The Novice's Doubt

Sister Petra traced the condensation on the inn’s grimy windowpane, the chill seeping through the glass doing little to cool the fever in her blood. Outside, the cobbled streets of Oakhaven glistened under a persistent drizzle, each droplet a tiny, mocking echo of the tears she refused to shed. The air inside the ‘Salty Siren’ was thick with the stench of stale ale, cheap pipeweed, and desperation—a familiar perfume to Bishop Dark, but one that now clung to her like a shroud.

She smoothed the roughspun fabric of her novice’s habit, the simple grey suddenly feeling like a costume. Soon, she’d be adorned in the pristine white of a full sister, her vows a sacred, unbreakable chain. But the path ahead, once as clear and bright as the sun glinting off a holy relic, had become shrouded in a fog so dense she could barely see her own hands.

Bishop Dark, a whirlwind of sin and salvation, was currently engaged in a wrestling match with a half-eaten leg of mutton at the table across the room. His laughter, a booming, unrestrained thing, echoed off the low beams, drawing the leering attention of the few patrons still conscious. He was a creature of excess, a walking, talking testament to the Church’s desperation. And she, Sister Petra, was supposed to be his anchor, his comfort. Or, as the hushed, fevered whispers in the dark had lately suggested, something far more… complicated.