A Deal with the Devil (or Witch)

Sarai Toho’s shop smelled of dried herbs and something faintly metallic, like old blood. Bishop Dark leaned against a cluttered counter, the Radiant Blade, ‘Soul Sun,’ a cool weight at his hip, a stark contrast to the simmering unease in his gut. He’d learned to read the air in Sarai’s establishment, to decipher the subtle shifts that meant a deal was about to get complicated. Today, the air felt thick with unspoken demands.

“You’re late, Bishop,” Sarai purred, her voice like silk over broken glass. She emerged from a curtained alcove, her dark eyes glinting with amusement. Her silks, the color of a bruised twilight, clung to her like a second skin. She held a small, intricately carved wooden box.

Bishop grunted, pushing off the counter. “Traffic. You know how it is. Little old ladies clutching their rosaries, blocking the main roads with their piety.” He didn’t miss the way Sister Petra, standing a respectful distance behind him, flinched at the mention of rosaries. Her novice’s habit, so stark and pure, seemed to absorb the shadows of the room.