The Hunt for Talia Continues

The acrid tang of cheap ale still clung to Bishop Dark’s tongue, a familiar, unwelcome companion. It did little to wash away the metallic taste of blood, or the lingering scent of ozone that had permeated the sorcerer’s sanctum. The Abbot’s words, sharp as shards of glass, echoed in the cavern of his skull: *“One more transgression, Bishop, and you are truly out.”* Out. The word tasted like ash. But it was a distant concern, a flickering ember compared to the roaring inferno of hope that had been stoked in his gut. Talia. The name was a prayer, a curse, a promise.

He sat hunched over a scarred table in his usual grimy corner of the ‘Rusty Flagon,’ the dim light of a sputtering oil lamp casting long, dancing shadows that did little to hide the weariness etched into his face. The sorcerer’s fragmented confession, wrung from him under the relentless, burning kiss of Souls Sun, had been a puzzle of agonizing incompleteness. But within its broken pieces, a single, shining shard of truth had emerged: a whisper of a name, a place, a possibility that had sent a jolt through Bishop’s hardened core. Talia. His sister. Missing for five years. Ten years old when she’d vanished into the oppressive darkness of Tolvo. And now, a flicker. A *chance*.

The Abbot’s ultimatum was a noose tightening around his neck, but the pull of Talia’s ghost was far stronger. Caution was a luxury he’d long since discarded, a sensible cloak he’d traded for the ragged, blood-stained rags of his own making. He needed supplies. Not much. He traveled light, always. He needed his blade, Souls Sun, its holy fire a constant promise of damnation for the wicked. And he needed to disappear, to become a phantom once more, chasing a whisper on the wind.