bishop,” Sister Petra’s voice, soft as a prayer, cut through his reverie. She sat beside him on a moss-covered log, her novice robes a stark white against the verdant gloom of the whispering woods. Her eyes, wide and earnest, watched him with a mixture of concern and something else, something Bishop couldn’t quite decipher. Something that made his gut clench with a familiar, unwelcome ache.