Chapter 20
Lingering Darkness
The immediate conspiracy in Whisper is quelled, the puppets severed from their strings. But the insidious rot within the Church of Radiant Light remains, a cancer spreading through its foundations. Bishop Dark, the hunter of external evil, now faces a more insidious enemy: the darkness lurking within the light itself. His mission continues, but the stakes are higher, the enemy more personal, and the path ahead fraught with the peril of confronting the very institution he once served, a stark reminder that true evil often wears the most deceptive of masks.
The air in Whisper still tasted of ash and something acrid, a phantom scent that clung to Bishop Dark’s nostrils like the sweat of a desperate man. The immediate chaos had been… managed. A few well-placed pronouncements from the Church, a swift and brutal demonstration of Soul Sun’s power against the puppet master – a disgraced former priest with a penchant for playing God with the local fauna – and the hamlet breathed a shaky sigh of relief. The werewolves, their fangs bared more in confusion than malice these days, had retreated into the deeper woods, Grimm’s guttural warnings echoing behind them. Bishop had seen the flicker of gratitude in the villagers’ eyes, a fleeting thing that always felt like a trap. They’d seen the monster, yes, but they hadn’t seen the gears turning beneath the surface, the rot that festered not in the moon-drenched forest, but in the hallowed halls he was sworn to protect.
He’d left Whisper with a skin more than he’d arrived with, a particularly nasty looking wolf pelt tacked to his saddlebag, a trophy for Abbot Kale. Kale, bless his perpetually furrowed brow, had been ecstatic, or as ecstatic as a man whose primary function was to manage Bishop Dark could ever be. “Remarkable, Bishop! Truly remarkable! The Church is… pleased.” The unspoken caveat hung in the air like stale incense: We’re pleased you didn’t burn the whole damn place down.
Back in the city, the stench of piety was almost as overwhelming as the stench of the sewer. He’d dropped the pelt off with a grunt, ignoring Kale’s effusive praise and the barely concealed relief that radiated from him. “The Abbot sends his regards, Bishop,” a young acolyte chirped, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror. Bishop just grunted again, already halfway out the door, the familiar ache of a hangover beginning to throb behind his eyes.
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